The idea for this post came from the book that I am reading right now. Songs of Blood & Sword by Fatima Bhutto. I’m not much for biographies or autobiographies for that matter but this one I was drawn to reading. Perhaps it’s the fact that it’s written by someone as young as Bhutto and in as sane a voice as is possible for someone who has been part of such a bloody family history. And she’s incredibly pretty, too and yes, one is always interested in knowing more about beautiful people more than about less beautiful ones (yes, I am shallow and I am also female, so banish the thought)
Writing about how she pieced together her father’s life story as she made contact with his friends, family members, acquaintances, she explained how it was through letters, albums, footnotes that were lying in trunks, gathering dust, in her home. Self consciously, I wondered what paraphernalia I would have, to show to my kids, twenty years from now.
When my mother in law passed away, it took all of us a while to unlock her wardrobe and give away the things in it. Clothes, small knick knacks whose significance we had no clue about. There was a letter written to herself on her graduation day, talking about the future and what she hoped for. A recipe for meatloaf. A few more dog eared, pages with instructions of home remedies, hand written in her precise handwriting. Even an autograph book (or what passed as one in those days) with good wishes from all her school mates on the occasion of their graduation, hopeful wishes for the future. Some naughty ones, too. A hand written ‘I’m sorry’ note by my husband when he was six, apologising for having made his dad buy sneakers worth rs 4000 then. (he threw a tantrum at the store and refused to leave till his indulgent & hapless dad bought it for him) Pictures of her trip to Andamans where she went scuba diving at the age of 50. A life well lived. Could I say the same when I was 64? The only bits of paper that line my drawers are bills of expensive appliances bought, and their guarantee cards. A few cards from my husband, photos but that’s about it.
Where does one write letters anymore?
I don’t remember the last time I went to a photo studio and got my pictures printed. Everything is digital, stored on my computer and liable to disappearing with one crash of the hard drive (dear computer god, I am merely hypothesizing, do not take me literally) So how do we remember our 20s? and how will we remember our 30s (so my age is established, now) and so on…
