Letters from a Daughter to Her Father

During my school days, I had read Jawaharlal Nehru’s book ‘Letters from a Father to His Daughter’.

In late nineties, my daughter, who had then just crossed the age of 18, flew off to a small but very prosperous country in the East, to do a 4-year Engineering Course on a scholarship from the Airlines of that country. After landing there, she did contact us over phone but her letter came about a month after she left India. The letter was perfect; all our queries – asked and unasked – had been answered. The letter had been neatly arranged; it had sub-headings like My Room, Money, Food, Address, Health, Market, Weather, Seniors and Friends etc. Except for the outpouring personal touch, the letter appeared like a composition written by a school student as a class work or home work assigned by the teacher.

Without due apologies to Pandit Nehru, I opened at home, a file titled ‘Letters from a Daughter to Her Father’. I carefully preserved all her letters in that file.

Six months after, she came to India and home on vacation bringing back, as I had advised, all my letters to her. Without bothering about copyright, I opened another file and named it ‘Letters from a Father to His Daughter’. Does naming files come under Copyright Laws?

But I am digressing.

Her letters came as a steady stream and the file became thicker and thicker. I relished going over her long hand-written letters several times, lifting a phrase from the poem 'Daffodils' by Wordsworth, wheneverI was in a ‘vacant or pensive mood’.

The file became my favourite resort. I read her letters over and over, again and again, savouring the familiar hand writing, noting a few, if any, mistakes and smiling to myself. While reading those letters I experienced her presence before me, as if she was personally narrating all that was written there. I imagined her sitting at her table, her head bent over the paper, her left hand clutching the paper and her right hand holding the pen and moving on the paper, leaving the calligraphy on sheets of paper. I also imagined her taking small breaks, leaning against the chair, eyes closed, thinking about us. On occasions, I would imagine her taking longer breaks, putting aside the half-written letter, going to her studies, canteen or library and then returning to the letter after a few hours or after a day or two. These imagined visuals added to the life and flavour of the letters.

All the letters were invariably long, narrating in detail almost all the happenings around her.

Then it all changed. Sometime after she went back after sending a vacation with us, there was a total transformation. The letters completely changed their form. I received two covers from her. The first contained a computer print out of an e-mail. Its first sentence was, “It is a test mail.” In the other cover, there was another print out, the first sentence of which read, “It works!” And thereafter flowed what was stated to be a letter from her. It explained that there is some ‘online site’ in India to which she could send e-mails and the people there would take its print out and send it to us.

The spirit was the same, the contents of the letters had the same flavour but the form was completely different and not so appealing. The message was the same but the medium was different. I really realized the meaning of the adage, ‘Medium is the message’. It was her letter and her message alright but it was not her handwriting. And the next thing that dawned on me was that the paper did not carry her touch.:)))))))))) Her fingers had played on the computer key board but not on the sheet of paper which was in my hands. Earlier, while reading her letters, I was moving my finger over them was feeling as if my finger was touching hers! She had explained that the system was fast and efficient and that it saved time. Of course, she had promised to “really write in the physical sense“ to us periodically.

Months passed. She visited us during vacations and went back and during this whole period, we received just one not very long (to be honest, a very short) hand written letter from her.

After this, she wrote (sorry e-mailed) to me almost daily but can one call these ‘letters’?

Now, she mails me regularly, but where is the flavour of receiving a hand-written letter. Is a ‘virtual’ letter same thing as a physical letter?

Years ago, when T V came to be widely used in Indian homes, it changed the social relations in India beyond recognition. I had then come across a small article written by a sad child. Its caption was ‘How T V Ate My Friend’.

Here is a similarly sad parent ruing how e-mail ate my daughter’s letters. :)))))))))))))))

TAIL PIECE

A recent episode in ‘Archie’ comic:

Archie to Dilton: The gang is going to Pop’s corner. Want to join us?

Dilton: I don’t like to spend too much time hanging out with friends.

Dilton, sitting before a computer (to himself): It cuts into my social networking.