Miscellanea/Kamala Das

My sons are remote; I no longer know what they eat for breakfast

My father has been dead for 19 years. Rummaging through his cupboards, my sister discovered that he had preserved, in numbered files, every letter that we wrote him, beginning with the scribbles of our childhood.

From the letters I wrote while at a convent, I realise that I was a materialistic child. In each letter, I asked my parents to send me silk frocks, preferably blue, and red shoes. I asked for new schoolbags and handkerchiefs. I asked for Yardley's Talc. My elder brother only demanded notebooks and pencils made in Germany. As the years rolled by, we began to state our problems and pleaded for financial help. A list of illness. The names of the medicines taken....

Such candid letters form the history of a family.

Nobody seems to write letters these days. Once or twice a month, my sons phone me. "How is your health?" is the question asked without fail. Then, a few soothing noises and a promise to visit me in a fortnight. They sound like strangers. They are not curious to know the names of people I meet or the work I am engaged in. Three minutes of talk on the phone takes care of their conscience.

My sons are remote. I do not know any longer what they eat for breakfast or how they spend their Sundays. I am more up-to-date regarding Bill Clinton's daily routine. When I was an adolescent, I wished to grow up fast and find someone to write to.

I used to have as a penfriend, a Yugoslav named Frantisek Arnost who had a wife called Marie Arnostova. He was a remarkable family man, who gave descriptions of his idyllic life filled with domestic bliss. Soon, I tired of his respectability and stopped being his penfriend. Then I began to write to Harold Rapalla of California. He sent me a photo of his wife and child, Susan. Much later, my eldest son, Monu, corresponded with Susan. Today, instead of penfriends, people have phone-friends. Writing letters was fun.

One day, while shifting residence, I tore into shreds hundreds of letters sent by friends, male and female. Love letters. At a certain time, everybody was in love. Not with me, but with love. They were like the queen in A Midsummer Night's Dream, bewitched with the first available person - Bottom, the donkey-faced one. I was their Bottom.

A scientist friend visiting us looked at the heap of letters torn to shreds and laughed. "You are indeed the cruellest woman I have come across," he said. I would have been more cruel if I had preserved them. The silliness of the sentiments expressed in each of them was appalling. I dread to think that my letters, written in the same vein, must be lying intact somewhere, potential destroyers of my peace and reputation.

One of my son's friends, in his schooldays, sold a letter of mine to a collector for Rs 25. That was how I knew of my price in the market. He suggested my writing a few love letters for him to offer for sale. "Get some dough," he cried. "Such letters sell well..."

Illustration: Dominic Xavier