Living in your letters

I miss the days when we wrote letters.

I used to love writing letters, with pretty stationary, scented and glittery pens, and stickers to seal the envelopes. My letters were always very secret, and although they didn’t contain any actual secrets, I never let anyone read what I was writing, and to who. I’d sit alone, and painstakingly write long paragraphs, about everything and anything, paying particular attention to the handwriting – either cursive, or small caps, not a mix, like my class notes were often in. Winter vacation was the best time for letter – writing; sitting in the balcony, enjoying the sun and making/ writing x-mas/new year cards. That was, however, 12 years ago.

Now, I don’t even open the e-cards I receive sometimes.

Letters now seem historic – we started using emails to keep in touch, and now with IM & cheap broadband connection, I end up using emails only at work.

When was the last time that I received a letter? Sometime in the past 1 year, and not just one letter, but a few. I loved getting them - they gave me a reason to actually check my mailbox, because the only other mail I got was bank statements and bills. I always skimmed through them right away, before taking them up to my room and reading them slowly, absorbing every word. And then again. I’d be smiling throughout, filled with the warmth and comfort that only a handwritten letter can deliver, and no email or phone call can match. There’s something about seeing the words out there, on a crisp sheet of paper, in someone’s own handwriting, rather than type-written paragraphs, that touches the heart. The permanence of those words – which can be pulled out and read anytime you miss that person, or think of them, or wish they were around, is the next best thing to actually have that person present.

I loved your letters, every one of them. I read them over and over, and stashed them away safely, and went back to them during bad times. I confess, I still feel horrible for not replying and writing as often as I would have liked to. I promised you a letter, and I never sent it. I showed it to you sometime – but I didn’t send it because by the time I finished it, half the material it was out dated. That doesn’t matter, and I realize that now. I wish I’d sent it.

Receiving a letter always makes me feel special, because someone took the time out to think of me, and sit down and write to me, and me only. There is no cc/bcc’ing a handwritten letter, and its something that only the writer and the recipient share, a secret of their own, that no one else gets to be a part of.

The fact that you found time for me from your busy schedule makes me feel cared for, when everything looks down.

My apologies to a few people:

A: I wish I had sent that letter, and many more. Dozens of emails, long hours of chats and phone calls, but I still wish I’d sent it to you.

R: Every time I saw a postcard that I liked, I would think of writing to you. I never did; I wish I had.

U: I wish we had continued to write like we did in 8^th grade. Emails were never the same. Personal, but not the same.

I don’t know what happened…maybe that enthusiasm for writing died slowly with busy schedules, growing up, the internet, and various other modes of communication. I keep in touch with these people, and many more.

But letters were different.

Incomplete

Instead of deleting posts that I’m not ready to publish, I’ve started saying them, in the hope that I will on day go back and complete them. This essentially leaves me with a whole set of unfinished posts, and random word files on my work and personal laptop, with a few lines each. I have unfinished business, but this time, it can’t be helped – because something or the other always comes up and interrupts the chain of thoughts, and it’s extremely difficult to them revive it. A phone call, the washing machine’s buzzer, the doorbell, something or the other. Take now for example – a meeting. In 5 mins. Blarghh! So I better get going, and for once, jus publish the incomplete post. And let’s see if I’ll be able to come back and finish it.

I did have something to say in this post, but someone jus came by and made random small talk, and now I can’t remember what it was!

The right kind of wrong

“And what is good, Phaedrus,

And what is not good –

Need we ask anyone to tell us these things?”

- Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Gone are the days when right and wrong or good and bad, was clearly defined by parents, teachers, counselors, and the society. I realized this more than ever when my parents came to visit last week. It was heartwarming to have the entire family under one roof, and yet, it wasn’t the same as going home. I got to make the plans, decide on what to do, and their days here revolved around my schedule. I couldn’t put a finger on what it was that kept nagging the back of my head – because they hadn’t changed, they were still my parents, I was still their daughter, and although we were in my house, we were still the same family. And then it struck me – they’d let me go. Not too far – but it was a start. Perhaps they’d accepted that I’d grown up. Or perhaps it was just that they were too lost in a new place, and thus allowed me to lead, since I am from around here. I guess I’ll find out when I go back to Bangkok if I’m still the little girl who is driven around by the driver, or a young woman who’s graduation they attended, and who they waved by to as she went off to work in the morning.

It wasn’t easy – and I think they had to do it consciously. I found out when my mother tried to put a curfew on me for Friday night, and then caught herself, and said, “ Go have fun, and come back whenever you decide.” And when my dad opened the door for me late at night, no questions asked, and said good night, as if it was the most normal thing to do. My parents have always been very protective and involved – so I guess it wasn’t easy. For me, or for them.

But I guess we’re all growing up. They know that I’m going to explore my own good from bad, and right from wrong. They will watch, interfere at times, but mostly watch, approvingly or disapprovingly. Their values are the foundations of the ones that I am going to form. But a foundation determines the strength and durability of a structure, not its shape and identity.

So here goes nothing.

I am now out there to make my own mistakes, and maybe even fall face first. But if I don’t, I’d leave many stones unturned, and never find out what lies beneath. Always inquisitive, and easily intrigued, I know which way I’m going to go. Mom, Dad, everyone, I’m off to find out within myself, what is my real right and wrong.

Bed of Lies

I started to write an entry before sleeping - I typed six different beginnings and promptly deleted them all.

I have made a resolution – to be honest to myself at the end of the day, atleast for a few minutes, before escaping to sleep.

Tonight, I’m being honest. I am slightly overwhelmed by then number of roles I have to play in one day – where each one seems to be more demanding than the previous. Either they have become more exhausting, or I’m simply not up to it. I’m too numb to reconcile with this feeling at the moment. Believe me, I tried, but couldn’t muster up the will to do it. Not yet.

I am going to go to bed with a book. I want the comfort of clearly expressed words and thoughts – so black and solid, laid out neatly, page after page, before I shut my eyes.