Monsoon of Memories: The Days We Got Letters
I miss receiving a handwritten note and being surprised at the sight of my name scribbled on an envelope that’s had a long journey and sat in the basket of a bicycle before landing in my rusty mailbox.
Humble-hued in brown, it’s rusty, and that’s what I like most about it. Its edges are chipped off, yet it somehow holds itself together. It’s not retro or vintage, just outworn. That breaks my heart. Dad had nailed this letterbox on the door of our garage more than three decades ago. Just two nails have been good enough to keep it in place all this time.
Each afternoon, when I returned from school, I’d rush straight to the letterbox to see what the ‘Postman Uncle’ had dropped in there for us. There were blue-colored Inland letters—those were my favorite, as these meant long letters from my maternal grandmother. She’d address these to mum, but always scribbled a little note for my sister and me in the end; and she wrote often. Some postcards came in too, though I don’t recall who sent them. Then there were those magazines that came for dad, along with utility bills. Now and then, a greeting card would be in there too. While most came on festivals or birthdays, few of our relatives and friends sent them without an occasion too, and these I loved the most. I’d collect them in my memory box.
As I grew up, the Postman Uncle grew older as well. He continued to bring us letters, and often he now dropped in letters addressed to me. I was in high school when I made a pen friend, and she and I wrote letters to each other for years, until we got our first email addresses! The sight of Air Mail with the ubiquitous red and blue colored border on the envelope would keep me in good spi rits for weeks until the next one arrived.
It was during those years that our school began to send our end-of-the-year academic reports via post. This meant an anxious wait, followed by the demand of a box of sweets by the Postman Uncle each year! He was not concerned by our scores, but he did like the idea of sweets and would climb up the stairs to hand-deliver this special, brown envelope stamped ‘Result.’
Growing up, the letters that came my way included a variety—admission brochures from universities to banks offering debit cards, and more. One thing that didn’t change was the excitement of finding something in the box, even as emails became commonplace.
Today, while the letterbox at home is at the same spot, the Postman Uncle is long gone. He and his bicycle have been replaced by younger men on bikes. And yet, I still look forward to unlocking the tiny lock on the mailbox and seeing what awaits! Lately, I’ve sifted through twigs and bird feathers to sometimes find a pamphlet selling water filters in there. I don’t receive many letters; just mere pings on my phone telling me someone is missing me, or a brand is offering discounts, or the membership fee is due to be paid.
I do, however, write letters whenever I can. I slip these in with gifts on occasions or sometimes with lunch boxes, dry cleaning, and more. They are handwritten on any pieces of paper that I have lying around me at the time, or sometimes I go the extra mile to purchase and obsess with letter writing stationery.
I’ll keep writing and waiting. Perhaps something would change and once again we would rejoice in the tearing of the envelope and the shrieks of delight that would follow. Perhaps.
Purva Grover is an author, journalist, poet, playwright and stage director. A postgraduate in mass communication and literature, she is the founder-editor of The Indian Trumpet, a digital magazine for Indian expats in the UAE. She can be reached at grover.purva@gmail.com. To comment on this article, please write to letters@khabar.com.
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