Of Writing Letters and Pen Friends.

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.

The Poetry Club.

I have to tell you this.

My colony is filled with cats that are pretty frisky. They play, run along the trees and bikes, hide under the cars and broken brick walls making faces at each other, or simply occupy a cozy corner in our balconies for a pleasant afternoon siesta. But there is one kitten -- almost white in colour with two brown spots on it, that is perpetually isolated. It plays on its own, and often pushes itself to seek company of not just its fellow cats but humans too. It leaves after a while though, you’ll never find it spending more than a scheduled amount of time with anyone. Much to my chagrin, it barges into our kitchen to drink the milk I set aside for making coffee.

Funnily, it reminded me of my poetry club at school where I was like the solitary kitten writing poems on the most mundane things right from civics to squirrels. Mostly, on squirrels because they were my favourite subject. No one would visit my club though. With cool things like science club (Of course, it is quite cool) displaying models of solar system and fancy rockets, which child would pay attention to literature? And that too to a club which had just one member.

I wasn’t the one to give up though. I really wanted the kids to appreciate the beauty of poetry and look at the world with an entirely different perspective -- I wanted them to understand the beauty of stars, and love the sight of a pond full of ducks without getting into the details of science behind stars. I was a romantic and I desperately wanted them to experience the profundity of my mighty squirrel talking about its woes to the ruler of the kingdom. To lure more kids into the club, I decided to create and draw attractive posters and sketches with my poems carefully scribbled on them with crayons and sketch pens I adored. I put them in the classroom, and requested a few of my friends who I traveled along with to put a two of them in their classes too. Needless to mention, they were always dominated with the posters of Parts of Speech, and Global Warming. I remember my science teacher telling me how these things matter, and that I was simply wasting my time on literature. Nothing would come out of it, she claimed. I remember how much I hated her when she would urge children not to read stories like Nancy Drew or Malory Towers in the library, instead forced us all to read Britannica encyclopedias only. She probably never understood a right balance had to be created between literature and science. For the longest time, I was distracted in her class owing to her haughty nature of brushing aside everything that wasn’t science.

Before I digress, let me tell you more.

I joined way too many clubs to talk about mine. I joined the Karate club too, and ended up resenting myself. I quit them all mid-way, mostly because no one really cared about poetry as much as I did. Sniff.

Irrespective of all this, my club did manage to get featured in the annual exhibition where I displayed a few of my poems, including a series on the mighty squirrel with a pride.

Sooner or later, I came to terms with the fact that you cannot force poetry on someone. You cannot make people fall head over heels for it. Poetry too is just like love. When people get a dose of it, it would be the most enriching feeling that will last for ages.

P.S. Don’t ask me about the little kitten in my colony though.

Memories In Time

“I don't feel very much like Pooh today," said Pooh.

"There there," said Piglet. "I'll bring you tea and honey until you do.” 

― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

Perhaps only love can heal love.

Cannot figure out how? Let me explain.

When I was in twelfth, I had to shift to Vizag due to some unforeseen circumstances. A change in the college, a change in the city, and miles away from home - with too many changes and uncertainties, I was terribly homesick.

I missed my parents. I missed home. 

It was the first time I stayed away from my parents, and being with my grandparents was fun, but it did not help much. I had regular bouts of home, and Hyderabad.

People who know me well, also know how much I adore Vizag. I keep saying it - it is the place to be. But I grew out of it back then. Even before I realized it, I fell in love with the city again.

I have probably written a lot about my friends in places and spaces I cannot recollect any longer, however, I have never written about the four girls who made my stay in Vizag more than wonderful, and made me fall in love with it again. With one step at a time though.

Anjani, Anuja, Niharika, and Prasanthi - you girls have contributed a lot to my happiness and bitter sadness. 

As we step into the eighth year of our friendship, I felt a testimonial to all that we cherished together had to happen.

Probably I wouldn't have put on even a little (Read a lot) weight if Niha wasn't there to feed me cake every single day. I wouldn't have known the joy in sharing food if not for Anjani and Anuja, and perhaps, I would have never taken all the critical feedback in good humour had Anjani never thrown sarcastic remarks on my face.

Maybe my walks in the rain would not have been this memorable if Niha wasn't there. Maybe I would not have bunked practicals if not for Anjani, and maybe I would have never picked fights with any friend if not for Anuja.

Maybe I wouldn't have laughed so much even when I was going through the worse days if not for these girls; and maybe I wouldn't have savoured street food so much if not for Anjani. Shopping with these girls was awfully great, and sharing our deepest secrets in the darkest of the days let me talk about things I would have never imagined I'd talk.

I have also learned how to lie most conveniently. I mean, I always had a good story to tell our principal each time we bunked a practical or a weekend exam. You see how they helped me? I started writing stories to protect me and my friends from drastic situations. I will give it you straight - my lies were an epic fail. No one ever believed me.

Vizag is a beautiful place. In many million ways, it is so simple. I wouldn't know a perfect weekend had I not watched a movie at Jagadamba, and go for a stroll at the RK beach, and make my friend walk miles in pursuit of reaching Tenneti Park. 

I would trade my place with anything to be in Vizag doing a writing job, and staying closer to my grandparents and family. 

Any day. I mean it.

If not for these girls, I might have never realized the beauty of this city, and how closely it held me during the nights I missed home

It is a home away from home, and these girls are totally family away from family. 

Like an old warm quilt.