The Charm of Hand Written Mail

I grew up in the 1990s. Millennials is the term?

In-Land Letters My first memory of “postcards” is actually writing inland letters to my Ajji (grandmother), who lived 50km away. I used to buy these letters in bulk whenever I visited the post office just so I could write to her. She always responded promptly.

My Amma (mother) would meticulously hold my hand, guiding me to write in Kannada. The small spaces on the letter flaps were reserved specifically for me. Usually, I’d ask Ajji how her health was or if it had been raining often in her hometown.

To this day, I wonder if she actually understood what I wrote. My handwriting wasn’t just “bad”, it was outright awful. To compensate, I would sometimes draw miniature cars, buses, or random hills in those flaps, which were barely 1.5cm high. But I wrote. Sometimes in pictures, sometimes in Kannada, a language I eventually learned to speak through conversations with my mother, relatives, and friends.

In-Land Letters

Envelope Years passed, and the thrill of summer holidays was often abruptly cut short when our annual exam results arrived in these envelopes. Inside was a single sheet of paper with my marks and a final line that read: “Congratulations! You have passed your annual exam! School re-opens on DD/MM/YYYY.”

An invisible time bomb would start ticking the moment those results reached us a reminder that school would soon return, and the vicious cycle of books, exams, and marks would continue. I remember the panic that crept in whenever I found one of those envelopes in our postbox. I would rush to my mother so she could open it and read the results aloud.

Mostly, I did okay. My bigger challenge was the mental hurdle of going back to school after a summer spent in total freedom. Those days were filled with hide-and-seek that lasted hours and cricket matches that stretched for days. Then, as the sun set, I’d settle into painting, chess, or the National Geographic Channel.

Envelopes

Postcards I started playing chess at the age of fourteen. I remember my very first game, I played with the black pieces and managed a draw. The owner of the academy was impressed enough to enroll me in the local chess club. It was about 2km away from where I lived; sometimes my dad accompanied me, but otherwise, I was mostly on my own, cycling all the way there.

The club sent out tournament invites through postcards, detailing when and where the next event would be held, who was eligible to play, and the results of the previous tournament. I remember participating in many, but my only “big win” came when I finished as the runner-up in my school tournament, competing against players much older than me.

When we moved out of town, those postcards stopped and with them, so did my time playing competitive chess. Time flew, and eventually, I found a new flair for volleyball.

Postcard