Saying Good Bye Is Not Easy

It was the year 2001, when I had left my hometown for further studies. I was home sick and felt almost disconnected. It was a new city and new people. My roommate and classmates all appeared strangers. The only solace I got was by looking at the inland letters and postcards that my mother gave me before I left my home with a promise that I would be writing one letter every week and my parents would reciprocate.

In the initial years of my Masters programme at Xavier Institute of Social Service, these inland letters and postcards were full of sorrow and ‘how I miss my home and parents’. Gradually, these letters were kind of daily reports and happenings penned down with exuberance. The nearest post office from my hostel was almost a kilometre away. Every Monday before going to my institute, I would drop a letter to my parents in the ‘red’ post box. The sight of the post office brought so much happiness and comfort that I used to forget my longing and loneliness. And there were days when my warden used to shout my name to inform that ‘there is a mail for you’. The feeling of receiving a hand written note from my parents or brother was surreal. I would read those letters again and again. I would revisit their handwriting. I could make out when they had taken a pause or what did the flow of writing indicate. In fact, the words used would indicate their mood.

While studying, I had many pen friends who had come to my institute from Mexico, under exchange programme. Once they had left, I used to write them letters and they too used to reply, sometimes with just plain letters and sometimes with pictures. Unfortunately, after passing out from XISS, I got so much immersed in my job that I could not carry this ‘pen’ friendship. But what remains now is pure nostalgia and the fond memory of an era gone by.

Today, when social media has taken the front seat and post offices are left with the only role of delivering parcels, couriers, there is sadness around. I am lost for words. As soon as I got the news that only speed post service of the post office would remain in service, I could feel a sense of void. It is quite interesting though that the last letter I wrote was to my husband, when he was posted in Ghumla and I was in Ranchi, almost 7 years ago. But I still feel sad; sad for my children who never felt the excitement of waiting for the postman; the happiness of receiving the much awaited post card from family or friend; the smell of the envelope and the paper that came from someone very close; the results of any recruitment examination or college admission. The smile of the postman uncle who came to deliver letter at our doorstep and sometimes asking for a glass of cold water, still feel so fresh like these recently took place. I am sad today and will remain so many days. My children and young friends will never understand my pain.

Last month when the postman, who regularly visited our apartment, came to deliver my renewed passport, informed me that he will not be coming from next month; I did not understand what he meant to say. But today, I understand the pain which he announced his early retirement from the profession that he gave his life for. I only wish I could talk to him a bit more; his story and what letters meant to him.

As India Post shuts down its 50 year old registered postal service starting from September 1, (as very few people use it), I want to start writing to all my friends, relatives and near and dear ones; I want to reconnect with them through words, through the stories these letters carried. I have again started feeling disconnected and lost as I had felt that day I first left my house for studies. Till I connect again in some parallel world, thanks and love to the postal service that had kept me sane!