Do you have a letter for me?

I miss writing letters. My father would tell me this story of my childhood. When I was about 2 or 3 years old, and had been staying with my grandmother, my father would write letters to me. My grandmother would give me those letters and say to me, “See! You have a letter from your Appa”! I would proudly pace around the room, with the letter in my hand, pretending to read it and when someone asks me to read it out loud, I would read, “Tu-ti-tu-ti-tu-ti...”.

When we were taught about letters, letter writing and post offices in school,  we had to write a letter to ourselves and post them. After we had tracked back our letters, we had to write an essay recording the process. I couldn't wait to get my letter back! I ran back and waited till 4.20 pm when the post man would come by to collect the letters from the post box near home.  I even remember asking him, when I’d get my letter! Finally, when I got back my letter and saw the stamping on it- I was thrilled. It had actually been to some place else and had came back to me!

To all my relatives who wrote to my parents, I appealed that they write the letters addressed to me, but the contents to my father or mother, to whoever they were writing to. It was a routine for me to ask our post man “Do you have a letter for me”? Wherever my dad traveled to- he would send me a post card from there- contents written in Sanskrit! I couldn't understand a word.. But it was so mystical to get those. From Bhubaneswar... Cuttak... Hyderabad... I wondered- had people tried to read those post cards? Did they understand? There were post cards with pictures of places at the back. The souvenir cards.

 Our school would send our annual exam results by means of a post card, addressed to us, students. When my 1st standard annual exam results were announced, I had written a post card to my dad saying that I had passed. And that I was going to be in II std 'A' section. My father still has that letter which I wrote. My father, in fact, has so many letters. Letters from my mother from before I was born, letters from his friends. Sometimes, he would show me a letter and remark, “Now that’s what you call a fine handwriting”! My aunt had a great handwriting. Most times, she would send us in-land letters. I had always wondered about how she was able to write so little when in person, she was quite talkative! My other aunt, would never waste a single space on the letter. She would squeeze so many words spread through the entire sheets of paper.

My father had a box full of unused stationary. He had beautiful envelopes and papers. He would say they were “hand-made” and that he was saving them for a “special occasion”. The paper felt rough and any ink on it, I would secretly think to myself, would be the ruin of it!

I had once complained to my father that this teacher at school had beat me. I remember him writing a letter to her in his ‘executive bond’ paper in black ink. “Children are walking flowers”, he had written in it. When I rose up to give the letter from my father to the teacher, the entire class was staring at me. She never held a grudge. Even after all these years, she fondly remembers me and inquires after my father.

We had five of those wall hangers that would hold letters. Letters from some of my aunts and uncles stopped coming once they had bought the telephone. Every year, during my Christmas holidays, my father would have me draw these pictures on the post cards. Simple pictures of mangoes, crow, sun in between the hills, grapes, tree, etc. And he would dictate and I would write down the address on them. Over a hundred pictures I drew and wrote hundred such addresses each year. My father would then drive me to the nearest post box and lift me up so that I could drop off all those letters into the post box.

When we shifted home, I wrote to some of the friends I knew in school. The replies grew less  frequent over time. But I loved that I got letters. Both letters and contents, addressed to me!  I couldn't wait to grow up so that I could get a lot more of those letters. All addressed to me...

Silly nostalgia...!

Frozen Time

If pictures could speak
What would they say?
What words had moulded those thoughts?
The smile, the face;
They never cease to amaze-
Those emotions the cameras caught!

The blacks and whites
Brought in shades of grey
Those mystic hues of frozen time;
How they speak
Oh! Those eyes!
Still breathing life- in their prime!

What life had she had?
What stories to tell?
And how much of those were in wraps?
If only pictures could speak
They could say it all
May be that's why they don't- perhaps!





Ps: The woman in photograph- My aunt!

WHERE MEMORIES REMAIN...

Photographs of strangers. Strangers who resembled family. Awkward conversations about unknown blood relatives. Names of mutual acquintances get tossed around to fill the silences. Trips to ancestral villages can be any of those things. However they turn out to be- they eventually become unforgettable memories!

 

A quiant little village, 12 kms from the small town called Mayavaram, this Keeranur is one of the many Keeranurs of Tamil Nadu.

  

Goats that wouldn't bother breaking away from their normal routine of sleeping on the middle of the road. Moss covered walls- giving a touch of bright green to those walls that are otherwise faded. Bright yellow flowers blossoming on the roofs of houses. Residents who were no strangers to the "visit" from the "long lost" "sons and daughters of the land" from the towns.

An ansestor who had become a "saint" was apparently burried in this little village. This was a quest to find the place where he was originally burried.There were two temples in the village- a big one and a amall one. They shared a priest which meant that the deities had to wait for their turn on a busy day!

 

 The day we were vising the village, there was another family who were performing rituals at the temple. It tunrned out that they were related to us too. Only- no one could remember the relation that related us.

 

Village deities are a delight! There are so many stories of these deities rescuing the ones in distress. They usually leave behind a long trail of miraculous adventure tales that the ones involved liked to recount in detail- to whoever visited the place. While the children waited for the food to land on their plates- these tales kept growing longer and longer...

 The saint happened to be burried beneath shrubs and weeds that covered a slight mound of land. It's a matter of faith and it was believed that he was burried right there.

A temple beneath a tree. The tree that stood and saw the village grow. The tree which stayed behind in the childhood memories of the lost cousins!

 My father had often told me stories about how he had to walk for miles to get to his school. There were still those children in the village, who had to walk all the miles to reach their schools...

And finally, like in all stories, there are still those children, who like to have their picture taken by the visitors from the town! Perhaps they'd never get a copy of those pictures. Still, they'd insist that they be photographed. Years from now- she may meet more of my kind... The lost sons and daughters of the village... Perhaps one of them might even have her photograph for her!

The deities, the trees, the flowers on roofs; goats, wells and the dust on the stone horse's hoofs- these shall remain in the village forever! A memory of the time that paused for a while- in that beautiful village called- Keeranur!

Trip: Nov 22nd-24th 2014

PRETENTIOUS COGNITION

Memories most recent seem to make no sense. While those from the past- is wrapped up in a mature analysis of a wrapper and remains behind. Those that have stayed behind, don't seem to be much fun either.

I think I've lost the pen. The impulse to write- seems to have gone down. Rather- there's nothing much to write about. A family holiday to Gujrat or my experiments with drawing a rangoli for the first time- seem uninteresting and not worth wasting my words upon. What's this phase in life called? I am mostly up-beat about being shut in my room with my books or music or laptop. May be it's the grill on the balcony. That's what is causing the block. If only I could remove the grill, may be I could write again!

There is a vaccum in life for my cat ran off a few months ago. It's tough- going back in life. May be that's the reason for this break from writing. Or just the fact that there are just too many books around. Cleaning my house- pardon me- watching my house getting re-organised and seeing the sheer number of books in my house, makes me guilty. I've read just a few of them. I've bought so many of those books with the intention of reading them- but never did! Then there are my father's books. I remember writing down a list a few years back. A bucket-list! I wrote in it- "I wish to read all the books that my father had read in his life so far and more...". Childish boasts of a wannabe adult! 

I found out a bag with an old sewing kit. Embroidery threads and needles and the hoop. Half done flowers, the cloth all crushed and dirty. And suddenly I feel like completing the design. Only now, I don't remember to sew. It is remarkable that I had actually knitted a woollen cap. Well, that's a half truth! I am finally able to admit that after twelve years! The truth is that I was and am never good with needles and threads. But what's there to write about that? That's not least bit inspiring.

I watched the film "PK" sometime around Christmas. It was a brilliant film. But I could not write anything about that either. I wrote about "Talaash", "Oh my God" and a few other films earlier. But whatever I would write- had already been written! I liked the logic in "Oh my God" better than the emotion and fun-filled "PK"! I thought that there was nothing anti-religious in the film! Of course- the negative publicity is always good for business. But by the time I was planning whether or not to document this piece of thought- the film had grossed 300 Cr in India! 

Amidst all this- I happened to do my second book review- "Thr Krishna Key" by Ashwin Sanghi. Sure I could write about that! Only that- my review came just up to about two pages worth of words. Rest of the review was excerpts from the book. And I had no patience to sit and type down some one else's words.

Ink from my pen had made blotches on the paper. That could not be the reason either. I had a stash of executive bond papers somewhere. They are now nowhere! Also- I miss having black ink in my fountain pen. Blue- reminds me of my days in school. Creative instict is gone. Facts organise and re-organise themselves in alternative patterns. Only the words change. The rabbit and the hole are gone! 

"Analysis paralysis"- a phrase I read somewhere. It may be that. Or I don't write for I just happen to like the beauty of an unwritten page... May be I have come to think that words might disturb the serenity of the page. Or it could be that I don't think that I have words that equal the beauty of the page! 

I hope this passes too. This phase of what they call- a "writer's block". Feels good though. Can't have a writer's block if you're not a writer though- can you...?