On the eve of Christmas eve, I stepped out my apartment door and walked down the stairs. It was cold outside, but I still needed to check my mail. I wasn’t waiting for anything in particular.
I turned the key and opened my tiny mailbox. An envelope sat inside.
…..
While growing up, there were regular reminders that I was linked to someplace else. The most obvious were the phone calls. “Hallo? Hallo? HALLO?” It wasn’t just a joke back then. It was the real deal. Before mobile phones, skype, and everything else, there was the loud attempt to make sure the connection to India was still active.
“Hello?” My dad was talking to a relative in Mumbai. “Hello?” My mom was chatting with a sister in Jaipur. As my brother and I played Atari video games, we were reminded once again that we had family on the other side of the planet.
There were also the letters. Sitting in the kitchen drawer, the sheets of light blue paper were filled with Hindi script that I couldn’t quite read. The letters folded themselves into pre-stamped envelopes. A postmark on the outside sealed the deal. “Airmail / Par Avion.”
We had received news from India. Our family ties continued.
Sure, I had cousins. And sure, I had my own childhood visits. But always, my links to that place were determined by my parents’ “hellos.” My own visits were mere introductions. They were nothing compared to the grand weight of my parents’ childhoods and the communications that kept them in touch with those who shared their memories.
…..
On the eve of Christmas eve, I looked at the envelope in my apartment mailbox.
I found it curious. The paper wasn’t quite the same bleached-white that I was used to seeing. The address on the front — my address — was written a little differently. It didn’t stop with my city or zip code. It ended with an even more basic signifier: “USA.”
But above everything else, it was the postmark that got me excited. The round black circle of the postal worker’s stamp contained words in Hindi and English: “Vasant Vihar, New Delhi”.
This was different from email. This was different from a Facebook update. It had been a long six months since I last hung out with my friend Deeksha in Delhi. She had sent me a card.
Her handwritten note was accompanied by a pre-printed message. In English, Hindi, Bengali, and three other Indian languages whose scripts I wasn’t sure of — “Season’s Greetings.”
I had received my very own mail from India.
1 Comment
March 9, 2009 at 9:31 pm
Ah, the pleasures of receiving a handwritten note from a loved one, from the far des apna. Pleasure unmeasurable…