The Letter and the Barefoot Postman

In the quiet village of Madhavpur, surrounded by lush fields and rustic charm, lived an old man fondly known as Mohan Kaka.

For decades, he had walked the dusty lanes and narrow paths of Madhavpur and the nearby villages, delivering letters from door to door.

His memory was sharp — he knew almost every house, every courtyard, and the name of every family. His presence was as familiar to the villagers as the rising sun.

Despite his age, he never failed to complete his rounds, even in harsh weather. What made him more admirable was that he did it all barefoot.

No one had ever seen Mohan Kaka wear a pair of slippers or shoes. The rough village roads had become companions to his feet, worn and cracked but determined.

One hot summer afternoon, as he sorted through the day’s bundle of letters, one envelope caught his attention. It was addressed to a house in a village not too far from Madhavpur — a place he had visited often.

But this address seemed unfamiliar. Curious but dutiful, Mohan Kaka completed the rest of his rounds and saved this letter for the last.

By late afternoon, after hours of walking under the blazing sun, he finally reached the address. It was a small, quiet house with faded paint. He walked up to the front door and pressed the bell.

From inside, a young girl’s voice responded, “Who is it?”

“I’m the postman,” Mohan Kaka replied. “You’ve got a letter.”

A pause. Then, the voice said, “Please slide it under the door.”

Something about the voice — polite but distant — struck a chord with him. But tired and frustrated, he muttered to himself, “I’ve come all the way through this heat to deliver a letter, and she can’t even open the door?”

Annoyed, he replied firmly, “This is a registered letter. You need to sign for it. Please open the door.”

Another pause. Then softly, “Okay… I’ll come.”

But several minutes passed, and the door didn’t open. His patience wore thin. He knocked again — louder this time. “I don’t have all day!” he said sharply. “I have more letters to deliver!”

Just as his irritation reached its peak, the door creaked open.

There, before him, was a sight that made his heart sink — a young girl, no older than ten or twelve, slowly dragging herself across the floor. Her legs… weren’t there. She had no lower limbs.

Her small, fragile arms pushed her body forward with effort, and yet, she smiled gently and said, “Sorry, Kaka. It took me a while to reach the door.”

Mohan Kaka froze. His anger melted into shame. Words failed him. He looked down at the child, who had struggled just to open the door for him, and he felt a lump rise in his throat.

“I… I didn’t know, beta,” he stammered, his voice trembling. “Here’s your letter.”

He handed over the registered envelope with shaking hands and slowly walked away, his heart heavy.

Ten days later, another letter came addressed to the same girl. This time, Mohan Kaka didn’t wait until the end of his route. He made it his first stop. He reached the door and gently rang the bell.

“You have a letter,” he called.

From inside, the now-familiar voice said, “Uncle, can you wait a moment? I’m coming.”

“No need to rush,” he replied softly. “I can slide it under if that’s easier.”

But soon, the door opened, and the girl was there again, smiling as brightly as before.

“Here’s your letter,” he said, placing it in her hand.

“Wait,” she said, holding up a small gift-wrapped box. “This is for you.”

Startled, he said, “Beta, what is this? There’s no need—”

But she insisted, “No, please take it. And open it only when you reach home.”

Reluctantly, Mohan Kaka accepted the box and returned home. That evening, after washing his tired feet, he remembered the package. He opened it — and froze.

Inside was a brand-new pair of soft, sturdy slippers. A note was tucked inside:

“Dear Kaka,
I noticed you always walk barefoot. I thought these might help you.
From someone who doesn’t have feet but still feels yours must be hurting.”

Mohan Kaka’s eyes welled up with tears. For years, he had walked barefoot through villages, unnoticed, unacknowledged.

People took him for granted, his pain invisible. But here was a girl — a child with no legs — who saw what no one else ever did.

She didn’t pity herself. Instead, she felt for someone else.

That night, Kaka sat silently by the window, holding the slippers close to his chest. He wasn’t crying from pain — he was crying from gratitude, from the depth of human kindness he had witnessed.

In a world where people often see only their own pain, there are rare souls who rise above their suffering to recognize another’s.

This little girl, unable to walk herself, had walked straight into Mohan Kaka’s heart.

And from that day forward, whenever he walked the lanes of Madhavpur in his new slippers, he carried not just letters — but the memory of a lesson in humanity he would never forget.

After all, what makes us human is not how much we walk, but how far our empathy travels.

And sometimes, those who have the least to give, give the most precious gifts.

BE HAPPY… BE ACTIVE … BE FOCUSED ….. BE ALIVE,,

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