WAITING FOR SOME REPLY in the mail, I travel along with the letter in its hopeful van. I travel along with the letter on a train, paddy fields outside. I travel along with the letter in the air, on a plane where rich men eat chocolates. But the letter lands on an indifferent desk. Days pass. Weeks too. Maybe the minister’s assistant glances at it, no more. Maybe they are overwhelmed by letters from prison. Who am I except one of many? My pen grows feeble. What can words do? Not very much.
