North Star Talks

Letter Writing

January 28th, 2020

Letter writing has increasingly become a dying trend, with the advent of social media, free telephone calls, and affordable internet prices. Why is this is an issue? Telegraphs went out when telephones became popular, chariots and horse-driven carriages went out when automobiles became popular across the world. It is the habit and the privilege of later humans enjoying conveniences not available for their predecessors.

I plead the case of letter writing in this piece. To present my case with a clean slate, I confess that I am one of those few who still writes letters. My style of letter writing has changed over the years. I remember the first letter correspondents I had were my parents. Back in 2007 I had joined a boarding school in Hyderabad. My parents were posted in Kanpur, and the only way to communicate with them was through a dial-in landline once a week for ten minutes. However, this privilege only extended to those who had a pre-paid telephone card with them (another relic of a simpler time), which I didn’t have. My first communication with my parents was six months after I joined the boarding school, writing to them not about how I enjoyed my freedom and time away from them, but about how well I was preparing to do in school on a regular basis. Never did, but that doesn’t matter today. I was very touched to receive a two page long handwritten response from my father, and a one page handwritten note from my mother, appraising me of developments and reaffirming their love for me, which had only grown in my absence. I treasured that letter for a very long time, and was very saddened when I realized that the cleaning ladies may have thrown it away since it was under my mattress.

As the years went by, mobile phones became the sine qua non of communications, and I was able to spend time talking to my parents regularly over the phone. I relegated the inland letter dutifully issued to me by my boarding school to conveying the latest version of my handwriting and enquiring after their health, knowing full well that this letter would reach them after I spoke to them the following week. I bought a smartphone soon after I enrolled for a college. Being so deprived of technology for seventeen years, I proceeded to enjoy the fruits of technology as much as I could. This led to a great cessation of the use of handwriting or handwritten notes to convey any sentiments whatsoever for a year or so.

As I would soon become aware, the lack of a personal feeling towards text messages would catch up to me and I began missing the feeling of letter writing and reading handwritten notes. When I brought this up with my parents, they would have none of it. Having labored for years to communicate with their loved ones over letters by necessity, they had their share of letter writing for the rest of their life, and advised me to stop pestering them with my childish requests. I was soon fortunate enough, however, to cultivate some friendships that would result in a series of writing.

I cannot put into words the sheer joy that a handwritten note can provide. There are professions based on discerning the mood of the person based on their scrawls. In very minor and imperceptible ways, I try and summon some part of that person through a handwritten note- the arcs and tilts of the pen, the pressure put into the paper, the effort taken to write in a consistent straight line- as if I was standing over their shoulder while they were writing the letter and reading it in their voice. The beauty of the handwritten note is that it grows more valuable each passing day. With the popularity of internet and social media, any thought conveyed in an actual handwritten note conveys concern, regard, love, care, affection and a bond strong enough to compel two individuals to share their thoughts in as intimate a manner as letters. Facebook and Whatsapp can commoditize the convenience of quick messaging. I’m afraid they cannot commoditize the value of heartfelt messaging.

I fear for the future of handwritten letters, knowing several modes of communications have died a slow and inevitable demise when there is no further demand for it. The Postal Office seems like a permanent institution in India today, long may that last! This is a ominous prediction, but I am tempted to preemptively quote the show Game of Thrones “what is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger.”
How Did He Die?

January 15th, 2020

“Poor guy”, he said. “I wonder what possessed him to do that?
How did he die?” asked the bystander. The Counsel smiled,
for nothing gave him more joy than to tell a tale.
Taking him aside, the Counsel draped a friendly arm and began-
“He that lays there broken and without spirit, was
once a lover, a confidante, a part of the
heart for she, that lived over the desert and
beyond the border. Young love theirs was, and full of
whispers, giggles, and promises reaching the moon.
He had an uncle in India, who left him some land,
and he departed with a heavy heart promising to write, and return in haste.

He reached India, with feverish impatience to get back, giddy
with the knowledge that he now was rich enough to marry, and
quickly set out to acquire the land. Alas! He was trapped by a knave,
A relative who had long ago forced him to flee to Pakistan;
ensnared by the law, he had nowhere to flee, and was jailed
for who was he, a land-grabbing Pakistani!
His bleats of innocence disregarded, he was sent to jail, and
served time of seven years, his will all but broken except for the
memory of a tinkling laugh, a giggle that bid him to hold on tight.

At last, he was set free, many moons after, by a kindly warden, who took
his only possession, a painting, that he had done in prison, with a
memory lurking in his mind frozen in beauty, glittering with color.
He hopped on to the first train, and paused for neither bath or a change,
for his desire burned so bright, he was afraid it would kill him if denied.
But five years had passed, and he felt a slight unease as he drove
up to her home. He asked around for the girl, described her ethereal beauty,
Evoked strange reactions, until a gardener told him,
“She has been married to an Indian trader for two years, and what a
Love theirs is, so sweet and genuine, the kind absent today.”

The words hit him like a thunderbolt, shell-shocked and dismayed,
He was determined to see her for one last time, and
Despite knowing what lay in store here, he set out, determined
to get back his love. He reached her house, and knocked the door.
She didn’t recognize him, and started with disbelief,
Come back and frolic, said he, you have no idea how much
I long for you. Leave this person and come to Pakistan.

I cannot accept the words of a convict, said she, and besides,
I chose to marry him, for my love to him is a thousand
times brighter than my love for you. She then proceeded to shoo
him out and turned away in disgust. The man, furious,
bellowed in a rage long suppressed, and reached out to pull her back
and make her see sense. He caught her neck, and when she started
to struggle, held on tight, and forgot who he was, or what he was.
When the body became limp, he fell, body disgusted, soul serrated.
Reality came in a flash, and he rose to escape, jumping the fence
just as the husband’s car pulled up in the driveway.

He ran and ran, and finally when he stopped he realized what he had
done. Cold fear crept over him, and partly numbed his senses. He took
to flee back to his land, where he would be safe, and proceeded to board
a train. He moved as though in a haze, and accidentally tripped someone
over. The actor turned, asked him to apologize. Our friend didn’t. He was sick of
life, tired of being hounded, and ashamed of his deeds. He rebelled, and was
taken aside by burly men, who threatened him with the ultimate price to pay.
A punch paralyzed his mouth, and he neither wept nor fought for his release,
until he lay there presently, cold as a stone.”

“But why did you tell me all this?”, cried the bystander, “I have important work
that I put off for this, and you told me an impossible yarn, while love
and choice were neither the question nor the answer to his death. Why
get me cynical, upset, melancholic, when hundreds die a violent death a day.”
“But surely my good sir”, cried the counsel, “shouldn’t all death evoke
sympathy? Is it not vital that we care for that, who right in front of our eyes,
has lived, died and left behind a life of hope, led in brutish violence,
extinguished by a desire to break free? Who would remember a man whose life
cannot be accounted for more than a sentence, whose sins and crimes are
not explained? All of life, some to remember, none to understand.”
January 2020 and a new beginning

January 12th, 2020

Hi All,

Its 2020. Unless my notifications have somehow slowed down in the last ten days, India hasn’t become a superpower yet. Still eagerly waiting on that. I, on the other hand, have decided to up my game to compensate. Every year, I began with my steely resolve and fool proof plans to seize the year and march towards glory. Predictably, I lose the plot fairly quickly and fast forward to the end of the year, when I wonder what I could have done with the time I had. Not anymore. This year, I have resolved to populate this space with a jumble of content. This will include poems I scribble, incomplete stories I think of, places I see and people I talk to, and maybe much more. Inertia is the enemy. By the end of this year, I would like to tell myself that I may not have done much of effect in anything, but at least I tried doing something in many things. After all, our Finance minister seems to be following the same trick. Hope to see many blank pages filling up this year.

Letter Writing

How Did He Die?

January 2020 and a new beginning