It's December Ducky !

This month always has special surprises for me. Not to mention the eternal weddings, birthdays that I am expected to attend, with a hope to re-patch my relatively poor social skills. I ain't absolutely asocial as you all know, but my socializing gets confined gradually to small circle. What you don’t know is, that it takes conscious effort. With time, I get comfortable more with books and small talks, than I get with people with their usual conversations. And I believe, people get connected to me faster than the usual pace. I feel responsible for maintaining a distance to develop and evolve for themselves.

Strangely, absolute strangers fascinate me. Their stories inspire me to think laterally across my existent comfort zones, and I end up telling all these observations to my inner core of pals and eventually, in my write-ups. But, the sheer presence of people whom you know for sure, will read anything you write, sends chills all along my spine. Of responsibility and of shame, to unable to reciprocate a different texture of love to all of them.

Updates from my life, I am doing all good. Reading loads and pondering a lot. I wish to take out some time to travel, and yeah, I often feel creepy for not having joined the lucrative jobs I bagged earlier. But it's all the part of the cycle.Even you have your up's and down's yeah ? Tell me about it !

I was in my routine, until I had three notifications this evening. Three lengthy text messages, narrating how my writing inspired them in its own tiny fashion. I am more than overwhelmed, I have thanked them obviously.

As I ponder deep inside, I was questioning our basic instinct to fall for appreciation. We love praises. We adulate upvotes. We crave for compliments. Is that a good thing afterall? Do we often need some external force to hail our inner awesomeness? Unusually, I like someone appreciating me, but if given a chance, I would avoid that.

But, this article is a tribute to all the goodness embedded in every soul, to appreciate tiny aspects of reality, surrounding themselves. So, what did I do about it? I must have written some 30 odd letters, in the last three weeks. To many people - Close friends, family, relatively okayish acquaintances and absolute strangers. Who mean something to me, who think I mean something to them.

I strongly believe that words will last longer than virtual media activity. Thus, satiated my tryst with emotional chunk of my mundane life, with scribbling my heart out.

For the rest, where I’ve failed to gather postal addresses, here take my embrace. And my honour to your empathy. I speak less, but you know I mean a lot when I do.

When was your last letter posted ?

“Take care dear, Aunt Rohini”

By then tears rolling down my cheek were palpable. Yes, I was crying, reading a letter that was sent to me ages back by a person who no longer exists. It was a small letter, yet spoke thousand emotions. I always wondered if anything apart from in-person communication or counseling could bring upon a striking impact on other lives. I neither did have an answer then, nor did I respond to that short note. Now I know.

Letters are the personified sheets of pulp that verbalize one’s heart. They are the songs of immense deliverance giving endurance to face life’s biggest challenges. Consider Indira Gandhi as an example. Letters, hundreds of them, written to her by Nehru, made her see the world in her palms.

Later on I sensed how these actually work. Words, often written than spoken make a deeper impact, for they never fade away. Sadly, our days are numbered and trapped under the mercy of social networking sites and technological innovations. We are organized by reason and logic. Is emotional quotient missing?

Receiving a hand-written note wishing good luck, coupled with strands of blessings is the best thing that can ever happen to the habitants of the concrete jungle, who are lost in a disarray of things. Writing is a dying culture which would be too late to stop before we realize what we might miss. Rejuvenation is in our hands, take out a sheet of paper and jot down what comes to your heart and drop in a post box.

Conceiving of the number of letters I ought to write, and the sparks in the receiver’s eyes when they would behold, I resigned. I know I am late, but there is always a first time.

If letters are the articulation of love, let them be recognized so.