A monkey cap covering the head and ears, 4 layers of thermals, a wrap of woolen stole around the neck, fleece track pants, knee length woolen socks, gloves – like a warrior walker, I go for my early morning walks at the crack of dawn these days. But with the weighing scale telling me, nothings gonna really change, I asked the universe on Sunday morning, if she was planning on rewarding me for all this bravery (try waking up at 5.30 AM for a walk in peak winter, and you qualify for – because she braved the cold – award). I decided on giving up on this early morning schedule if something really awesome didn’t encounter me that morning.
Threatened that she’d lose my august company every morning, the Universe decided to make Sunday morning especially special. On my way back from the walk, I did something I never do- rather, I leave this job for the man. Checking the mail box. Who would write to me? Or shouldn't it be, who writes these days, anyway? Apart from banks and credit card statements and bills, there really is nothing usually in the little wooden mail box.
Assumed too fast. Turned out, something awaited me, after all.
Amongst an assortment of junk mail and pizza flyers, lay a quaint looking aerogram – in that lovely blue that reminded you of times long gone. All the way from the sub continent, with two priceless stamps of a legend, Satyajit Ray, this rectangle piece of blue stirred in me, a kind of mirth I hadn’t experienced in a long time.
I didn’t tear it open, like I used to, as a teenager. Partly because I had forgotten where/how to tear it open. I fussed over it, read the addresses – to and from – and sat on my porch. As I untied my shoe laces, I kept smiling, looking at it. Like a guest I had just received from the railway station, I let the Aerogram rest awhile, after the long sojourn it had undertaken for me. Meanwhile, humming on a Geeta Dutt number, I made cha. Then, opened this little overseas visitor, with excitement I could barely contain, and waited for it to tell me all.
Inside, in perfect handwriting, dad had written little bits of news I already knew of. (Inasmuch as I appreciate the speed of technology and its efficacy, isn't there a strange joy in learning of some news from a handwritten letter instead of hearing of it over telephone? (or even worse- from a pixilated Skype window). But I pretended to learn of it anew. Apparently my uncle and aunt with my cousin are planning on a Himalayan holiday. Also, he wrote with unmitigated sincerity that he and mum had not been going for their morning walks since 3 days, all because of excessive cricket and adda. Dad also expressed his doubt over my postal address, specifically about the spelling of my street name. Evidently, he had cared to check and found the spelling I had mentioned was after all, correct. :D
The sky blue paper was full – not a little space left even to so much as add, a dot some where. Exactly the way I like letters to be. Corners, sides, little spaces – firmly packed.
That missive now lies next to my bedside, inside Obama’s ‘Dreams From My Father’, on the 67th page, like a bookmark. Akin to how my granddad marked the Bridge books he read. (Have you encountered something similar in your life? Opening books from your grandparents to find old post cards and inland letters strategically placed.
Thank You, Dad. I hope this is the first of the many you’ll eventually write to me. Those emails you type to me don’t feel half as lovely as the ones you write, literally. Do keep this dying art alive!
