It’s difficult
to explain to someone who was born in a year beginning with ‘2’ just how people
used to communicate with one another. Before Twitter, e-mail, SMSs, Snapchat,
WhatsApp and Facebook, if you wanted to tell someone more than five metres away
from you something, you had to either physically get up out of your chair and
go over to them, pick up a telephone to call, or you had to write them an
actual note.
And if you were sent away to school,
you waited patiently for the weekly mail to arrive in the post from home with
the latest news of family friends, neighbours and other gossip.
My letters from home were invariably written by my
mother detailing everything from the maid stealing toilet paper to her ongoing
feud with her sisters over something one of them might have said thirty years
ago at a party nobody now remembered ever attending. And at the end, there’d be
a little paragraph from my father telling me to study hard, that all was well
at home, and that I should let him know if I needed anything.
In turn, every week, we’d all write home with news
of exams, friends we’d made, sporting triumphs and disasters, with the
occasional hints that we might need more pocket money, the last bit invariably
ignored in the reply letter the following week.
Nobody would have dreamt of actually telephoning
because you only did that if something horrible had happened. Like the time I
got a call in the middle of the night from my mother weeping that she’d gone
skiing with my father and the diamond in her wedding ring had fallen out.
“Oh my God, I thought one of you had died!” I shouted.
“Choy!” Mother sniffled, so distraught over the
loss of her Cartier diamond that she decided to overlook my rude tone.
And the thing about letters is that they were so
permanent. My parents kept all the letters their
parents had written them over the years. And when my mother’s father died, a
few years after his wife, we discovered among his possessions all the letters
that Mother had written them.
We spent weeks putting the letters back into
chronological order, one letter replying to another, from the first postcard
Grandpa wrote to her from Paris to the last letter Grandma scribbled just
before she died. Piles of letters, all neatly tied with a ribbon into bundles
for each year. Letters, one after the other, down the years like a literal
chain letter (which, again, all you kids born in a year beginning with ‘2’ will
have no idea what I’m on about).
When it was all sorted, we had the letters bound
into several leather volumes.
One evening, not long after, Mother disappeared
into her room with the letters and didn’t emerge for two days. Father was
banished to the guest room. Every so often, we’d put our ear to the door and
listen. My sister Michelle reported she heard pages turning, but Jack and I,
both suffering from a lifetime of tinnitus, couldn’t hear a thing.
When Mother finally reappeared, her eyes were red
and puffy.
“I am exhausted!” she announced as she hugged each
of us in turn. “And if you ever give me the same kind of trouble I gave my
parents, I will just die!”
“Really?” Saffy later asked me over lunch. “She
really said that?”
“Uh huh,” I said. “And she never let us read those
letters either. They’re all locked away somewhere secret!”
Saffy looked wistful. “I wish I had that kind of
relationship with my parents. We’ve never had a conversation!”
“That’s because you
do all the talking!” Amanda pointed out as she speared a cucumber from her
rojak.
Saffy’s formidable bosom inflated as she opened her
mouth to protest, then let it deflate. “Yes, that’s probably true, too,” she
conceded. “But you know what I mean. I don't have any correspondence like that
with my parents. When they die, there’ll be no real record of our relationship.
Not like Jason’s grandparents with his mother. How depressing. Say, is anyone
going to finish this rojak?”
That evening, I dug out all the letters my parents
have written me over the years. There are hundreds of them, all neatly bundled,
one bundle for each year. A lifetime of confidences, hopes and daily news.
I pulled out the bundle for the year I first went
away to school.
The first letter began: “My dear son…”
The memories came flooding back as I read late into
the night. The next morning, I pulled out a piece of paper and, for the first
time in years, wrote my parents a letter.
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