Reminiscing the lost art, and joy, of letter writing
The coronavirus scare was everywhere, the fear was palpable, playgrounds were empty, and streets wore a deserted look. It was a week since the lockdown when I decided to spring clean the house. It was more out of necessity than choice without the domestic help.
While cleaning one of the drawers, I chanced upon a bundle of letters, tied neatly with a red satin ribbon. As I opened the ribbon, a wave of memories, spanning decades, came flooding back. It was as if a movie was being played in flashback and I was a mute spectator.
The letters dated back to the ’80s when I met Harjeet, a dashing doctor in the army, and I was a senior resident in the gynaecology department. Back then, letters were the only form of communication and indeed they communicated romantic feelings much better than WhatsApp and Facebook used by today’s generation. Harjeet is adept at expressing his feelings in words and as I sifted through the letters even the faint scent was nostalgic. The first birthday card after going steady; the fun was in choosing the card from the neatly lined up ones at the bookshop, browsing through them and then penning down the feelings.
The joy of getting a handwritten letter that came through the post reflected the thought and effort taken by the person and how much they cared for you. As I reminisced while holding on to one letter, gently feeling the creases between my fingers, I realised that perhaps my children will never experience this feeling.
No doubt the new world technology has provided wonderful ways of communication, but it has also snatched away the beautiful art of letter writing and conversation. The joy of receiving a letter from home after shifting to hostel is still fresh in the mind. I could even see the dried tear drops on it. It used to be thrilling to get a letter with your name being announced in the evening roll call and one would proudly receive the letter as if receiving a medal, much to the envy of the other girls!
The wonderful letters written by my father, who was in the army, while being posted to the forward areas are also fresh in my mind. They would take weeks to reach, with a censor stamp during the wars, and how we would wait for them!
The art, and joy, of letter writing was taught to me by my grandfather, who was a school principal, and polished by my English teacher in Dehradun.
I’m not against new technology and certainly don’t want to go back to the trunk call era when we used to wait for hours after booking a call only to be interrupted by the operator that the time was up. But I do lament the fact that today vocabulary has been reduced to texting abbreviations, emojis and internet acronyms.
THE JOY OF RECEIVING A LETTER FROM HOME AFTER SHIFTING TO HOSTEL IS STILL FRESH IN THE MIND. I COULD EVEN SEE THE DRIED TEAR DROPS ON IT