Life was good, uncertainly good, when I had to keep waiting till 12 in the noon for the postman to arrive and then get hold of the letter only to read it 112 times a day till the next letter. The sight of the street promising the post-man to walk by was much better than the monitor showing zero new mail(s) in my Inbox.
Yeah. I had been always a man of letters (No!!! from Boy of letters to Man of letters). The magic of letters cannot be expressed in mere words. Receiving a letter is a ceremony that is to be cherished, if you’re not into much of snail mail. I don’t think that there is a possibility of you appreciating e-mail, either.
The gentle feel of the rough textured paper covered with smudged ink and stamp, thoroughly mishandled by a dozen of postal authorities is an excitement about to explode in me. I, carefully take time in ripping the corners of the cover to make sure that the stamp stays intact. I can imagine how the other person would have taken time and pleasure in writing the letter. I can see a busy battering brain, sitting on a table with a pen and a mind totally in action, laziness doused on a bed with a paper at an unearthly hour, someone exhaustively lost in woods, someone sitting in a boring lecture, faking a feign air of attentiveness in taking notes, but actually writing a letter.
Does a place determine how a letter would be? In a snail mail, right from the stationary, place and to the ambience, everything affects the writer, letter as well as the reader. A letter written on a dining table differs from that of a writing table and a coffee table. Your mood differs to the smell of the meals gently waft in from the kitchen to the aroma of a nice coffee or an herbal tea, so is the content of the letter. I remember writing an exciting letter to my vegan friend about the recent delectable Hyderabadi biryani I had, just to get an annoying two worded reply. Yeah! That’s what came in reply.
The magic never fades out. I keep reading and re-reading the letter. I ran my fingers across the words, tracing the paper lightly to know where the hand had been rested before writing the letter. In spots, I can see the smudges, the pen made. I can imagine the rush of the author in completing the letter. I look at the crossed out words, wondering what he/she intended to say. I take peace in knowing that someone has taken up time to give up their time to spare some time for me. I love the words carved out of love. The scribbling of the gentle hand makes the relationship a resolute one.
Days of long letters are gone; People don’t find time to write letters, rather they don’t find themselves to write letters. Phone calls had made it easy. No tones of regret here. If it was all hand and words, now it’s the voice and words. Well even then there came a time, when people couldn’t find time to make phone calls. Never mind. I get replies to my letters through phone calls.
“Da machaan, letter kedachudhu, Sorry da time illai, aparama ezhutharen” aparam never came in life.
“Got your letter, sorry da, couldn’t find time. Will reply later” Later never happened.
I wonder how people don’t find time to write letters, when they have time for every thing and every other thing. I, a kid enjoyed the serenity that life offered in writing letters. It became synonymous with me. I write letters, long letters, only to get telegraphic mails in reply.
With time, I switched to e-mails, for me it was the same feel, but a different medium, yet I found it annoying to sit before a monitor and let my muse out. I just cannot ruminate before a monitor’s reflection. I am a paper-pen kind of guy. I need to get lost in the tranquil of thoughts to think and write. SO I stuck faithfully to my paper. Write and then type. I always let out a gentle sigh, after seeing the length of the mail in the monitor. Just got reminded of this essay, where a guy sits to write a letter to his brother, “Brother, I write to you because I have nothing to do. And now I wind up the letter because I have nothing to tell.” This brother seems much better than my friends who are good at sending MUL mails.
What makes me wonder so much is how people who had been writers of long lengthy mails turn to someone who just sends MUL mails. There was everything written in letters once, from the book read, the cricket matches, the movies and their reviews, the visit to grandpa’s place, the first dog, the first love and those code words for the secrets. Change is inevitable and the inevitable happened. Whenever I write mails, as I told, I write long letters. The reply is a total fascination for me,
“Dude. Got to go, got a meeting tomo morning. Mail u l8r da.”
Life is already full of If(s) and But(s). I don’t believe in the Later(s) of life. For Life is now or never. I kind of changed now, I refrain myself from lengthy mails for I knew I always end up with a “Mail you later” mails. I scan my inbox for text mails; sorry I don’t give damn importance to those “please pass on” mails. I delete them ruthlessly but spare a moment for those funny and witty forwards.
Dude. Got to go.
Will talk to you later. Bubye
addthis_pub = ‘barathwillbe’;