Story of a lonely old man who used to buy the newspaper just to hear the knock on the door, so he can see a familiar face, even for a few fleeting moments
- The newspaper boy understood that life was not merely a series of tasks, but a web of unseen threads, each tied to the human need for presence, for companionship. From that day forward, he knocked on each door with more than just his hand—he knocked with his heart
By Nisar Banbhan
In the soft hues of the early morning, when the world still slumbered beneath the tender embrace of dawn, a young boy rode his bicycle through the serene streets of an affluent neighborhood. His basket, laden with newspapers and magazines, swayed with each pedal stroke. The boy moved with the precision of someone well-acquainted with his task, slipping the day’s news into the letterboxes of the stately homes, his fingers deft from countless mornings of the same ritual. Humming a tune to himself, he went about his work, the melody mingling with the quiet rustle of the awakening breeze.
As he approached a familiar house, a subtle change in its appearance caused him to falter. The letterbox—usually left open, awaiting its daily delivery—was now tightly closed, its once inviting mouth sealed shut. A slight furrow appeared on the boy’s brow as he muttered under his breath, “That letterbox was open yesterday… Why is it closed today?” His curiosity stirred like a leaf caught in a gentle wind, and, unable to resist the urge to investigate, he dismounted his bicycle and approached the door.
With the slightest hesitation, he knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness like the first raindrop on a dry pavement. Moments passed before the door creaked open, and there, standing in its shadow, was an elderly man. His steps were slow, as though each movement was measured against the weight of years he carried. The lines on his face were like worn pages of an old book, etched deep with the stories of a life lived long and alone.
“Sir,” the boy began, his voice both respectful and perplexed, “Why have you closed your letterbox?” He handed the old man the rolled-up newspaper, expecting a simple explanation.
The old man’s eyes, cloudy like a mist-covered lake, softened with a faint, melancholic smile. “I’ve closed it on purpose,” he replied, his voice barely more than a whisper, fragile as the dawn itself. “I would prefer it if you brought the newspaper to my door each day, knocked, or rang the bell and handed it to me in person.”
The boy, taken aback by the request, glanced at the man in surprise. “But sir,” he protested gently, “wouldn’t that make things difficult? For both of us? And it would take more time.”
The old man’s smile grew sadder, his eyes pleading with a depth of emotion the boy had seldom seen. “It’s no trouble,” the man said, his voice growing quieter, as if revealing a delicate secret. “I will give you extra each month—consider it a door-knocking fee.”
Though the boy nodded slowly, his confusion remained. There was something more behind the old man’s words, something unsaid but deeply felt. Before he could ask further, the old man continued, his voice growing distant, like a far-off echo.
“If you ever knock on my door, and I don’t answer…” The old man paused, his breath catching in his throat as though the next words were too heavy to bear. “Please report it to the police.”
The boy’s heart skipped a beat. “Why, sir?” he asked, his voice barely audible, feeling the gravity of the moment settle on his young shoulders.
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The old man turned his gaze downward, the weight of his loneliness suddenly tangible in the air. “My wife… she passed away some years ago. And my son—he lives abroad. I am all alone here. Who knows when my time will come?”
The boy stood frozen, the old man’s words piercing the morning calm like a distant, mournful cry. He had never thought of the people behind these doors—their lives, their joys, their sorrows. He had always imagined them as simply part of the daily routine, disconnected from his own. But now, looking into the old man’s eyes, he saw the depth of solitude that can wrap itself around a person, even in a beautiful house.
Tears glistened at the corners of the old man’s eyes, not falling, but held back, as though they had learned to remain unshed. “I don’t even read the newspaper,” he confessed, his voice trembling with vulnerability. “I buy it just so I can hear the knock on the door. So I can see a familiar face, even for a few fleeting moments. That is all the joy I have left.”
The boy felt a lump rise in his throat, the old man’s words unraveling the edges of his world. What had seemed like an ordinary task now took on a profound meaning. The old man reached into his pocket, producing a small, crumpled slip of paper. “Here,” he said softly, handing it to the boy. “This is my son’s number. If one day I do not open the door, please call him. Let him know.”
The boy took the paper with trembling hands, the weight of responsibility pressing on him like a heavy cloak. He nodded, slipping the paper into his pocket, his heart filled with a quiet understanding he had not known before. Bowing his head, he turned to leave, but the image of the old man, standing alone in the doorway, stayed with him.
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As he mounted his bicycle and rode off, the boy’s thoughts drifted like clouds, gathering meaning from the morning’s events. The old man’s request, simple on the surface, was heavy with the unspoken truth that sometimes, people needed more than just the delivery of news—they needed connection. The boy thought of the many people who sent daily messages on WhatsApp—the forwarded articles, the morning greetings, the small tokens of communication that many dismissed without a second thought. Perhaps, he mused, those messages were like the knock on the door—a way of saying, “I am here. I am alive. Don’t forget me.”
He wondered how many times he had ignored such messages, dismissing them as trivial, or a waste of time. But now, as the sun climbed higher and bathed the world in golden light, he realized their true significance. They were the digital echoes of a knock at the door, the reminders that someone, somewhere, was reaching out.
The boy’s heart felt heavy yet full, the old man’s plea reverberating within him like a soft, constant beat. He resolved to pay more attention to the small things—the knocks, the messages, the fleeting moments of connection that held the fabric of life together.
And so, as he pedaled through the streets, the boy understood that life was not merely a series of tasks, but a web of unseen threads, each tied to the human need for presence, for companionship. From that day forward, he knocked on each door with more than just his hand—he knocked with his heart.
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Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 24 years of diverse experience, including 3 years in journalism, 21 years in a public sector organization, and a longstanding career in writing and freelancing. He specializes in content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyricism, poetry, short stories, and the crafting of articles and columns in both Sindhi and Urdu.
