I was eight when I made a first pen friend. I distinctly remember writing letters and posting them in a red-coloured post box that was a little far from home. I made two more pen friends over a period of time and wrote different letters to the three of them. I loved receiving letters with doodles and smileys on the corner of the letters. Sometimes, they came with shimmering stickers, and they were more loved.
One summer vacation, I visited my grandparents. That year was warmer than usual, and the flowers in our garden were blooming better than ever. I began writing letters to my friends -- I wrote to them about how I relished the mangoes and sorbets that my grandmother fed me, and I wrote to them complaining how my brothers never let me play cricket along with them, forcing me to be a silent spectator every time they played. I narrated in detail how much I loved taking early morning walks along the stream and glide past the high walls embraced with colourful bougainvillaea trees. I remember very well, that I suggested them to read Enid Blyton's books which happened to be my latest found love then. I guess I still remember the contents of the letter only because they were the last letters I sent to them.
As soon as I returned home after the vacation, my father was transferred to a different city. In the process of worrying about a new school, new uniform, and new classmates, it absolutely slipped out of my mind that I had to inform my friends that I was moving to a different city. What's worse? I lost their addresses too! For a person who moved often, and changed seven schools, losing things wasn't new. But this time, I was rather displeased with my carelessness. Because there was something comforting about writing letters to people whose names and faces were unknown. We had pen names, remember? There was something ethereal about friendships that withstood miles of distance. And there was something funny about describing how your dog would attack the cats and receive a response that talked about such simple things. That is the magic of handwritten letters, I believe.
When I was in school, I knew a lot of people who had pen-friends. I read a lot of such stories too, in a magazine called Gokulam, which was pretty popular after Tinkle. I barely see anyone writing letters now. I am afraid, I see no one. The fact that people have forgotten the art of writing beautiful letters makes me cringe. Why did we stop writing letters? Why did we stop describing the beauty of nature in letters to friends who aren't familiar with the weather in our part of the country? We cannot blame WhatsApp and Twitter for this. They still do not warrant the excuse that we stopped writing letters.
I could be really selfish when I am hoping one could preserve the lost heritage of writing letters; wondering if we could ever bring back long, handwritten letters into fashion. The joy we derive from reading letters that we've received as children is quite something.
I think even when we get old and have a troubling eyesight, there will be nothing more comforting than words and letters that talk so much about our history and the life we lived.
P.S. This year, I have written three letters and received two.
