My grandfather was Leonard Alphonse Laporte. (Note the small ‘p’ in LaPorte – in high school I decided a capital P was more elegant.) Like most French Canadian grand-daughters, I called him Pepe (Pip-ay). Len sold the family farm and bought a small bike repair shop and built it into a popular sporting goods store in Windsor, Ontario, just ‘cross the Detroit border. So for Christmas I got soccer balls and ice skates. I wanted the hard cover edition of the Little House on The Prairie and some oil pastels. Every family has a black sheep.

Baaaaah. As a modern-minded, progressive chick, I’ve spent a vast amount of energy re-defining myself. And that has usually meant looking forward, getting far away from backwards and roots and origins. Far away from Hockey Night in Canada, and Chrysler, and trailer camping. I spent most of my adult life living in the US, working in communications, aspiring to relax in four-star hotels.

AFFINITY AND APPRECIATION ARE MUTUALLY EXCLUSIVE
I’m not embarrassed about where I came from, I just never felt like it was the right home for my spirit. I never felt deeply connected to it. And if there’s a lack of connection, there is often a lack of appreciation. And while connection isn’t something that can be forced, appreciation is something that can actually be fostered. By celebrating our origins – even if they have little resemblance to our ideals – we call forth our wholeness, a greater love.

Even if you intensely do not want to turn into your mother, there’s something beautiful about her that also lives in you. Whether it’s country clubs or country music that makes you want to hurl, there’s something about growing up in a radically different scene that’s added to your street smarts, your grace, your grit. Finding the charm factor where we’ve long felt sour is the stuff of wisdom…and relief.

By plucking out the strands of delight, those fibers of nourishment from even the most ill-fitting situations, we can weave ourselves a stronger fabric of identity. A heavy material that makes us durable, or something softened by surrendered love. Warmer. More colourful.

When I think about my pip, I feel thankful to have come from a family of hard workers who know how to party. I’m happy for the trailer park where I sneaked my first smoke, for Sunday masses that showed me the glory of faith, and for growing up in an industry town that taught me about big hair and bling. (You can take the girl out of the small town, but she’ll always wanna have big hair.)

What do you love about your origins?

In my youth there was some thrill, excitement about meeting up all sorts of people whom I had befriended along the way. I was single, available and purposeless – or you can say trying to figure out the purpose of it all. Everything else was secondary – career, partner, good food, good clothes, nice car, house, looks – all that mattered to me then was to change the world and to talk for hours about injustices in my home country.

But then as it happens, I too strayed from the dream path, owing to the necessity of making sure that I had some pennies on me, a roof over my head and some semblance of a career. It went on and on and here I am today – the same person with lot more experience of life, a roof over my head, food in my pantry and some work to keep me busy. But I have lost the thrill and anticipation that used to come with meeting friends, catching up over a cup of coffee, going for a drink or a walk in the park.

Now, I am back in my second home, Sydney after a gap of four years and I fondly remember the many connections I had made over nine years when I lived here. With my friends in India, I talked of my mates in Australia as members of my global family. I felt that a permanent kind of ‘invisible’ support, empathy and kinship existed for me and it kept me safe and protected. I thought that it really didn’t matter where I wandered or what brought me back – my mates here would still like to catch up as they would be as interested in me as I was in them.

I started looking for some mates with a lot of enthusiasm but more I tried to reconnect more I became aware that my efforts were futile. The connection was dead. There was nothing there but a shallow, polite interest on their part that dissipated once the phone call ended. That was that. A rolling stone gathers no moss, I have been told by many people across the continents. It seemed like when I left my mates in Australia I also exited their mental space. As a global villager I took their presence with me but they held on to nothing of me and their au revoirs were final goodbyes.

I was perhaps too unstable to have any permanent connection with…maybe they were tired of me — the friend always in need of advice, assistance, empathy, support by virtue of being a migrant. Not one who is busy digging gold but more akin to an Indian sadhu (ascetic) ceaselessly in motion searching for TRUTH.

It was their (my Aussie mates) collective conscience which manifested in the form of an invitation (visa) through their government to their country – an invited guest, vetted guest, processed guest thrown at the deep end of it all. They woke up one morning and found me amidst them looking for everything which sustains life. They did a great job but behold I inadvertently conveyed to them that I could do without them. In a way I ‘dumped’ my Aussie mates by packing up to wander again.

Now as I wandered back again in, logically meeting me would be a waste of time for all these stable mates. For me it would involve repeating my story to all the mates, telling them what I did in all the four years while away. I felt there was not much point in making efforts to catch a train, to make them pick me up and devour their precious time.

All this catching up could be done in the form of an email status report, which my mates could have read in their own time and come back with some or no feedback and it would have satisfied the little curiosity which we all have about each other – I wonder what she has been up to? Easier to catch up on email, the person is better in your inbox rather than in your face. In emails you just share bits of information but when you meet in person you have a bigger responsibility to engage with the person.

I often felt catching up was all about checking on each other, to ensure that the other person has not left me behind or vice versa; to see if there could be any synergy; to keep up with the social necessities; to make sure that when one has a party there are some people around to invite over.

Why catch up? Why meet up? I had carried these questions with me to India and found somebody I thought could answer this question. A very inspiring woman who lived by herself and whom I befriended. She was very young in her nineties and lived a queen size d life till last year when she left the physical realm. She told me, “You meet people to share”.

She explained that when you share, for example your pain – it gets distributed, dispersed among the people you with whom you talk. Your pain gets reduced in size. So it’s downsizing pain by sharing. Similarly when you share your joy, it becomes a bigger joy — so it’s upsizing by sharing.

I have faith in this explanation as given by one of my dearest mates so for now I shall continue making efforts to catch up with all connected, disconnected, disenchanted, disengaged mates of mine. I intend to hand over personally the status report of what I had been doing the last four years. It won’t deter me that I have grey hair (though I try to keep the grey bits coloured or hidden), that I have yet to properly tune into the colour of money, that they had four years of respite from me hassling them to catch up. I am still as insignificant as I used to be, just a speck of dust which can dust itself out of any space.

In the meanwhile I shall catch up personally – because I am a being, with legs to carry me around and many tales to share.

The lady was busy in drying her clothes while she kept an eye on the children. Her son must have been about seven years of age and her daughter close to four years. Her youngest child was a girl, who seemed to be about a year old and she was sitting in the pram enjoying the game of her elder siblings.

The two kids were running to and fro, dancing, jumping on the chairs, rolling on the floor and laughing. Their game was not new and their gestures were ordinary. But I was captivated by their innocence, smiles and laughter which were as fresh as a morning breeze.

I wondered if I were like them when I was a child. Did I forget about the world and laugh to my heart’s content? Did I play similar games? Were my smiles as genuine as theirs coming directly from the heart? Was my laughter like tinkling bells?

As I stood there I wished I could be a carefree child again.

It is sad that as we grow older, we stop remembering the child in us. The busy lifestyle of today has taken everything from us that is carefree. We are paying the price for our complexities and technologies that we once created to make life simpler. We all need to make life simpler rather than more complex.

We should stop worrying about the things over which we have no control over and think of solutions rather than problems. The rat race for a big house, big job and more money will never end so why WORRY? We should enjoy and live each moment of our lives as if there is no tomorrow. So let the energy flow out of you! Smile at everybody you meet. Laugh out loud at silly things and let the child in you LIVE again…..

Michael Joseph Jackson (August 29, 1958 – June 25, 2009) conceptualized, visualized, created and popularized several physically complicated dance techniques, such as the ‘Robot’ and the ‘Moonwalk.’
He accomplished such incredible dance feats even as he created and vocalized music too. He did that for us ever since he was 10 years old.

Much as we tried, we could never learn to emulate what he presented to us so effortlessly through his performances. There we were, living it, loving it and enjoying it in awe, all the time knowing we could never reach his heights of accomplishments, as they were indeed out of this world. We were beaten to it….by miles.
Beat It!

His distinctive musical sound and vocal style not only influenced many hip hop, pop and contemporary R&B artists across several generations, it also inspired some of the greatest film makers in the Indian sub continent like Ram Gopal Verma. He has gone ahead and painfully recorded on his blog, “I truly truly hate Michael Jackson for becoming a grim realty from a fantastic fantasy. (www.rgvzoomin.com).
For RGV, Michael Jackson was somebody from outer space. Such was the impact of MJ’s creativity on this creative professional of global repute.

Not that the impact is not there within us as well. Isn’t there an inner sense of subtle pain gnawing ever since we heard the news of his death? Isn’t it there within each and every one of us who have lived, loved and loathed his creativity in these past thirty plus years?

We miss him like hell…now that he is gone.

I do for sure. I miss MJ a lot. I never met him in person even for a second. Still I do. Such is the power of his music. I lived and loved his presence so much that now it’s like a vacuum that has been created in me. A void that is there to stay. The pain within is numbing and constant.

The music he gave us has been haunting me since last Thursday, when I first heard about his sudden demise. I am unable to think my way out of that trance with his songs reeling in my mind. One by one. I am conjuring images of his videos as well. From the very first one, to the last one. I am so numb that I am unable to play them on any of my music playing devices. I am afraid I might cry in pain if I do so.

We grew up hearing tales about sensational performers like Elvis, The Beatles and other greats of the fifties and the sixties, that our elder friends and relatives enjoyed in their time. They would talk so much about their icons when we were teenagers. That left us yearning for our own musical icons as the seventies and eighties unfolded.

That was the time when ABBA and Boney M were rocking the airwaves. But the really phenomenal artiste that our generation deserved was quietly coming into focus in America in the form of a 10 year old called Michael Jackson. He was gyrating, moon walking and singing his way up as a part of ‘The Jackson Five.’
Then one day, he finally arrived. He arrived in style and ‘moon walked’ into our hearts to stay there for ever.

He arrived big and bold in the seventies and graduated too with his “Thriller” album, enthralling us to ecstasy in the early eighties. He was soon to be the ‘tsunami’ of music world. He arrived and remained as” The Music Maker/Entertainer of the Century.”

“Veni Vedi Veci” is one phrase that was defined and created for the likes of MJ. Conquer he did. Not a part of the world but the entire world as such. MJ conquered the music world and stayed as the number one artiste all these years. With more that 750 million records sold, he has set a record that would be very difficult to break in times to come. Those 750 million records are stirring billions of souls every day.

As an outstanding, respected and admired artist of African American origin, MJ has the distinction of being inducted into The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame not once but twice. The Guinness Book of Records highlights his recording successes a number of times as well – including the honour for being the “Most Successful Entertainer of All Time.” He had 13 Grammy Awards and 13 number one singles.

He made his debut on the professional music scenario back in 1968 as a member of ‘The Jackson 5.’
He made a mark and embarked on creating HIStory as well, moving up and mesmerizing viewers and music lovers with every performance. He continued to scale even higher heights, thanks to his decision to go solo in 1971, while he was still a member of that group. Soon he emerged as the “The King of Pop.” He still holds that title, even after death. His Album Thriller, released in 1981, is till today, positioned as number one, as it is still the world’s best-selling album of all time. With his death, the sales have gone up another notch as indicted by early reports. People want to desperately own a piece of him now that he is no more.
Four of his other solo studio albums are among the world’s best-selling records: (1) Off the Wall (1979); (2) Bad (1987); (3) Dangerous (1991); (4) HIStory (1995).

Convergence of technology as it happened in those years, helped MJ and his entertainment reach every home thanks in part to the efforts of his record company that pushed an initially-reluctant MTV to show his videos. His followers quadrupled within no time. He made billions of dollars in the bargain. But he had his feet on the ground all of the time. MJ donated and raised millions of dollars for beneficial causes through his foundations and supported 39 charities through the years.

Aspects of his personal life, including his often changing appearances and eccentric behavior, generated significant controversy which damaged his public image. And two ruptured marriages added to his many woes. Despite his personal conflict, he loved his children and since breaking up with second wife, Debbie Rowe, he has paid 9 million dollars a year to have sole custody of them.

Michael Jackson endured many tribulations but was all set to get back into the limelight with a bang in the near future. But fate had other plans for him. When death came, it came out of nowhere, as an unexpected gloomy surprise. It came while he was working extensively on a come back trail through a series of 50 concerts scheduled for London. Alas! He is no more. Physically, he is gone but spiritually he lives on through his unique soul stirring music.

I do not have the heart to witness his funeral which is expected to break all records as well. I would rather play his songs in my mind and remember him alive and rocking the night away. Rest in Peace Michael Jackson. We’ll miss you.

In those days of hardships, fewer educational and employment opportunities, one had to migrate to other larger towns, just to get ourselves better schools.  Having to stay with your uncle or some distant relative, whom we did not know, was a common feature. Often, higher education and job prospects were not available in the same town where your family lived.  In those days it was common to receive and extend such assistance for others’ betterment.

Core values of being respectful to others, sharing with others, learning from elders were imbibed in early childhood.  I was born in Bankikodla, a village  near Gokarn in North Karnataka, where there was no electricity, no gas, no running water in taps – but we never seemed to want anything. One was taught early about the virtues of being satisfied with whatever one had or received in life, without being too greedy for more.  Satisfaction, hard work and honesty were the basic tenets of the teachings that were given prime importance. As a result, one often found many families living within their means, happily and still sharing whatever little they had with others in the extended family and neighbourhood.

I feel greatly disappointed that these three words – satisfaction, hard work and honesty, that I mentioned, are hard to find in the world today.  There are more gadgets, more conveniences, more sophisticated appliances, but we seem to want more – we are never satisfied with what we have.  While the present generation has seen upward mobility of late, I wonder whether they have learnt what excessive greed for money can lead us to?  Greed seems to have no limit! Something that we all were taught early in life was to avoid greed and lust, in those good old days when we had nothing that you see around in abundance. 

What is even more worrying is the amount of money that is handed over to young children without even asking what the money was being spent on! No wonder, such trends can only lead youngsters to take to vices and lead them astray and increase the crime rate involving youngsters.  Pocket money should not be given to children until they learn the value of the money that has been earned by the working members of the family.  Children should be taught how to spend it and asked to account for the money if they have to be given in any case.  Teachers and parents should imbibe the value systems that have stood the test of time so that the future generation will be good, honest and hardworking citizens.

“Never talk rudely”, we were told.  “Always think before you say something and don’t hurt others’ feelings.” We would always be warned that a word could not be taken back, once uttered.  We always obeyed our elders.

TV serials and movies portray rude behaviour, cunning and scheming family members trying to grab property and cheating each other of their money even within their own family!  I wonder how such serials that our electronic media broadcast would be affecting the teenagers and the young children watching such programs? I remember the serials of the yesteryear, especially those directed by Sai Paranjape and some others, which taught the youngsters about the value systems of our society.    Such simple stories with good moral teachings are a rarity these days.

Even the news channels beam the shockingly violent behaviour of our elected representatives, who throw objects at each other, besides horrifying accounts of police personnel beating up petty criminals mercilessly.  One also learns of rapes and murders of minors – even infants, of late!   One really wonders what drives our young individuals to commit such heinous crimes blatantly.  Such incidents were not heard of in those days!  Should the electronic media not introspect about the manner in which they cover such incidents both in reality and in fiction? 

We, citizens of India should feel from our heart that we should never damage any trains or buses or throw stones at our own fellow-citizens, as we are destroying our own property and hurting the trust and faith of our own people by these actions.  Instead of causing riots and planting hatred in the minds of our young people, our leaders should show youngsters the way to be helpful to each other and stay united as good Indians, in both good and bad times.

Only then will our country really prosper.

You would of course say “alive”. Truly you would say I am asking a pointless and silly question. Very well, then would you explain to me why nobody could find time to visit Mr. X when he was alive but all turned out to pay him “respect”(sic) when he finally called it a day? Am I being silly then?  Now my own time is not too far off. I was reflecting on my own life. I did the unpardonable by living by my principles and whims instead of the community’s and was rather stark in my annoyance if anyone crossed the line beyond reasonable limits. So today I have the pleasure of rarely receiving anyone from the family; even the ones who found me “super” when younger. They remember my indiscretions, my frank and outgoing speeches and think I am best kept at a distance which suits me fine (I suppose they are afraid I will contaminate the minds of their children).

The other day I was talking to my wife on this subject and I told her when my time comes would she have the guts to ask people to leave me alone in death as they had done in life? I would definitely want it so.

I do wonder why we give so much importance to death and make it such a grim and sad affair. After all, the departed one could not care less and he could be in no way sad about the turn of events. There is this uppermost enigma in my mind as to why we reserve the eulogizing for the dead while the living ones get all the contemptuous glances and more? There is no love lost before death and after it there is nothing but it. If anyone is looking for proof of the basic elemental dishonesty in human nature one has to simply visit a wake. All their lives those who were dying to hear a kind word have to literally die to hear one!

My father was an intellectual and although he loved the company of his friends and family and could easily become the life of the party, he was by virtue of his hobbies and activities happy to be left alone too. When he was younger he was the best placed in the family and helped all his younger brothers to get placed and sisters married off. In time the brothers established themselves and had families and responsibilities of their own. Time for gathering around my father shrank from days to hours and then to minutes to less and less and by the time he was sixty very few had any time to visit him until and unless they had a problem only his genius could solve. My own bent of spirit is a little on the philosophical side and I took after him in more ways than one and I can say he was proud of me and contented enough to see me doing as well as he had done. 

I have always made an effort to find time to be with people I tend to miss. So although my father was in Hyderabad and I was in Delhi, I spent at least 3-4 days every month with him religiously. Then one day the ominous call did come. But at his age it was expected and a matter of time. I reached there immediately to take care of affairs and informed all my family who are mainly in the north of India that they should please do me the favour of not rushing down. For one I did not have the resources to host anyone; and more importantly I wanted to be alone. I told them they would be welcome to visit me and my mother when we were in Delhi in a month’s time. Knowing me they all did as told. We did not miss them and I am sure they were very relieved to avoid this troublesome trip.

I have been one of the lucky ones. I enjoyed exactly 47 years of a close life with my father and my brother. I pride myself in thinking that the delight was mutual. I took time out to spend as much of my days as I could with both of them. I may regret a lot of things but not the time with them. Now that they are gone I feel orphaned. But as it happens in life there are always compensatory comings and goings. My daughter came into my life when I was 58; when I had all the time in the world to devote to her. The last 3 and a half years I have been with her all the time. My wife is a full time employee so the mothering came on my shoulders and I loved it. It has been the loveliest part of my life. The laughter, the kisses, the clinging and the gamboling; nothing can beat it all. Only now that she is growing up and does not need my physical embraces so much I am already beginning to feel the distancing and a wistfulness creeps in. I get to hold her nowadays only when something disturbs her at night and then she slips into my lap and goes to sleep in my arms. How long will the title “Grandest Papa in the Whole World” last? Why do these kids have to grow so fast?

Yes, the mention of tea, immediately brings the hills of Assam and Darjeeling to mind what with movies like Chameli memsaab and, more recently, Parineeta. But my dear friends, tea life extends way beyond that, even to the foothills of the Himalayan Range, the Dooars area. Life upcountry is very different from the layman’s imagination. The Britishers had long left the country and gone, but their culture still remains in this part of the world. For the unsuspecting, it is the place where the grass is always greener.

Blessed with a not so tiny farmhouse accommodation, a house full of servants, with all of them at beck and call, is much better than a five-star hotel accommodation. The servants were always too eager to please. Half-witted simpletons and really nice people at heart. The cook would take pride in his baking, and would come up to show-off his fresh baked biscuits, asking you to sample them. The gardners were busy round the year, mowing the lawn, planting flowers, fruits and vegetables, watering and manuring them, whenever required. If the lady of the house, the Memsaab, picked up a few flowers from the garden for her flower arrangement, it was the gardener’s lucky day. An additional duty was to keep the garden of the house free from any snakes. One or two would pop up in autumn, and the gardeners had to be careful, in case the Saab or Memsaab or their kid would want to walk around barefoot in the garden. What fun it is to bask in the warmth of the sun during the rainy season, or to chase a dog barefoot in winters, to be able to rise in the morning to smell the flowers, to smell the newly opened roses and to squeeze lavender pods, for the aromatic water, which left one feeling fresh and fragrant throughout the day. Those endless winter hours on the lawn, reading a book, actually more of looking around, than reading. The chirpy birds, the pets, the flowers, the blossoming trees, the tea bushes, and an occasional rainbow, made a beautiful sight. Summers were more of playing in the sand or in dried hay, and tiring oneself out completely.

No one can forget the sweet fruity aroma of fresh tea being made. As a child, the joy that one feels in having a cup of fresh made tea, while the rest of the world is left to enjoy whatever is stored, packaged and sold, months later at a retail store. The whiff of tea, as one neared the factory, was enough to make you want to become a tea-taster. And hundreds and thousands of workers, just stopping to have a look at the planter’s kid, was enough to give you the feeling of being someone really important, even as a kid.

In Tom Hank’s movie, “Forrest Gump”, his mother says, “Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you’ll get.” This child then steps into the real world, the world of school. St. James School, with the Christian Missionaries, has proved to be a boon to planters, since time immemorial. Even planters, who live about 100 kms away, prefer sending their kids to this institution. There are others who are not so willing to take up responsibilities, and prefer the boarding for their young ones, their choices chiefly being Mayo, Doon and Darjeeling. In terms of education, St. James has a lot to give. All planters’ children, who have passed out from here, have gone to different parts of the world and made it big. There is something about career orientation, and a will to conquer that this school instills in you that can be compared to some of the best schools in India. The personal attention that the teachers give to the students is unimaginable. The extra-curricular activities and sports are given a lot of importance, which helps in an overall growth of the individual.

Weekly Club was more of a fun-time affair, where over a hundred planters would meet with their families. The late afternoons and early evenings were filled with football, tennis, badminton, golf and table-tennis. After sunset, while the uncles got busy playing bridge or snooker or over the drinks, the ladies would usually have a chit-chat over their kids, pets, plants, latest recipes, servants and finally husbands, though not necessarily in that order. There were a few flash players as well. The ladies’ rest room was more of a meeting room for the maids who accompanied the children. The children usually got busy playing hide and seek, or catch me if you can, running around the whole club, trying to bring the roof down. Occasionally they were allowed to ruin the ancient Piano with some of them pretending to be incarnations of Lata Mangeshkar or Bryan Adams, Madonna or R.D. Burman. Then there were a few serious and voracious readers, who always occupied the library of the club, issuing and returning books and straining their necks to the highest rack of the library in the hope of finding something new. Some digging into thrillers, adventure and mystery, others into romance, yet others into literature or history. There was a children’s section as well, with Enid Blytons’, Alfred Hitchcock, Nancy Drew and the likes. Surprisingly, the magazine rack was always empty. Occasionally there was dancing, with a crooner who would come all the way from Calcutta. Dinner and the regular round of thank-yous would usually follow this.

“It was the beginning of the rainy season. Frogs and snakes are quite common during that time of the year. Telling my city (Birpara Bazaar) dwelling friends that Mr.Frog pays me a visit every day was a little unbelievable for them. Frog Prince is a story many girls grow up with. This little fellow, just sat there, green and ugly as ever, and in his most melodious voice croaked, and looked at me from the broken bathroom window. As if it was a sin to have a broken window. One day, instead of throwing him out, I caught him in the soap dish, and carefully transferred him to my lunch box. You can well imagine my friend’s surprised face when she opened my tiffin box and our dear friend leapt at her face. He got his ‘legendary kiss’ but we saw no prince around. Sadly, she wasn’t transformed either. It was truly an affair to remember.”

This forms the baseline of the story, of the life of a planter’s daughter. Incidentally, she signs her name as Dr. Ritu Arora.

–

Dr.Arora is a freelance corporate trainer, Reiki master, feng shui consultant and aromatherapist. A periodontist by education, a Toastmaster by passion, she has been actively associated with radio, theatre and fine arts. Visit her websites www.mentalsparks.com and www.camelliastory.com.

And there used to be those regular blue inland letters from grandparents, uncles and aunts. We all looked forward to them as something special. Nothing could beat the thrill of opening a just-arrived letter. There used to be suspense, an expectant glow in the eyes and a keenness to read the letter through quickly. After the first read, the letter was savoured slowly line by line, extracting all the juice out of it, so to speak.

I rarely met my grand dad; we lived so far off. But I knew him through his letters. Even after so many years, I remember the special way he used to address his son and start his letters. After each Rakhi that mom sent to her brother, we were sure of his loving response coming along with a money order.

Now years later, when those relatives have passed on, their memories, thoughts and exhortations are still alive in their letters which I have carefully preserved.

Then somewhere along the way, we lost the art of letter writing. It didn’t happen gradually. It went kaput in a single fell stroke. All the letters in my stock are dated in the 20th century, none beginning with 2000. Suddenly emails took over letters which came to be known as snail mails. We stopped writing letters – or even writing for that matter. Surprisingly, no one moaned the loss.

As my kids grow older in this age of instant communication, letter writing seems like a thing of history. It’s been years since I wrote – I feel more comfortable just picking up the phone and talking to my family, or to anybody else for that matter. Who has the time to sit and write? We don‚Äôt have time anyway. We have so much to do – job, kids, home, malls, movies, TV…and so on.

Low tariffs have made long-distance calls easier. And if something can’t be conveyed on phone, we have the SMS and scraps. Life definitely has become a lot faster.

Technology does save us time. But at what cost? Gone now is the beautiful art of letter writing, one great tradition that was so personal, so warm, so exhilarating, so full of love and faith. The only times that the postman comes now is to drop a credit card bill or a statement from a bank.

In the midst of all this, I still open my treasure chest sometimes. A chest of a shoe box which I beautifully crafted to keep letters received from my parents, husband, brother and friends. Reading through a letter picked up randomly still makes me nostalgic. Those days seem just like yesterday when I read the stuff for the first time. Scribbled there are detailed descriptions of the events of the day, a piece of gossip and a joke or two. Letters from my mom and dad and brother are all full of encouragement. I marvel at the confidence they placed in me. Reading them again makes me feel so confident of my abilities. Letters from my husband are all so loving, capturing all the fleeting emotions that he experienced in those heady days. And letters from my friends remind me of all the fun we had together. Some still make me smile, some still make me think. This treasure trove of letters is the legacy that I have inherited. But hey, what am I passing on to my children? How will my children remember me?

There will be memories, of course, but not something they can read, re-read and reflect upon. Each letter I have tells a story of bygone times and I feel connected. And I need to pass on this lovely emotion of being connected to my children too.

It may seem odd but I am getting down to writing after so many years. I am going to make a small beginning. A little handmade card for my family, a little note to my son. I want to feel that warmth again. And I want to pass on a little bit of myself through these letters. A little bit of praise, a little bit of appreciation and a lot of love.

Emails and SMSes can be erased. But not letters. They are going to be my imprints in your heart, my loved ones!
My footprints on the sands of time, so to speak.

As I make a new beginning, I am reminded of the famous lines by the Carpenters:

Oh yes, wait a minute Mister Postman
(Wait)
Wait Mister Postman

Please Mister Postman, look and see
(Oh yeah)
If there’s a letter in your bag for me
(Please, Please Mister Postman)
Why’s it takin’ such a long time
(Oh yeah)
For me to hear from that boy of mine

There must be some word today
From my boyfriend so far away
Please Mister Postman, look and see
If there’s a letter, a letter for me

I’ve been standin’ here waitin’ Mister Postman
So patiently
For just a card, or just a letter
Sayin’ he’s returnin’ home to me

(Mister Postman)
Mister Postman, look and see
(Oh yeah)
If there’s a letter in your bag for me
(Please, Please Mister Postman)
Why’s it takin’ such a long time
(Oh yeah)
For me to hear from that boy of mine

So many days you passed me by
See the tears standin’ in my eyes
You didn’t stop to make me feel better
By leavin’ me a card or a letter

(Mister Postman)
Mister Postman, look and see
(Oh yeah)
If there’s a letter in your bag for me
(Please, Please Mister Postman)
Why’s it takin’ such a long time

(Why don’t you check it and see one more time for me, you gotta)
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
Wait a minute
(Mister Postman)
Mister Postman, look and see

(C’mon deliver the letter, the sooner the better)
Mister Postman