THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A POST CARD
Points: Introduction – Where born and brought up – In the post office – How I reached my destination – Conclusion.
My dear passer-by I am lying here in a waste paper basket. Nobody now cares for me. But that is not all, I am afraid worse is yet to come. I may be shortly torn into pieces and thrown into gutter. Or I may be thrown into fire, but before the fate overtakes me, I would like to tell my story. You seem to be a kind hearted fellow. Please listen to my tale of woe and see if you can help me.
I was born in a paper factory. Soon after my birth, I, along with so many other brothers and sisters of mine, was sold to the Government. The Government sent us to its printing press for bringing us up. We remained there for a pretty long time. Then the monogram of a stamp along with other words post CARD’, ‘Address only’ in English and Urdu were printed, on our backs.
We were now considered fit for service. We were tied in bundles of 20 each and given to a responsible officer. He counted us and put us all in a strong room.
After some time, on the demand from the Post Master, Hyderabad, five hundred bundles, of post cards including the one in which I was, sent to Hyderabad city. As long as we were in the post office, we were well cared for. We were kept under lock and key. We were daily counted and daily dusted, lest we should get dirty. That period of my life was the happiest.4essay.blogspot.com
One day I found that the number of bundles was decreasing. This made me rather anxious and nervous. “Where have these missing bundles been sent? Have they been stolen?” An elder brother of mine who had a wider experience of the world, told me that these had been sold by the post master. “Shall I be sold likewise?” asked I.”Yes, most certainly”, was the reply. Since that day all my happiness was gone.
One day a small boy came to the post office. He gave the clerk of the post office sixty paisa and he in return, gave me to the boy. I wondered what the little fellow would do with me. My curiosity was gone when he handed me over to his master who was a cloth merchant at Hyderabad.
“What do you want of me, good Sir?” asked I, “I want to send the message of mine to Larkana, “was the reply. “I am a small thing and quite apt to forget the message. Moreover, how shall I cover such a long distance?” “Never mind,” said the merchant, “I will write down the whole message on your face, and address on your back. Then I shall put you in a letter-box from where the postal authorities will arrange for your reaching Larkana. The answer satisfied me.4essay.blogspot.com
At Larkana they had been waiting-for me for a long time. So when I reached there, I was given a warm welcome. But what was my surprise when I found that after my message had been conveyed, I was regarded as quite useless. I was thrown into the waste paper basket. Kind passerby I have found the world very selfish. Are you also one of them? Will you take pity on me and save me from the cruel fate that hangs over my head.