Do not scratch the ink

She fondly wrote a letter to her grandmother. A letter to her maternal grandmother, whom she held in high esteem.

It was 1970. Newly married and living with her husband of a few months, in the other end of the country, she felt a sense of responsibility to initiate and maintain the relationship with her. It made her feel grown up and wise. It made her feel kind and good hearted.

She had been thinking about it for a few days now. While she was looking forward to the act and the bond the communication would create, there was no denying the tightening of her stomach muscles every time she thought about it. Which was mostly while she was at work. Not quite able to understand the reason for the tension, she made mental notes of what she would say and how.

She bought a post card on the way back home one day, and sat at her desk the next day, during lunch break, to pen the letter. She knew what she wanted to convey. She started to write to her Grandma.

Dear Grandma,

How are you? I am fine here. I am happy. I am very happy and content. My husband takes good care of me. The branch office where I work has very friendly and good people. I will come to visit you in a few months.

I hope you are keeping good health. Please convey my regards to uncle and aunty too.

Regards

She read it over and over again. Satisfied with the result, and proud with her own thoughtfulness, she carefully wrote down the address and dropped in into the post box on her way home that evening. She knew the letter would take a week to reach its destination. She did not know if her grandmother would reply immediately. She wondered what the reply would be

The matriarch, a grand old lady of about eighty, was adored within the family. Thoughtful and caring, she would go out of her way to let her children and especially her grandchildren know that she loved them and remembered them often.

Grandma had a routine, one that no one in the family had heard of any one else, have. On the first of every month, her son, the one she lived with, had one assignment. He had to go to the post office and buy postcards. Grandma slowly and carefully counted on her bony fingertips and told him the number required. It would be the total cards required to write her thoughts, personalised, for everyone of her children, her grandchildren, her siblings, and their children. This number was fixed, given that she and her siblings had reached an age where the count in the immediate family would not increase. And the occasional card to other relatives who might have had something to celebrate or grieve over the previous month. The cards had to be handed over to her on the first of every month without any delay. She would have done her math and given the money for the purchase the previous night.

And then she would sit and write on all the cards. Slowly and meticulously. Her handwriting was exquisite, like they were printed in some exotic font. Perfectly formed alphabets linking into words that flowed in a perfectly straight line on a postcard that had been blank.

A week passed by and then another. It was day sixteen, since she had posted the card. She dug her hand into her bag and pulled out the front door key, and proceeded to insert it into the padlock that held the latch, when she noticed a postcard folded and perched in the gap of the latch. The postman did that with her mail because she was never home on weekdays, during the afternoons, which was his time to deliver post to her area.

Curious, she abandoned the unlocking she was to do, and opened the folds of the postcard. It was from her grandmother!  Her grandma had not waited till the beginning of the next month, she had made the time and effort to respond immediately! She face lit up and her heart sang! She sat on the step in front of her door, kept her handbag on the floor next to her and started to read the letter.

“Before you write, think

Once you write, do not scratch the ink.”

All of two lines. The crisp words said it all.  There was no denying the underlying meaning and its' implication. It was not a pleasant feeling. Now she understood why she had felt tense before penning the letter. Everything, just everything, had to be perfect for this lady.

She did not write anymore letters to her grandmother, though she continued to receive her monthly card, as though nothing had transpired in between. The last one said:

“I may not be able to write to you for a few months. Do not worry. My health is fine. It is my eyes that are weak right now. I am going for a cataract operation and will need to rest my eyes for a while. As soon as I feel, I can see well again, I will write to you”

She felt anxious, yet did not respond. 'What is the use of my writing a few lines and posting a card? She will not be able to read it anyway.' she told herself.

Then came a card, she did not expect. It had been two months since the eye operation and she knew from her own mother that grandma was doing fine.

“I can see quite well now. That is why I am writing to you. Will you write back and tell me if I have written clearly and in a straight line?”

She had to write back assuring her that there was nothing to fault in her hand writing.

It was many years later, much after her grandmother's passing away, that she realised that she was the only one who had received that request.

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Originally published in 2016