Once upon a time, the postman always rang, not just twice but many more times than that. What he rang was the bell of his bicycle. That sound was like music to our ears while it made our dogs salivate at the thought of the chase ahead.
What we looked forward to were handwritten letters from friends and relatives recounting their day-to-day activities which made the distance separating us melt away. Every member of my family was a keen letter writer and settling down to the serious business of communication occupied many a weekend.
There were different categories of letters to be penned. There were ‘duty’ letters to grandparents with details of academic achievements, which is what made them proud and tears start in their eyes. Replies to these arrived a little too promptly for our liking and, before we knew it, there was one more letter to write.
Then there were friends with whom we shared all our experiences in minute and excruciating detail. These missives tended to run into pages of description of people, places, responses and feelings. If we knew each other’s family, there was even more to inquire and write about.
When my father, an army man, was posted in what was called a ‘non-family’ station, he was meticulous about staying in touch with each of his children separately. That was no mean feat considering there were five of us.
My parents wrote each other once and even twice a day, the cause of much ribbing from us as to what could have changed within a span of 24 hours or even less.
Each of us had our own collection of letters and sometimes we would sift through these, staring at stamps still affixed to envelopes and wondering why we hadn’t put these away. They were zealously guarded from the prying eyes of siblings, whose glance might fall on the set of exotic stamps and feel that they were destined to be added to their philatelic collection.
Back in the day we exchanged postal addresses, not business cards and telephone numbers. Being in the habit of writing by hand, we continuously practised our penmanship and were always conscious of the end result. Now, the few times I find myself using a pen, I find the deterioration in this skill a cause for alarm.
The only things we receive in the post now are bills and bank statements, nothing we really look forward to.
Compare this sorry state of affairs with the anxious wait for the postman when he was such an important figure in our lives. Unfortunately for him, we weren’t the only ones lying in wait. Our dogs were in the wings, ready to spring as soon as they caught his scent. Their dislike of this serviceman has always been inexplicable. How could they show such hostility to someone whom the family waited for with such longing, we wondered. That was one time when our pets’ peeves and ours diverged.
Apart from letters, cards were bought, messages scrawled and wishes conveyed for every conceivable occasion. These included birthdays, anniversaries and festivals initially. Then, when business people realised the money that could be minted by printing cards for every occasion or whim, they went at it hammer and tongs. So, now we could even choose to send cards for no reason at all.
However, what prompted me to pen this piece was a news article I read recently about modern-day biographers not having much material to work on. There are no archives of letters to sift through in this age of e-mail and Twitter and instant messaging. Modern-day royalty are unlikely to leave behind a rich repository for historians, who will have to be at their creative best to record their legacy for posterity.
