De-mailed

"Saar post".

This phrase used to mean a lot during the days of my intellectual infancy. There used to be school, and then there used to be that great time of "after school". I'm sure no one enjoyed after-school as much as I did. The greatest part of coming home was the fact that I could sit and write to my grandfather. The experience starts from the time I dig into my School kid Candy Fund, take out 10 rupees, drag my brother and walk down to the Kutchery Road Post Office, a few serpentine streets away. At the Post Office, I would buy ten "Inland Covers" as they were called, each costing 75 paise. (in those Black & White days). On the way back, I would buy us Cream-Bun and grape juice from the ubiquitous Bangalore Iyengar Bakery. There have been times when I have thought, "I am eating a bun. And on top of it it's been creamed. Yuck." I almost feel ashamed for those thoughts now, but please.. grow up and get a life! English is not our natural language, though our motherland is England. There are names like that of the air-conditioning company near my house called "Air Frig Services", or a cooking oil called "Porna". We don't keep laughing at these all day long.

My little brother's duty would end with the tour. He would come with me and provide joy and sunshine, and then would go about his hectic daily activity of playing a particularly idiotic game called Kings with the neighborhood unwashed kids. Somehow writing didn't form a part of his growing up days. As for me, I used to write to my grand dad on an average of 3 letters a week. He was tremendous influence, and a great support. All those feelings of being talented and worthy came from him, sort of prepped me up to face the harsh truth. The blue paper, the mental picture of the restriction of space, almost involuntary calculation of the size of the words, the fact that there was no way you can go back (for instance, the text inside these brackets - well, I am writing these after typing four paragraphs that are to follow, more or less like intra-article time travel) and add anything anywhere - it has to be perfect as you write it, it was such a great feeling of being alive. I wrote about all kinds of things, mundane events on the way to a class, what I had for lunch, my mid-term marks (and an imaginative explanation). I would get a reply in three or four days. I knew when I would get mail. I remember the postman, who amazingly is still around delivering almost exclusively junk mail and bills. He is the only person who would say, "Indhaa papa". The tamil term "papa" would sound so gross and unrelated to what I was, that I found it funny myself. I saved all the letters that I got, in a dirty, worn out leather-covered box, that my grandmother gave me.

When I travelled out of town on work, in the Black & White days, my little brother used to write to me some gems that I still treasure with all my heart. In fact, it was during those exchanges that we started calling ourselves KVB (Kaattu Veri Brothers) - a historic landmark in our lives.

Looking at it today, the whole process was unbelievably slow, and involved various physical activity of obnoxious nature, like standing in a queue at the post office. But more than that, there was something that sends shivers down my spine even today. And I blame the South Indian scientist M.S.Swaminathan squarely for that. Yessir, you are guilty in my court. He was the architect of the green revolution in India, and it is due to him that an entire breed of Tharpana Vaadhiyars were saved from going extinct. (Because Tharpana Vadhiyars survive on rice alone). A horrible mutation of the excess production of foodgrains was the glue in the Post office. It was actually cooked rice paste filthy to an unimaginable degree. People would smear it on the envelopes and then rub their hands on the wall graciously. It's better than licking the envelopes, I agree, but this cold sticky rice paste, a distant cousin of the tons of hot rice consumed daily by most of us South Indians, never ceased to give me the jitters. But the whole process was so much fun then.

A few days ago I was surprised to see Mr. Soorapadman sleeping inside my mailbox. Mr. Soorapadman is the most egotistical cat in the universe and is a distant cousin of a grey super cat called Gemini (named so because he had an amazing resemblance to Gemini Ganesan, a tamil actor), to ever grace my house. It was then that I realized how disused the mail box had become. It used to have a glass door that had fallen off a long time ago, and the last time the mailbox was used was to shield the candle with which ultra-polluting fireworks were lighted during Diwali. Mr. Soorapadman always sleeps in a place where he is sure that he will never be disturbed for at least a couple of hours. The mere fact that he had chosen the mailbox was proof enough about how different my life had become.

I sat thinking. OK. Let me write a letter. I don't know any of my friends to whom I can write a letter and then continue being alive. I have written several letters to my clients, but they were all warning them to pay up or, see me cry. That doesn't qualify in this category at all. I came up with the names of some relatives, to whom I can actually write a casual letter saying hello, but the moment they received my letter, they would pack their bags and come to my house and stay for a year or so. So, that's ruled out. In the end, I cannot write a letter to anyone today. Which sounds sad, but that is the truth. The impermanence of email makes it absolutely inadequate to take the place of a written note.

Blogging is the closest to writing a letter. I get responses on what a great asshole I am, a couple of days after I have posted, and though the anxiety doesn't kill me, it is almost fun.

Besides, I don't have to give money to the email postman for "Diwali Inaam" or "Pongal Bakshish".