"Write me letters, will you?" he whispered in her ear, tightening his grip around her waist and pulling her closer. Her hair bore no fragrance that day, a testament to the hectic last four days she'd endured, filled with numerous guests for lunch, dinner, and even high tea until yesterday. Tomorrow marked his departure.
"Will the letters reach you? Do they even have a post office there?" Her hesitations were genuine.
She had written letters to him earlier, during the academy days, when he wasn't allowed to keep his phone. The place he was heading to now stood as one of the most challenging terrains in the country, if not the world. It was difficult to arrange for something even as basic as fresh food there. Letters from loved ones became as important as food for them. Food for the mind and heart, that all was well.
In a world where handwritten letters are overshadowed by digital communication, he cherished her letters. There was a unique charm to them and an irreversibility once the pen had scribbled the words from her thoughts. There could be no immediate editing as she easily did in emails and text messages.
Her letters were beyond mere words and sentences she wrote. The doodles along the margin, the pressure of the pen, the gaps between two words and the slant of the letters, told him a lot more. He could even tell if she had been eating while writing or if she had been crying. Emails and text messages could never give him the pleasure of reading all the words and lines she had decided to cut and scribble on.
"Yes, they have a system. Your letters will reach me. It might take more time than usual though, so you better start writing as soon as I leave. I don't want to miss out on our evening chai talks..." he said, as he put his name on the last packed trunk.
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