Inheritance of a treasure trove of letters

Stashed away in a corner of grandmother’s wooden sandook (trunk), the cache of old letters was nothing short of a goldmine waiting to be discovered. Handwritten and much worn, the letters offered a glimpse into not only a bygone era but also a way of communication that has sadly vanished. The fragile papers endured heat, humidity and dust for almost half a century and managed to keep the words safe.

They aren’t as momentous as war letters, however, I regard them a part of my inheritance for they hold myriad details of the lives and times of our ancestors. Though private at one point, today they hold the key to our shared culture.

The letters in those days were usually dictated to a literate person in the village and posted with good faith. The reply that usually took weeks, was eagerly awaited.

In the late ’60s, my grandfather was away from home for a construction project in Uttar Pradesh, beginning a chain of correspondence between my grandmother and him. My grandfather began these letters with: “Likhtum Mohan Singh, agge mille Mohinder Kaur” (Likhtum being the sender and agge mille denoting the receiver). Written in Punjabi, the tone is formal, probably because they were meant to be read aloud in the family, and yet they are endearing because of their simplicity and straightforwardness.

One such letter directs grandmother to send the sugarcane to the mill, extract a good price for millets, manage workers and the cattle. “The buffaloes must be fed flaxseed oil regularly. Remind the worker to watch his hand when he cuts the fodder in the machine.” So the women were no weaklings confined to the four walls of the home. Probably that is why my grandmother turned out to be a strong matriarch.

Grandfather enquired after the well-being of all his nephews and nieces, not just his immediate family, testimony to earnest kinship of those times.

There is an occasional display of affection for his wife, when he writes, “Saanu tuhada fikar bahut rehnda hai. Chitthi jaldi pa deya karo (I’m concerned about you, reply soon).”

Another favourite of mine is a letter by my grandfather’s nephew who had migrated to England. It begins with: ‘Satkaryog chachaji, pyar bhari Sat Sri Akal” and ends with ‘Tuhada taabedaar (Your servant)”. Sent in 1969, this letter is a telling account of the hardships migrants face in their initial struggle and the disobliging attitude of friends and relatives already settled there. In his words, “England is very different from how it is viewed in Punjab. Most migrants wish to return to their homeland, but don’t want to be the butt of jokes of the entire village and be labelled a failure. The work shifts are such that family members living under the same roof don’t even get to see each other before the weekend. I yearn to return to the village. We have to commute long distances to see a relative or fellow villager. They won’t even offer a free lunch at work.”

Today, the migrants might be better equipped to adapt to a foreign land because of education, exposure and better finances, but I’m sure, one poignant sentence from the letter would resonate with each of them even now: “Iss mulk vich mera jee nahi lagda (I don’t feel at home in this country).”

THE FRAGILE PAPERS ENDURED HEAT, HUMIDITY AND DUST FOR HALF A CENTURY AND MANAGED TO KEEP THE WORDS SAFE