As World Letter Writing Day was observed on September 1, our sutradhars, Lady Flora and Sir PM, reminisce about this hobby and vow to revive their love for the art form in this day and age of email
File photo
As usual, Sir PM was running late, and had no excuse except that his evening siesta was a long one, thanks to the divine fish patia prepared by the missus. Lady Flora had suggested a new venue as their meeting point—the Durbar Hall inside the Asiatic Society. She was given access by old friend Montstuart Elphinstone who was a resident. Worse, the flight of steps didn’t help his (un)healthy condition, and so by the time he reached, he was out of breath; his vision played games as the floor and ceiling went topsy-turvy. Somehow, due to his past familiarity with the venue, he stumbled on the wooden flooring as he approached his friend. Lady Flora could tell it was Pheroze. “Ah! There you are; you’re looking rather flushed? Please catch your breath,” she exclaimed. When Sir PM recovered, he noticed that she was seated at a desk, and was in the middle of writing in her letter pad; there was an inkpot of the finest India ink; several envelopes and postage stamps were placed on one side of the writing desk.
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‘Received a letter!’
The scene was straight out of an Emily Brontë classic; of course, this was far from a typical English countryside setting; the hooting owls and overzealous bats that swooshed outside the towering windows were the only familiar characters. “You seem to be suitably engaged in an important task, my Lady…” he asked. She stopped writing, and closed her fountain pen. “Well, I was overjoyed to receive a letter from cousin Josephine who lives in Plymouth. She writes like a dream. The art of letter writing is a special gift and she stirred something in me. She was hopeful that the postal systems in both countries would deliver it in time for World Letter Writing Day. And…” Sir PM was so curious with this last piece of information that he forgot his usual courtesy, and interrupted his friend mid-way, “Are you saying that a day is actually dedicated to letter writing?! How very fascinating!” he let out a loud laugh enough to disturb a dozing pigeon who had taken refuge on a bookshelf nearby. Lady Flora was a tad irritated since Pheroze had disturbed her train of thought, “You shouldn’t interrupt when someone is speaking…anyway, as I was saying, cousin Jo wrote me this letter. Over the decades, I’ve forgotten to cherish this one-time hobby that was part of our routines in England.”
“You’re enjoying this thoroughly,” Sir PM chimed in, “I too savoured those moments when I would correspond with friends on the subcontinent and beyond. It helped me note down my thoughts, and share my—he cleared his throat as he said this —poetry, (hoping his friend would catch on to his revelation)”.
“Poetry, Pheroze? Now, I would certainly like to see some of that, whenever and if you’d like to share it,” Lady Flora remarked, adding quickly, “After I’ve replied to Jo, I would like to pick up some stationery from those charming little establishments in Fort since I’ve already run out of supplies. Any suggestions?”
Sir PM did a quick memory jog, “Sadly, most of those cease to exist. They ran into losses after this new, impersonal means of communication – the email – emerged a few decades ago. However, I know about this one haven off DN Road that remains a favourite—Chimanlals,” he answered. “That would be lovely. Let’s head there tomorrow? As little girls we would write letters to cousins and friends and then wait for the mailman to arrive, hoping that he’d hand over a letter in our name. What excitement! Today’s generation will never treasure the beauty of such personalised engagement.”
‘Great handwriting!’
Sir PM nodded, as he craned his neck to read her handwriting. “My compliments…you have exceptionally clear handwriting. I dare not show you mine,” he laughed; the reverberations of his booming laugh woke up a few more pigeons inside the Neo Gothic structure that hardly saw any activity post its operational hours. “Writing is still practised by many on the Isles. But here, an entire assembly line of businesses would have got wiped out because people stopped writing?” Lady Flora asked, keen to know about the scene in her adopted home. “They shut shop and shifted to other professions. From demand comes supply, after all. Bombaywallahs prefer communication via the click of a button; it’s too advanced for me to elaborate, I am afraid. This time-saving tool is used to reach out to friends and family, and for work. I’ve hardly seen people draft handwritten letters, barring the handful outside the courts, or with collectors of pens and archival experts,” he uttered, looking glum at the turnaround. “It’s a lost art but it’s also a reflection of our times where tactile communication doesn’t exist. And now we too seem to have hopped on to this bandwagon. But now, you’ve inspired me. I shall retrieve my Mont Blanc collection from the attic tomorrow itself; we must start a mini revival as ambassadors of all things ‘heritage’?” smiled Sir PM, and with that he too began writing a letter (to whom, we shall never know!).
mid-day’s Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city’s sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. She tweets @bombayana
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