She sent him kites. They came in a trim balsa wood box-light as paper but large. At Canning’s harbor, postmen admired the alien markings on its wrapper. ‘From where?’ asked a new recruit. The experienced ones smiled. Like a giant street sign, it rode on a cycle rickshaw, the hooting puller struggling to clear its delicate edges from the start of the dock. Then, it sat on the ferry, all tidy and proper held by a proud mailman. It crossed the Matla without spilling a drop on its canvas-brown cover neatly tied with black cord. Chattering kids formed a circle around it peasants gawked over their drooping shoulders, even the bearded sadhu abandoned contemplation of waves for a quick glance. It was a safe passage barring a few jabs from little grimy fingers checking the box for what was inside. At Shonal the landing was tricky-the swollen river had drowned the island’s meager jetty. Men formed a human chain on the slippery bank and the box passed from one pair of outstretched arms to another, pausing briefly at each transfer. When it reached the dry shore, an eager crowd cleared its way to yet another rickshaw. From there it moved smoothly through village paths lined with the swaying tamarind and neem, ignored by sleeping Dogs, treated by more children, creaking slightly at uneven bends. His aunt received the box like a returning bride. Waiting with neighbors in front of their yellow-and-white home, the only one in cement and brick, she let the younger women welcome it indoors-to his room. There, it sat all afternoon in the cone of a shadow listening to the purr of mating cats, in the company of an unmade bed and a dresser full of knick-knacks, facing a painting of a rising sun over a flaming volcano. Entering the room, Snehamoy closed the door behind him, feeling faint from the heat and the day’s excitement. Fellow teachers arriving late had informed him of a certain box that bore his name -in English, along with markings in an alien alphabet-making its way over the Matla. Finishing his lecture, he had announced a snap test in arithmetic, giving him time to think. Exactly at four, after the bell had rung announcing the end of the school day, he had mounted his cycle and made his way back through the rustling trees. Once inside, he stood facing the box propped up by his bed like a timid visitor, then started unwrapping the canvas-brown cover just as impatiently as he had opened his wife’s first letter from Japan, twenty years ago, similarly marked with two alphabets.