August 197216Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgjlSvESSmS
Jalan Bendahara
Every day brings a new street, a new house, and a new face.
Becoming a postman was all I had ever wanted since childhood. It was a dream born from my father’s stories—stories he told me every night, with a quiet pride in his voice. To him, being a postman was not just a job. He believed he was a kind of superhero, carrying hope in the form of letters and parcels, delivering love, news, and sometimes miracles from one heart to another.
And now, finally, I was living that dream.
It was my first day on duty.
My first stop was No. 24, Jalan Bendahara. I knocked on the door, my heart beating faster than it should have. A small boy opened it. He didn’t look surprised to see me. In fact, his eyes shone as if he had been waiting for me for days.
I handed him a small parcel and a letter.
The moment he took them, his face lit up. Before I could even react, he hugged me tightly. I stood there, stunned. I hadn’t expected that—not on my first delivery, not on my first day. But that hug meant more to me than he could ever know.
His aunt soon appeared behind him. With a warm smile, she explained that the parcel was a birthday gift from his parents, both working in Johor. In their last letter, they had promised him a surprise.
Everything made sense then.
I wanted to stay longer, but duty called. I still had many letters and parcels waiting to be delivered. I left their home with a smile, my heart lighter than when I had arrived.
By evening, my legs were sore and my shirt clung to me with sweat, but I had completed almost all my deliveries. Almost.
There was only one letter left.
The house stood quietly at the end of the road—a bungalow. From its appearance, I guessed it belonged to an Indian family. I rang the bell.
The door opened.
And my breath caught.
A beautiful Indian lady stood before me. In that instant, memory rushed back like a forgotten melody. I knew her. She had been my classmate once—long ago. Her father had never wanted her to study, while her mother fought hard for her education.
I still remembered that day vividly.
Her first day of school.
Her father had stormed into the classroom, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her out. The teacher tried to stop him, but failed. That image had stayed with me all these years.
She looked the same now. The same face. The same eyes. Time had been kind to her.
But she did not recognize me.
I was happy to see her—truly happy—but I didn’t have the courage to tell her who I was. I simply handed her the letter. She received it with a gentle smile, her happiness clear even before opening it.
I smiled back and turned to leave.
“Wait,” she called softly.
I stopped.
She hesitated for a moment, then spoke. The letter was from her husband, she said. He was working as a scientist in London. She held the envelope carefully, almost reverently.
“I… I cannot read,” she admitted quietly. “I was never educated.”
Then she looked at me, hope flickering in her eyes.
“Can you read it for me?”
At first, I refused. A letter like that was deeply personal. It wasn’t right. But she insisted, her voice trembling with anticipation.
So I agreed.
And without realizing it, I stepped into a story that would change both our lives forever.
ns216.73.216.33da2
and then Add to home screen.