That night, it rained heavily, which was an effect of a fierce storm that had hit Grandpa's village earlier. He was suffering from arthritis, due to which he had a problem walking. Last night, when the storm was at its highest pace, it uprooted many trees in Grandpas village, destroyed many fields, and also unlatched the main door of Grandpa's house. The problem became worse when the door started flickering like a leaf, and its banging produced a loud, irritating sound that interrupted everyone's sleep. Grandpa and Grandma woke up. He got up and walked to the door. On reaching nearer, his dhoti and kurta were flickering like flames. He gripped them, held them tightly, and made his way towards the door, fighting against the harsh, howling winds.

Rain fell along with the winds. The area was overflooded. It had also flooded the entrance of his house. The floor became slippery. He reached out his hand to hold the door handle. Suddenly, his right leg slipped forward. He had nothing to get support from. He had fallen backwards and hardly struck his head against the edge of the concrete rack. The accident left a deep gash on his head, and on the spot, the blood spilled on the floor, leading to his death on a stormy night.

The door kept banging with the same noise. Grandma called out to Grandpa, but no response came. She got up and reached the accident site. Her shriek subdued the sound of banging on the door and all other sounds of the storm.

Very soon, all the neighbors gathered at the house. Of course, no one would be sleeping on that stormy night. All were choked at that sight. An old man lies immobile on the ground, covered with blood and tears. Everyone was weeping. Grandma was crying heavily, sitting by his side, and beating her chest. Everything was crying in his house. The fair pages that were going to be the letters to me, the envelopes that would enclose them, and the empty, small boxes that would hold raspberries and a huge raspberry tree in his garden. Everything.

To prevent any kind of inconvenience caused by me, I was kept in the dark about this accident. That postman knew the real incident happened there and didn't inform me of it. In fact, he made that excuse.

The next day, he really came, and he kept his promise. The letter and the box were with him.

"Look! Your grandpa has given it to you. This time he didn't forget." He said.

I accepted it. We spent that evening together, chattering a lot.

While we were walking along the road, we came across a tobacco shop. He moved to that shop and asked the tobacconist to make a pan. When we were leaving, I asked the tobacconist, "Have you borne recently?"

"What? No."

"You don't look like a small baby."

"What is the matter, kid?"

"Then why do you have only two teeth present in your mouth?" Actually, in place of 'present', there should be 'left'.

On hearing this, the 'raspberry kaka' laughed furiously, but my face did not register even the slightest trace of amusement. I was still confused. Then we continued our journey.

"You know today is my birthday. I have now become an octogenarian. I don't want to die until I become a centenarian. I want to live in this beautiful world now." His voice reflected enthusiasm. He turned to me, passed a sweet smile, and asked, "Don't you think that I am loquacious?"

"Huh?"

"Oh! Forget it." And we left. He was truly verbose.

His routine continued, with him doing his duty in the post office, distributing letters and parcels from dawn to noon, and bringing my letter in at dusk. Then he began to give his attendance regularly. He had not missed even a single day.

Two weeks later, I got afflicted with some sort of disease that was unpredictable and seemed incurable, but mom used her only panacea, which Grandma taught her. That night, I was at my worst-a racking spasm was plaguing me. I was not able to sleep properly.

The next day, the condition remained the same. I was confined to bed the whole day. Mom had warned me not to go out for the cricket match, but what about the 'raspberry kaka'? He would be waiting for me. I had to go.

I dashed out without letting anyone know about my escape. I reached the playground and saw him sitting under the banyan tree.

He signaled me, and I reached there. "You are late." He said.

"Yeah, I know."

"You look sick." Then he touched my forehead. "Oh God! You are burning. Why did you come here? I can give it to you tomorrow."

I made no jesters. It was the first time I realized that I cared more for someone other than me. It might be grandpa and his letters or the 'raspberry kaka'. He looked at me and handed me a letter.

"And the box? "I asked.

He made no reply.

"Tell me!"

"I went to see your grandpa today. He had sold his land as he was going through a financial crisis. The new landlord cleared all the plantations in that field, even the raspberry tree."

I stood there without a word, and at that moment, I ran from there, trying to hide my tears. I dashed home with quick steps and shaking bumps.

All of my hopes were shattered; I got no light in my life, and the only thing revolving in my mind was that 'The raspberry tree was dead'. The thought was really true; as for me, the raspberry tree was none other than my grandpa.

I began to convalescent and gained my activeness again. I also continued to go out playing cricket but found no trace of the 'raspberry kaka'. I regained my passion for cricket. I never got bold until I had made half a century. We won the match that evening; the boys cheered for me, and they returned back to their homes.

"Sorry for being late." He said.

He was standing with his bicycle, with a letter, and with a box.

"From where did you get this?" I asked.

"None of your matters."

"What?"

"I've asked your grandpa the same question, and he replied the same, so please accept it."

I accepted it. The box was full of raspberries, juicy and red. We spent that evening together.

"Same as you have lost the most important things of your life, so have I. I have lost my brother and my child. They died of fratricide and infanticide. My brother went bankrupt. A rabble in a market had killed him. He was carrying my baby. My grief is insatiable. With much difficulty, I got this job. I have no family and no responsibilities of my own. This is my mercenary job. I know I'm not a retrospective person, but the deadly past never leaves me." He was saying this to me as if he knew me for years. His face reflected grief, but as he looked at my innocent face, his grief was broken into a smile. He put his arm on my shoulder, and we went.

The winter had begun, and it was getting worse. The fog was becoming denser, but nothing can stop a dutiful person. Yes, I'm talking about that postman who was still doing his duty and still delivering the letters to me despite that severe cold. I used to warn him of his health, but he did not listen. I think it was not his duty, but his love.

He considered himself an active person without any allergies or weaknesses. The only problem he suffered from was the weakening of the listening power of his ears. I also sometimes had to be loud enough to say something to him.

It was Tuesday morning, and he was cycling in the narrow lane. He must be carrying my stuff and heading to the playground. The air was covered with dense fog, and no one could see clearly through it. He narrowed his eyes to see better, but he was helpless. He kept on paddling. A bullock cart was coming from the opposite direction. Though the bells tied across the necks of the bulls were ringing, I told you about the condition of his ears. He didn't hear anything and ran into the cart. His bicycle skidded, and he had fallen on the road. The worst part was when one of the bullocks' forelimbs landed over his chest, due to which two of his ribs cracked, broke, and protruded through his heart, leading to his death at that moment. The man on the cart didn't stop to check what happened to him and dashed away from there while he lay on the ground immobile, covered in blood. The letters were strewn around him like autumn leaves, and the raspberries were scattered there. Some of them were squeezed, and their juice was spilled, mixing with his blood, leaving no difference between their colors.