THE NARRATIVE ARC
Decluttering or Finding Wisdom?
The emotional journey through forgotten letters
I decided to embark on a journey towards a minimalist lifestyle as a lot of podcasts and books I have read lately suggested. The initial steps involved clearing out my cupboards and tidying up my room, aiming to rid myself of unused belongings.
I envisioned a clean cupboard and empty spaces by the end of the day. Yet, what unfolded during this process went beyond mere decluttering.
I have often wondered why the good old days and the concept of nostalgia were so romanticized. As I delved into the task of cleaning, I unwittingly found myself on a nostalgic journey.
However, a seemingly mundane box tucked away in my cupboard turned out to be a messenger, reshaping my perspective. This experience became more than just organizing; it became a reflection on life.
All the dust around made me sneeze and my eyes felt dry and itchy. There it lay before me — a simple, shiny box with remnants of what once must have been intricate carvings, now aged, rusted, and veiled in dust. The box, a relic of its former beauty, spoke of days long past. Intrigued, I reached for it, clearing away the layers of dust that had settled over time. As I attempted to open it, the accumulated dust had turned the lid into a stubborn barrier, resisting my efforts.
Frustration nearly led me to abandon the endeavour, and I contemplated relegating it to a pile of items earmarked for donation. However, just as I was about to set it aside, in a moment of unintended force, a cascade of memories spilled onto the floor.
Amidst the shattered remnants, yellowed and somewhat torn pages spilt out, each holding a piece of the past. The accidental unveiling transformed a simple cleaning task into an unexpected journey through time, where the fragility of the box mirrored the delicate nature of memories, waiting to be rediscovered.
Inquisitively pondering why I had preserved these seemingly ordinary pieces of paper as if safeguarding some long-lost king’s treasure, I pressed on. I reached down to gather the scattered pages, and the moment my eyes met the familiar handwriting, an unexpected surge of emotions engulfed me.
Suddenly, my eyes were no longer dry; teardrops welled up and rolled down, one by one. I found myself caught in the grip of an inexplicable and overwhelming wave of emotion. The connection between the handwriting and the flood of tears was almost proportional.
As I gazed at the handwriting on those weathered pages, I realized it was the elegant penmanship of my nani, my grandmother. The beauty of her writing brought forth a flood of memories, each stroke of the pen carrying with it the warmth and wisdom she had shared. At that moment, the connection became clear, and the tears that flowed were not just a response to the ink on paper, but a poignant recognition of the cherished presence of my grandmother’s essence in those handwritten lines.
These were all the letters she used to send to me. In the early days of my childhood, I resided with her. She was not just a grandmother but my best friend. We shared countless hours, a period I now realize must have tested her patience with my endless chatter. Yet, not once did I witness a hint of complaint on her face. Instead, she gracefully endured my rants and stories, filling those moments with unconditional love.
As the vacations came to an end or if circumstances separated us temporarily, the only way we delighted in staying connected (given the era was the good old ’90s and early 2000s) was through handwritten letters. Each letter became a vessel, carrying not just words but the essence of our enduring bond etched in the strokes of her pen. Those letters were more than a means of communication; they were a bridge that spanned the physical distance, keeping alive the warmth and connection we shared despite the miles that separated us.
Whether it was a festival, birthday, exam, or even our scheduled fortnightly exchange, I eagerly anticipated the arrival of the postman at our doorstep. He would pull out a bundle of letters from his worn-out, bag, sort it out, and hand me over my connection to my grandmother, my letter to me.
On receiving it, I would first gaze at it with glee and then with a tinge of happiness. Tears would gather in my eyes looking at the address written in Nani’s impeccable handwriting. I would quickly glance over the content of the letter and then read it over and over again, imagining the words coming out in her loving voice, with perfect enunciations and pauses, while also mentally preparing to write back to her immediately. She too would eagerly wait for my letters and this is how our cycle of communication continued.
Dear Angel, one of the letters read, a term of endearment that my grandmother lovingly bestowed upon me. I am writing this letter to you after coming from the market and visiting a toy shop. The shelves were adorned with an array of beautiful toys, each a riot of colours, but one, in particular, caught my eye. It’s a Kelly doll from the Barbie franchise, and it reminded me so much of you. I couldn’t resist getting it for you. However, my dear, with this small gift coming your way from a distant land, I have a request. Promise me that, just as I am putting in the effort to get it to you, you will also ensure that you put in extra effort in your studies. Strive to excel in all your exams.
In those lines, the love and care she poured into each aspect of my life were evident. The letter not only carried the promise of a cherished toy but also the wisdom and encouragement to focus on my education, creating a beautiful blend of affection and guidance.
Within those letters, she painted vivid paragraphs describing the places she lived, the nuances of her daily life, and the rhythm of her days. Through her words, I could almost feel the ambience of her surroundings. She seamlessly intertwined details about her life with genuine inquiries about mine — asking about my well-being, and the status of my friendships. True to her caring nature she even included a line dedicated to my pet. Those letters were not just a means of communication; they were windows into each other’s worlds
Another letter, written to me before my board exams, (equivalent to high school), carried a different tone. In it, she eloquently elaborated on the significance of persistent and consistent efforts. She shared insights about how, in life, God tends to favour those who actively put in focused efforts like Arjun in Mahabharat.
She told me to have faith in the Almighty but more than that, have faith in myself and the hard work I put in. She elaborated on how, as long as I am sure of having put in as much work and effort as I can from my end, nothing else matters, neither the results nor the society. Only honest efforts matter. Always have, and always will.
In that letter, the ink on the paper became a conduit for her unwavering support and belief in my abilities. It wasn’t just a note of encouragement for the exams; it was a life lesson, a testament to her desire for my success in every endeavour. Each sentence carried the weight of her experience and the hope for a future paved with diligence and self-reliance.
As tears continued to roll down my eyes while reading those letters, I came to a profound realization. Nostalgia, I understood, is not merely an over-romanticized sentiment; it is, in fact, an underrated and powerful emotion. It serves as a poignant bridge, reconnecting us to our roots and gently reminding us of where we come from.
In the words of those letters, I found more than just memories; I discovered a pathway to my past, a link to the essence of my upbringing and the relationships that shaped me. Nostalgia, often overlooked, possesses the ability to ground us in the present by honouring the threads of our history. It is a gentle teacher, offering lessons in appreciation and gratitude for the moments that have sculpted our journey. In those tears, I recognized the beauty of nostalgia.
As the day drew to a close, I found myself liberated from the pressure to conform to societal trends deemed right for me.
This experience served as a poignant reminder that life isn’t about blending into the flock of sheep; it’s about embracing your choices, decisions, and individuality. Even if the world perceives you as an odd duckling, there’s a certain pride in staying true to yourself.
The act of decluttering my physical space not only made room in my closet but also resonated deeply within, prompting a realization that the true measure of contentment comes from having faith in oneself. My heart felt full, and my spirit was refreshed, signaling that the pursuit of happiness in life goes beyond the external trappings. It’s about creating a space for authenticity, unburdened by the weight of societal expectations.
In this newfound sense of self-assurance, I discovered that, indeed, having some space in my closet is a small sacrifice compared to how full my heart and spirit feel now.
