The Golden Age of Letter Writing: Faint Memories of a Lost Civilisation
“I called you, but you did not pick up.” “I sent you a WhatsApp message, but you did not think it proper to reply.” “I rang you many times, but you remained silent throughout.” Such is the unbearable burden of our age, where the very means of communication that have made life easy have also bred impatience and discourtesy. Everyone expects that when they call, the other must answer at once, and when they send a message, the reply should arrive immediately. Few pause to think that perhaps the other is busy, resting, or absorbed in some matter of importance.
The lightning speed of transmission and communication, while facilitating life, has at the same time normalised a strange kind of undue familiarity and ill-timed intrusion. Making a call or sending a message has become so effortless that people have forgotten the worth of another’s time. If only they realised that not every call, not every message, is necessary. One is often tempted to express annoyance at such frivolous interruptions, but then one reflects that the fault lies not in the invention, but in the behaviour of those who misuse it.
Where are the days when writing letters was the custom? In that time words were chosen with care, emotions set down with refinement, and every word received by the addressee carried significance. Even waiting for a letter had its own sweetness; each moment before the reply came was infused with a certain delight. Convenience today has stripped away from us that dignity and seriousness.
Why is it that today the memory of that age presses so deeply on the heart? The soul of every people resides in its recollections. When a people forget their history, their traditions, and their civilisation, their present becomes faceless and their future without direction. Alas, this very affliction has seeped into our lives: dazzled by the glitter of modern progress, we have lost that precious essence which once brought serenity to our souls and fragrance to our society.
When I look back into the shadows of the past, I see an age in which love, grievance, joy, sorrow and the bonds of kinship were all woven together through letters. In every village, town and quarter stood the post box, custodian of human sentiments and relationships. However rust-stained it might have been, the papers placed inside carried not only words, but beating hearts.
Letters came sometimes folded, sometimes upon the simple postcard. Ah, that little rectangle of paper! So modest in appearance, yet immense in impact; cheap in cost, yet priceless in feeling; frail to look at, yet strong enough to bear the burden of profound emotion. Upon those sheets came tidings of health, news of illness, invitations to weddings, and announcements of death. Often the words would spill beyond the margins, as though proclaiming aloud: “Love is not confined by boundaries.”
There was an enchantment in those letters. When one received the writing of a loved one, it was as if their face appeared before one’s eyes despite the hundreds of miles between. It was not merely the pen that moved upon the page, but the heart that spoke. The fragrance of the ink, the earthy scent of the paper—together they generated a perfect sensation.
And then there was the inland letter, that plain sheet folded thrice, a trusted medium of the heart’s discourse. Upon it were not merely messages but the circumstances of daughters in their marital homes, the prayers of mothers, the counsels of fathers, the love of brothers, and the stories of sisters. When unfolded, it revealed an entire world of emotions.
How beautiful was that time, when elders at the village square, children playing in the alleys, and mothers seated in their earthen courtyards—all awaited the postman in his khaki uniform. At the ring of his bicycle bell, hearts would beat faster.
And when he cried aloud, “A letter has come…”, eyes filled with light, lips uttered prayers, and lamps of gratitude were kindled within hearts.
That was a different age: distances existed, yet hearts were close. Today, outwardly, distances have disappeared—mobile phones, the internet and video calls have erased physical separation. But the closeness of hearts has vanished.
Alas! Now the migrant does not return, nor the letters, nor the memories. All has been swallowed by the whirlpool of a life driven by speed. Today the post offices are desolate, post boxes rusted, and the generation that once breathed through letters is departing.
What a pity! In our time not only have the words changed, but even the writing of love has faded. Man has become mechanical, relationships digitised, emotions confined to files, and feelings reduced to emojis.
This transformation is not merely a change in tools; it is a sign of civilisational decline. Letter-writing was not simply a means of communication; it was a living tradition of our culture, our patience, our love and our human dignity. With its departure went the nurture of a whole generation, the innocence of affection, and the warmth of kinship.
If Mawlānā Abū al-Kalām Āzād were alive today, perhaps he would say: “In the name of progress, we have lost all that makes nations great. The pace of time has quickened, but the bonds of kinship have broken. Words remain, but their effect, their warmth, their fragrance—all have perished.”
The question is: how do we convey all this to the new generation? How do we tell them that in the past every letter was a lamp, every line a prayer, every sheet a bond—not merely a bearer of news, but a carrier of love?
When we depart, perhaps only stories will remain. And if we fail to narrate these stories, they too will be buried with us in the soil of the grave.
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Disclaimer: This article was translated by AI. Original post: https://t.me/DrAkramNadwi/6949
