When will I receive my letter? How do you know he’ll write to me as well?

Prahari:Otherwise why would he put up such a large golden sign and open a post office right in front of this open window of yours . . . I rather like this boy.

Amal:Achchha, when I receive mail from the king, who will bring it to me?

Prahari:The king has many postmen after all—haven’t you seen them roaming about with round golden badges on their chests?

Amal:Achchha, where do they roam?

Prahari:From house to house, region to region . . . This boy’s questions make me want to laugh.

Amal:When I grow up I’ll become a royal postman.

Prahari:Ha ha ha ha! A postman! A great profession! Rain or shine, rich or poor, to go about distributing letters to every house—an important job, indeed!

Amal:Why do you laugh? That’s the job I like best of all. No, no, your job is fine, too. When the sun shines brightly in the afternoon, the bell rings ding-dong ding-dong—and some nights, I suddenly wake up in bed to find that the lamp has gone out, and from some unknown darkness outside I hear the bell ring, ding-dong ding-dong.

Prahari:There comes the Morol, our headman—I’ll run along now. If he sees me chatting with you, he’ll make a fuss.

Amal:Where is the Morol? Where, where is he?

Prahari:There he is, far away. Carrying a huge umbrella made of fan palm leaves.

Amal:The king has appointed him Morol, I suppose.

Prahari:Arre, no. He has assumed the Morol’s role himself. He creates such problems for anyone who resists his authority that everyone is afraid of him. He runs his trade solely on the strength of his enmity with everyone. I’ll be off now; I’ve been neglecting my duty. I’ll come again tomorrow morning, to give you news about the entire town.

Exit

Amal:If I received a daily letter from the king, how nice it would be . . . Let me sit by that window. But I can’t read! Who will read the letters to me? Pishima reads the Ramayana after all. Can she read the king’s handwriting? If no one can read the letters, I’ll store them up, to read when I’m grown-up. But what if the postman doesn’t recognize me! . . . Morolmoshai, O Morolmoshai—please come here once, I have something to say.

Morol:Who’s that re! Calling me while I’m out in the street! Where has this monkey appeared from?

Amal:You are Morolmoshai, after all: everyone respects you.

Morol(delighted): Yes, yes, indeed they respect me. They respect me a great deal.

Amal:Does the royal postman obey your commands?

Morol:Could he survive if he didn’t? Bas re! Heaven forbid, would he dare!

Amal:You must tell the postman that I am the one named Amal—the one who sits waiting at this window.

Morol:Why, may I ask?

Amal:What if a letter arrives in my name . . .

Morol:A letter in your name! Who would write to you?

Amal:If the king writes to me, then . . .

Morol:Ha ha ha ha! This boy is quite something. Ha ha ha ha! The king write to you! That he will, indeed! You are his best friend after all! The king is wasting away, I’m told, for not having met you these last few days. It won’t be long; the letter might arrive this very day, or maybe tomorrow.

Amal:Morolmoshai, why do you speak like that! Are you angry with me?

Morol:Bas re! Heaven forbid! Angry with you? Would I dare! When the king himself corresponds with you! . . . Madhabdatta has grown too big for his boots, I see. Just because he’s saved some money, they only talk of kings and emperors in his home, these days. Wait and see, I’ll teach him a lesson . . . Listen, you young fellow, I’ll see to it that the king’s letter arrives at your doorstep soon.

Amal:No, no, you need not do anything.

Morol:Why? I’ll tell the king about you—then he can’t delay any longer—he’ll send a paik right away to find out how you all are faring . . . No, Madhabdatta is far too audacious—if this reaches the king’s ears, he will be taught a lesson.

Exit

Amal:Who are you, walking by with anklets tinkling? Please stop for a moment, bhai!

Enter young girl

Girl:As if I can afford to stop! Time is short after all.

Amal:You don’t want to stop—I don’t want to sit here any more, either.

Girl:You look like a fading star at dawn—tell me, what’s the matter with you?

Amal:I don’t know what’s wrong with me. The Kobiraj has forbidden me to step out.

Girl:Aha, then don’t go out—one must obey the Kobiraj—one mustn’t be unruly, or they’ll say one is naughty. Gazing at the outside world makes your soul restless; let me half-close this door of yours then.

Amal:No, no, don’t close it—everything is closed for me here; there is only this little opening. Tell me, who are you? I don’t recognize you!

Girl:I am Sudha.

Amal:Sudha?

Sudha:Don’t you know? I’m the daughter of the malini, the woman who makes garlands here.

Amal:What do you do?

Sudha:I pluck a basketful of flowers and string garlands with them. I’m on my way to gather flowers now.

Amal:Going to gather flowers? That’s why your feet are so happy, your anklets tinkling as you walk—jhum jhum jhum. If I could go with you, I’d pluck you flowers from the higher branches, where they remain out of sight.

Sudha:Is that so! As if you know more about flowers than I do!

Amal:I do, I do, I know only too well.