The Era of Endearing Epistles

In an age when connectivity was severely limited, letters opened a window through which our entire external world slipped in. You were, over the years, sucked into the culture and art of letter writing by listening to them being read out by the elders in the family. Deep in your heart there develops not one but two ambitions. When will I be articulate enough to read out the letter to the family? And secondly, when will I get to write a letter?

The dakia himself was an affable and respectable person. Clad in a khaki uniform we could recognize him from a distance. He had a special way of ringing his cycle bell which told us that it was him. I remember that as the 2-1-2-1 tune: trrring-trrring : tring: trrring-trrring: tring. At times I used to bump into him at some distance away from the house and would ask, “Aamo paeen chithee ochee?” If he said “hon achee” I would run behind his cycle down Giri Road to our house.

There were times, especially when he delivered good news telegrams like “SON BORN MOM KID BOTH FINE” he would be offered tea and sweets. At times he would sit on the verandah and sort his letters street wise and plan his delivery route. That was also a broad hint for us to offer him tea which we gladly did. He would, during such sessions, share the nuggets of his tough life. The huge responsibility he was saddled with, the need of speed and promptness that his profession demanded, the way he coped with heat, cold and rains and above all the joys and sorrows of his work life. Though not well paid (he would console himself by saying poisa besee naheen, kintu ghormeant chakree) he had a lot of pride in his job.

He would tell us how he had delivered telegrams informing people about the death of their near and dear ones. How the elderly Sahu couple would keep waiting for letters but their truant son was extremely irregular. How Kanungo babu was lucky, his son’s money order always comes in the first week. How in the household of Patnaiks he had delivered the appointment letter of their elder son. And how in the house of Mohanty’s he had delivered the great news of their daughters’ marriage (their would-be samudhis had conveyed the acceptance of their daughters’ hand in marriage through a post-card!).

If ever there had been a prize instituted for the most frequent letter writer, my unlettered grandmother would have bagged it hands down. Her inability to write never came in the way of her fierce desire to express and communicate. Along with ration she would get her monthly quota of Post office stationery- 30 inland letters, 10 envelopes and about a dozen or so post-cards! An extremely strict mother of seven siblings, most of whom were out of Deheradun after their marriage, she took upon herself the job of uniting everyone through her passion for communication. She would catch hold of her grandchildren, children of relatives, the tenants children and in their absence even professional letter writers to express her feelings on wide ranging issues concerning the family.

The mango tree, that had played truant and had not blossomed, putting the ghar ka achaar programme in jeopardy, would find an honourable mention. Couple of litchee and mango trees that had to be cut to construct a new house for the elder son was so poignantly described that I thought she was lamenting the death of a family member. Even the felling of a peepal tree to broaden the road in the locality was duly reported in one of her letters. She would also tell us about the way her grand children were progressing (forget their marks we even came to know kis kis key kab kitne doodh key daant tootey) the way her sons were busy in their own grahasti and consequently had very little time for her, the erratic attendance of the maid-servant (aab bharose ka zamana naheen raha) …..everything was detailed.

She was also the self-appointed CEO of the Marriages Inc. Many of her letters reminded us of who in the entire khandaan and the neighbourhood was eligible for marriage. In fact when she used to inform us of someone getting a job there would be an immediate rider, abhee sey uske liye ladki dekhna shoroo kar dena chaiheye. Aaj kal ke ladkon ka bharosa kya. And mind you this was the sixties!

When for some reason we would miss out on replying to her letters in time she would sign off her next letter by writing: ees chithee ko chithee naheen taar samajh key jawab dena. One more default and we would get a terse two word telegram, “REPLY WELFARE”. Embarrassed, we would then send a telegram to Dehera, “ALL FINE LETTER FOLLOWS”.

There is one letter about which Anil and I still tease my mom. In Berhampur we had our own badminton court where dads’ colleagues used to come and play. Our house was the venue for dads’ bridge club. Life revolved around sports, studies, bridge and of course endless cups of tea for my dad and his friends. There came a phase when dad was transferred to Parlakhemundi for a year or so. That’s when loneliness crept into our lives. At times mom used to write letters to dad and in such times there comes a time, after some time, when the contents of the letter becomes open to the entire family.

So one day when the entire family was together dad said to mom, “aarey tu kavita bhi likhti hai mujhe maloom naheen thaa.” That was enough for Anil and me to raise a ruckus. We demanded the letter to be read to us. Despite moms’ feeble protest (aap bhee na…… bachon key saamne kuch bhee boltey hain) we got our hands on that two page poem. Unfortunately that poem has not been preserved, but 36 years after it had been written I still remember couple of lines,

Aab na one spade, two hearts, three no trumps key calls hotey hain,
Aur naa hee chai kee farmaish hotee hai,
Aab ghar mein na khaali pyale khanakte hain,
Aur naa hee khanktee meree chudiyan…

In our subsequent letters to our mausas, mausis, mamas, mamis and a host of other relatives, excerpts of this poem was leaked! Mom got fab reviews but somehow refused to write her next poem. In many ways it is Gods grace because never since 1972-73 have my parents been separated except for a month when my son was born and later for a month, that spread like eternity, when she was hospitalized.

Was it the format and pace of those times that dictated the quality of the contents? Or were people of sixties more emotional, honest and frank in expressing their opinions? This I will never know, but one thing I know for certain, this generation and the generations to come can never match the frequency and the quality of the epistle writers of the sixties and seventies.

P.S. :
ees blog ko blog naheen taar samajh kar turant comments post karna!