I submitted this (not this, but a really bad draft of this one) piece for Kommune Pune’s Roots story slam. My shitty draft (according to me) got selected! Yay! So posting the final draft here for memory. Also whenever self doubt kicks in 🙂

Shoutouts to S and P for reviewing the edits from time to time and providing me valuable feedback. I immensely enjoyed the writing and editing process. yay!

Bigger shoutout to S for calling me after her own Kommuneity event and urging me to submit a story for their next Pune slam. I mean which normal person calls up others after their own stellar performance and makes them do things – like, putting oneself out there – they normally would not? I am blessed with the weird, magical people around. I am a happier person today because she made me do this. (she runs her own storytelling circle, for those interested).

Roots

‘तुमच्या मुलीने मला आज रागावल’ (Your daughter scolded me today). A 6-yo me scribbled this on a piece of paper, in a feat of drama. I folded this paper and gave the note to my uncle who was to carry it to my grandparents who lived across town and expose them to the various cruelties their daughter, my Aai was inflicting upon me. I did not get a response from anyone. I am sure they had better things to do in life than deal with a 6-yo’s drama.

But did that deter me? Nope! I sent another note to them about my brother who was away from home. This time Aajoba took note. Matters escalated. I got a reply from him.

This was the beginning of one of the most meaningful connections of my life. Through letters.

To be honest I did not even know then that I was writing letters. This exchange had no letter writing paraphernalia which schools taught me in later years. It was simple and to the point. I would usually write on pieces of paper and give him random updates about my life.

आज आम्ही आंबे आणले

आज घरी पाहुणे आले त्यामुळे टीवी बघता आला नाही 

I wrote about the new stuff I was learning in school. I wrote after the exam results. I wrote with Diwali greetings. And Rakhi envelops. I wrote when I could. I wrote because I could. I wrote because the kindness my grandfather had shown a 6-yo me by responding to my scribbles and notes gave me the courage to write more.

As I was writing these notes, I would also eagerly await his responses. They were a delight to read. He would write in the neatest handwriting and the most fluent Marathi. Something like:

“आपली साहित्य सम्पदा लेखणीतील होळी आहे. माझ्या बौद्धिक स्थिरतेला तूच लिखाणाच वेड लावलस”

(He was telling me that I was making him write more)

I would, of course, need Aai’s help to understand this. It was an unusual connection. And in a big family of uncles, aunts, and cousins we were the only ones sharing it.

As I grew older, one thing that remained constant were the letters.

I moved away from my parents’ home to study in a different city when I was 17. I remember writing Aajoba a 7-page long essay chronicling the new situation I was in. I wrote about how my first night in the hostel was spent without electricity. I wrote about how I had met a childhood friend, on the steps of the hostel, unaware of the knowledge then, that we would remain friends and learn to evolve together. I wrote about my class schedule. I wrote about how boring the food in the hostel was. I wrote about how I found the city and college different from the ideas in my head.

I had poured my heart out in that letter. In a couple of months, I received a 4-page letter from Aajoba. It was the longest letter he had written to me. Of course, I did not understand much of it then, but here’s the bit I remember the most.

“माझ्यातला मी जागा नसतो. मनास येईल असे तुझ्यासाठी लिहितोय. मनाला धास्तीत ठेवू नकोस. तुला महत्वाच्या वाटतात त्या गोष्टींकडे लक्ष दे. आजूबाजूच्या निसर्गाचा विसर पडू देऊ नकोस.”

(He was telling me that he was growing old. That I needed to be fearless and focus on things that mattered to me. And while doing so I should also get out once in a while)

I became known as the girl whose Aajoba wrote letters to her. Girls would stop by my room and ask if they could read them. I would happily oblige and make new friends over shared letters.

I moved to the US for a brief stint when the frequency of the letters reduced. Somewhere I was missing the connection, so I started a blog. I would write there every day and hope that one-day Aajoba would get to read about my experiences.

Hannah Gadsby says “Hindsight is a gift”. It is only today that I know and understand how lucky I got. I find written communication intimate. Recently I have grown into writing pictured postcards whenever I am traveling. Maybe it ties back to the love my Aajoba shared with me over written words and how he was the first one who encouraged me to write more. Through his beautiful and elaborate replies. Maybe it’s me trying to connect the dots and find meaning in not having him around anymore.

Today my parents are grandparents. My 2-yo niece runs around the house begging me, rather us to read to her. Sometimes annoyingly. But we oblige. Maybe it’s life coming a full circle.

Us honoring Aajoba’s memory. Keeping those roots safe.

Remembering the kindness a 70+-year-old man showed to a 6-yo child.

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