The Clock on the Post Box

Every afternoon at four, Pria walks to the post box. It stands by the village well. She carries a bag and a small key. She is fifteen, and she is the village mail collector. Nobody else wants the job.

The post box is old and green. A chess clock sits on top of it. It has two faces and two big buttons. It is tied to the lid with wire.

Every day, the same thing happens. Pria opens the box with her key. She empties the letters into her bag. Then she presses the button on the right side of the clock.

Click.

Nobody tells her why she does this. Pria does not know either. The last collector told her, "Always press the button. Never ask." Then he moved to the city.

So Pria presses the button. For three years, she does not ask.

On a bright Tuesday, a girl stops at the well. She has a suitcase with a broken wheel. She watches Pria for a while.

"Hello," says the girl. "I am Neha. We just moved here."

"I am Pria," says Pria. "Welcome."

Neha points at the post box. "Why does the box have a chess clock?"

Pria opens her mouth. Then she closes it. Nobody ever asks her this. The question hangs in the air.

"I do not know," she says.

"But you press the button."

"Yes. Every day."

"For how long?"

"Three years."

Neha looks at her with wide eyes. "And you never asked?"

"The man who had the job said not to ask."

"That is a strange rule," Neha says. "A good rule gives a reason."

Pria laughs. It is a small, surprised laugh. For three years, she waits for someone to say this.

"Come with me," says Pria. "I finish my round at five. We can look for the answer."

Neha leaves her suitcase by the well. They walk together through the village. Pria stops at every gate and every door. She knows each family by their letters. There are blue ones, thin ones, and very fat ones with string.

At the last house, a woman waits at the door. She is the village potter. Her hands are always gray with clay. Today, she holds a long white envelope.

"One for the city, please," she says.

Pria takes it. On the front is a small drawing. It shows a horse on a square board.

Neha leans closer. "That is a chess piece."

"A knight," says the potter. She looks surprised. "You know chess?"

"A little," Neha says. "Do you play?"

"I play one game. It is three years old now." The potter smiles. "My friend lives far away, in another country. We play by post."

Pria stares at her. "By post?"

"Each of us sends one move at a time, in a letter. I write mine, and it goes across the sea. Then I wait for his."

"That sounds slow," says Neha.

"It is very slow," the potter agrees. "That is why I like it."

Pria cannot stop herself. "And the clock on the post box?"

The potter's face changes. She looks at Pria for a long moment, and then she laughs.

"Oh, dear. Nobody told you?"

"Nobody told me anything," Pria says.

The potter wipes her hands on her dress. She sits down on her step and pats the stone beside her. The girls sit.

"Years ago, my friend and I made a rule," she says. "A letter takes many days to cross the sea. That time is not fair for either of us. So the clock must count only the time a person thinks."

"So how does the clock work?" asks Neha.

"When my letter goes into the bag, you press the right button. That stops my side. It starts his side. When his letter comes, you press the left button. That stops his side. It starts mine."

Pria thinks about the three years of clicks. "I only press the right one," she says. "Every day."

The potter's face goes soft. "Oh, Pria. The last collector knew the rule. He moved away before he told you about the left button."

"So for three years, his side runs and runs?"

"Yes, for three years." The potter laughs again, kindly now. "My poor friend thinks very slowly."

Neha puts both hands over her mouth. Pria tries not to smile, but she cannot stop.

"I am so sorry," Pria says.

"Do not be. I like it. Last month, my friend wrote to me. He said, 'Your clock says I thought for three years. I am proud of myself.'"

Now all three of them laugh together. The sound rolls down the village road. It passes the well and the green post box.

At five, Pria and Neha walk back to the well. The clock is still on top of the box. The left face shows a small number. The right shows a bigger one.

"What do you do now?" asks Neha.

Pria thinks. "Today the potter's letter went in. So I press the right button. When her friend writes back, I press the left one."

"And you will ask her about the days?"

"I will ask her. Every time." Pria turns to Neha. "Do you want to press it?"

Neha steps forward. She puts one finger on the big right button. For a moment, she looks at Pria, and Pria nods.

She presses it. The small hand jumps forward. Both of them smile.