Old letters - 1

My dad used to save letters. It just struck me - while thinking about them - that some of those letters are from his late teens. He must have treasured them to have hung on to them through moves all around the country and across the ocean and back. He never mentioned them. I just found them at the back of a shelf in my parents' old almirah, lying behind discarded purses and dog-eared photo albums. There were too many for me to carry across the ocean, so I brought a selected sample home to the U.S. after my dad passed away in 2008.

The earliest letters are from the mid to late nineteen forties when my father was away at Darbhanga medical college. Most of them are postcards written by his mother, reminding him to eat properly and write often, with added notes from his younger siblings still at home (he was the eldest). The letters are not very interesting - they talk about exams or illnesses or relatives coming and going - and yet some of these unremarkable things are illuminating or poignant in hind sight. For instance, my grandmother's letters are in different handwritings because she often liked to dictate her letters; in later years I wrote for her too when she stayed with us. Reading these letters I realize that she had a persistent pain in her right hand since her early thirties, I didn't know that. Below are two sides of a postcard from 1947. Looks like my dad did not go home for the Durga Puja holidays that year. This was the first time he was not home during the biggest festival of the year and his mom missed him. She informs him that they now have electricity at home. On the other side are brief letters from his 11 and 4 year old sisters.

Many letters are from Biju or mention Biju, the fourth of nine siblings, the brother who was 6 years younger than my dad. From them we learn that Biju did not do well in school and was sickly: "Sejda is sick", "I am better now", "Biju's results were not good". In later years, these statements of fact take on a worried tone: "I worry that Biju is not interested in his lessons", "What will his future be like?" "Biju promised not to go to camp during his exam year but he went anyway". Not one of those letters, written during Biju's childhood and teen years, says that he was an affectionate, cheerful kid who was forever helping neighbours and was loved by many people. That aspect of Biju's character, we only learn about after he passes away suddenly at 23, clinging to life (even the day he died he asked "will I live?"), clinging to his big sister. Then the family is dumbfounded at the outpouring of love for this "problem" kid.

Here are excerpts from letters between family members after Biju passed away (It boggles the mind that all news was exchanged in letters. You might be happily thinking about your family far away and your beloved brother might have been dead for weeks before you got the news.) The first two snippets are from a letter written to my father by the sister who was with Biju until the end. She writes how much he wanted to live, how he kept calling for her and wanting things, how much the family had (needlessly) worried about his future and how, in the midst of his illness, he had resolved to study seriously when he was better. (Many years later, one summer in Santiniketan, I found a diary that Biju had kept in his 17th year. I was exactly that age at the time and could identify with the quandary that so many young people find themselves in, trying to reconcile being "good" and being themselves - making earnest resolutions to do better and be more responsible and yet inexplicably (?) failing to follow through.) She also writes about the stream of visitors - Biju had been involved in the lives of so many, taking on their joys and sorrows, taking on what his family thought of as useless tasks.

The third excerpt is from a letter that my dad, who was in Canada at the time, wrote to another brother after Biju's death. It says that within 48 hours, with no warning, he first got news of Biju's illness and then of his death. (That used to be a standard way of softening the blow in the old days. Even after someone was gone, they would first send a message saying that the person was ill.) His first thought was for his parents, however, letters from his father reassured him that he, at least, was fine. I have one of these letters from my philosopher grandfather in my possession. He says that sorrow grows out of ignorance, ego and attachment. Life is just a play of god's power through the universe. When we fail to see that and mistakenly think of human life as ours, we suffer. When we cry, it is for ourselves, not for the person who is gone. We should, instead, try to be inspired by them and resolve to lead better lives. He sounds unnatural, even cold in his calm acceptance of his son's death as something inevitable and part of life. And yet, in those difficult days, my father read those words again and again and they comforted him.

My grandfather was no head-in-the-clouds philosopher, he was extremely practical and totally involved in family matters. The aforementioned letter to my dad was written with a couple of weeks of Biju's death. After his consoling words and advice to read Tagore's book Santiniketan, at the end of the letter he turns his mind firmly towards his duties to his existing children. He lists seven numbered questions and tells my dad to make sure to answer every one of them. They are about precise details related to bank accounts, reference letters and applications for a new job that my dad will need when he returns to India the next year. So firmly rooted to the ground, committed to duty in every particular, yet able to rise, at least in conduct, above ordinary human attachment..I'm not sure how I feel about that. Awe for sure.