Today, we send and recieve messages from around the world in a blink. There are no frontiers as such. Miles of distance are rendered irrelevant when we want to be heard.
Where, then, does that leave letter writing?
Today it is a luxury few people can boast of. Isn’t it ironic, that when technological progress was being made, people who wrote to their loved ones did that because it was comparatively cheaper. Today, sending an instant message is so much more convenient and wise. Letter writing is expensive.
Yet some of us, long to indulge ourselves into the whole stamps and envelope frenzy. The unbearable wait and excitement in holding a letter freshly delivered is an experience equal to none!
So, last year I made some pen pals through this awesome app Lettrs that lets us send and recieve virtual letters. And I started sending some of these aquaintances who live in India the real ones. They wrote to me too. This has added another dimension to my dull and boring life. I feel so special when the postman recieves my signature and hands me colourful envelopes that have stories inside them!
Each one is unique and an exquisite creation of the sender, containing within itself her individuality and passions.
I hope this positivity that I have added to my routine only grows into something better in the years to come.
When you start reading a great book, its contours start realigning themselves with your imagination.
The spaces between the pause that jumps from one chapter to the next, they are filled with your essence.
And no two people ever would imagine a book in the same way: using exact pastels and brush strokes.
And that is why when you finish a book, you are left with a loss. You know you have lost something because when you read it again, it will never be the same. The experience might be better, but you will read it in a new light altogether.
We love to cradle our books to sleep in the hope, that we’d maybe dream about it and that shall be the only manageably close encounter we could ever have with the characters, and the story.
And sometimes, we just hold a book close to our heart and cry.
Writers, have a task at hand. They definitely need to write about what they picture but there should also be a peephole into the scene the key to which is with the reader. We become, the faceless people inside.
I am that woman, who silently resigns to Kent, Baker Street or Wuthering Heights like an unacknowledged presence: an intruder.
This must be the reason why we relish looking into the ordinary lives of men and women through a tiny peephole. These people, perhaps I’d come across them at a dance or a protest, these people are dull, drab and lead non existent lives.
But the excitement of eavesdropping on their most intimate conversations, that keeps us going.
And we might come off as a stock character, after reading a book, we grow, like the protagonist in it grows out of the mould he was cast in and becomes someone else. It is more like the writer, took me up as a character to influence by the force of the story she weaves.