Spectator by Seema Goswami: Enjoy this mail privilege
Have you missed the scrawl in the age of the scroll? Lets bring back the excitement that handwritten letters carried
Last week, having tired of the endless police procedurals on every streaming service, I decided to retreat into the cosy world of Downton Abbey. There was something so ineffably relaxing about the plush interiors, the verdant exteriors, the sumptuous costumes, and the sparkling dialogue that I had soon sped through two whole seasons.
But the one scene that stuck with me through my binge-watching was when the servants below stairs gathered around as the letters that arrived that morning were distributed to them. Those who recognised the handwriting on the envelopes were wreathed in smiles of anticipation; those who got an unexpected missive were giddy with excitement; and those who didn’t receive a single letter were crushed with the weight of their disappointment.
That one scene transported me back to my own childhood, when writing and receiving letters had such a peculiar joy of its own. I used to long for letters sent by my aunt (my mother’s elder sister) from her tea garden in Assam. Reading her letters transported me from my childhood bedroom to the green hillsides of Assam – where the tea pickers were hard at work collecting two leaves and a bud – so effectively that I could almost smell the distinctive smell of leaves being transformed into tea in the factory.
The other high point of my life used to be the weekly letters that would arrive from my aunt (my father’s younger sister) in London. These came tinged with the romance of a faraway country that I had yet to visit, though I felt that I knew it well anyway, thanks to my copious reading of Enid Blyton books. But my aunt’s London went beyond boarding schools, midnight feasts, scones and clotted cream. Those letters were my first window into the delights of punting in Cambridge, watching a play at Stratford-upon-Avon, or just enjoying an ice lolly in a London park – all of which I longed to do once I was all grown up (Spoiler alert: I did!)
Letters for me were a portal into another world. My uncle (my mother’s youngest brother), who had just been commissioned into the army, was one of my first correspondents. I would laboriously fill two pages of all that I had accomplished in school that week and send it off to him. And then I would wait impatiently for his reply to arrive, replete with details of his training regimen, his mess arrangements, and all the new friends he was making in his regiment.
As I grew older, my letter writing was extended beyond the family. During the holidays, my friends and I would write to each other, describing how we were spending our vacations. When I went on holiday with my family, I would write to my friends in the neighbourhood, keeping them abreast of all my adventures. And in my teenage years, I even acquired a pen pal (remember those?) in Germany, whose letters I found endlessly fascinating.
Which is why I can’t help but feel sorry for the young people of today who will never know the raw, unadulterated pleasure of having a letter delivered into your postbox at home, which transports you immediately into an entirely different universe. We are probably the last generation to enjoy that privilege. And more’s the pity!
From HT Brunch, March 29, 2025
Follow us on www.instagram.com/htbrunch
