Reflections
Lasting Impressions…
My ideas are not rushed when I account my thoughts on paper with a fountain pen. There is a balance in coordinating the pause and etching the final words on a page. I can be as extravagant or as stringent with words at my heart's will. Today that art of penning seems to be on its way to complete oblivion. We live in a world of quick notes and abbreviated messages that leave behind many unsaid thoughts. The pen and ink are lost to time and have become collectibles. Today's hurried age is an age of instant information, disposable sensibilities and thoughts abandoned midway. Eons ago, I recall setting time aside to write letters, an exercise I conducted deep into the night. The moment to sit and write was purely mine, to connect with the person whose eyes would sift through my message. I would select the writing pad of my choice, and then decide on black or blue ink. Carefully I would dip my pen into the ink bottle to fill its tube, lest I decided to carry on a long discourse, so to say. The Muse in me pondered on the first few sentences. It was the beginning of a narration that would convey my pensive, upbeat or angry mood, an excerpt from the happenings of mine and my surroundings. So, I would pause to think, and then begin carefully. As the thoughts unveiled, the tip of my pen carefully choreographed my expressions on paper. Mellow, patient, confident were the words of advice. Rustic, exciting, inviting were the words of friendship. Soft, of reverence were words of love. And from there on it was undivided attention, spending quality time if you will, with that person. What, you may ask, evoked these reflections? Well, here is what happened… I discovered in my pile of throwaways a bundle of letters. Casually I opened one, and then another and another! The pages had turned rustic yellow, a few were disintegrating on the seam, the writings were faded, but the words and their message remained elegantly simple. All written by hand, in blue ink, some twenty years ago, a few even earlier. I laughed, cried, read and reread. The writer's pen was alive and active, and her range of thoughts was a quest to have the distance between us become shorter. Each letter had a story to tell. During the days of the 1971 war how we left our home and sought shelter elsewhere! At that point in time our needs were meager but our love and concerns were abundant. The writer in her disciplined observation took time to account the compassion of people with whom we had shared a roof. And thus as an adult for me it was a story to reflect on the goodness of others in times of need, reminding me of the deep values we each carry in us that often become blurred to the demands of the mundane. And then there was the story of selflessness, a part of her which I took for granted. She was a teacher to the children of her village home; was the bank for many women of her community; was the counselor who helped several to ease through the rigours of family life. And then again there was the gentle finesse with which she informed me about her failing health due to cancer, her decision to live life with grace, opting for a natural ending. With it came the most precious sentence on how it is okay to let go! In her dignified way she laid the foundation of my very own moral principles anchoring me to life, to know life for what it is. I have learned many lessons through her handwritten letters. In these missives I listened to her voice, traceable to my childhood through my coming of age. For us it was quality time then, and quality time now, even so many years later. In her letters I have discovered compassion, patience of mind and gems of unconditional love that make life meaningful. And along the way on many occasions made the sun shine brighter than usual. Ironically, today the significance of a handwritten letters hows up as a bullet point on the communications expert list --- a skill to be trained on, a value we need to be reminded of!
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