The world runs. Hari walks. His worn-out shoes cover long distances in the desert to deliver messages that are closed in letters with a precious handwriting for addressees who live in remote villages, cloistered in a forgotten temporal dimension, out of this world.
The letters talk about loves, weddings, successes and deceases, those that bear news of death are immediately recognisable, the envelopes with the right corner torn off, those that Hari reads out in the doorway, and then tears to bits, because bad news must be destroyed, scattered, deleted forever.