My daily newspaper hasn't been dropped today, It will surely be tossed tomorrow. There's nothing special about it; but possibly a sorrow might be hidden in it.
The paper boy Satyanarayana, who startled us from our sleep every morning, hurling the newspaper, may not be seen, but the paper continues to appear everyday.
If he was late in giving the paper any day, how patiently he used to hear the expletives of our impatience, but when we delayed paying the newspaper bill, he never complained, his face showed not anger, but joy.
He knew which paper we read on a particular day, on Sundays how many different newspapers we would need - he knew more than we did.
But he departed because he didn't know what drugs his body needed. No newspaper carried the obituary notice of the paperboy Satyanarayana who carried papers all his life.
When I touch the paper every morning, his memory melts my heart.
