The Old Postcard

By Linu Job Gaurav

One that sits with its corners rusted, under the pile of neatly arranged envelopes all gathering dust. It was grandpa’s prized possession the lenticular postcards. Ones that looked like a bunch of flowers from the left and a large rose from the other, a serene beach from one side and a spectacular city from the other side. He had a couple of them, all unique and intriguing. I used to spend hours staring at it, turning it right and left, lifting it against light to figure out how the images changed. Well, as smart as I considered myself, I wasn’t able to figure it out, but eventually, after years the mystery of the lenticular postcards or the turning pictures did get solved thanks to the miracle called the internet.

As children, we used to enjoy rummaging through the wooden chests that held all the family treasures or what we believed to be treasure back then. It was a large wooden trunk kept in the corner of the storeroom. It used to be a collective effort to get the large tins of rice flour and lentils off the box and finally open it. We weren’t thrilled the first time we opened it. We were after treasures after all but the trunk had stacks of papers, a neatly folded military uniform, some camouflage bags and an old radio. But on being scolded by grandpa, we decided that all of it was important and so we had to look at it once again. So, the next time we got the chance to sneak in we picked out each item ever so carefully, trying to understand what it was and how we could play with it. Very soon, we had taken out almost everything and put them back as cautiously. The boys decided to keep the metal hooks and buttons outside and play with them and the girls got busy looking at the stamp and coin collection. Then there were the letters. Having soon lost interest in the rest of the things, we decided to spend the rest of the afternoon arranging the letters in chronological order. How we came up with the idea, I can’t seem to recall (we sure were little geniuses). The envelopes went to one side and the turning picture postcards had a special place of their own. We even distributed it amongst ourselves, after all that belonged to Grandpa belonged to us. This then became our favourite pastime during summer, and Grandpa would watch us occasionally as he set his newspaper aside and cleared his throat. Handle those carefully, he would warn us only to give the slightest smile to diffuse any uneasiness we felt. I loved the way he carefully opened the inland letters, precisely over those dotted lines. He had kept them stacked, folding them from the middle, one over the other so meticulously that moving them around seemed like a shame. Our curiosity got the better of us, but we took particular care in putting them back just the same way.

We would open the letters, but with none of us old enough to understand what was written, we would just look at the numbers and marvel at the neat handwriting instead. By our next vacation, the storeroom had too many boxes and the wooden box was no longer accessible. Soon we had all forgotten about our treasure box of ours.

Years later, when the house was being renovated, the box was opened only to find that most of the things had been eaten by the termites. The few things that we could salvage were the coin collection, the album which for some reason had survived and the turning picture postcards which someone had sealed in a polythene bag. The inland letters were in tatters and had to be thrown away. The hooks and buttons, the coin collection all had takers, but nobody cared for the once beautiful postcards and so I decided to bring them home.

The ink had started to fade and the colour of the postcards once vibrant had paled out, yet the pictures kept moving as you tilted it from left to right. Grandpa had left us with so many stories, of the life he had lived in the army, of the days he spent taking care of his children. The postcards told me a different story. Of a man who cared, helped and was always there for those who sought his assistance.

I now was the proud owner of a legacy, the turning picture postcards, ones that spoke a thousand unsaid words.

Postcard 1:

“Dear Appachan,

Thank you for your help. I am now happily settled in Oman

Signed

XYZ”

Postcard 2:

“Dear Appachaya,

I am happy to inform you about the birth of my daughter. Both mother and child are doing well. Thank you for all your prayers.

Signed

ABC”

Postcard 3:

“Dear Appachan,

Due to certain health issues, I am no longer allowed to stay at my job. I have been relieved of my duties, and will soon return home. I hope that I will be able to build a new life there. See you soon.

Signed

GHJ”

Postcard 4:

“Dear Appachaya,

I will now call you on the landline. My number is XXXXXXXXXXXX”

Tears rolled down my eyes as I read one postcard and moved to another. These were the lives that grandpa had touched and the people continued to be a part of our lives thanks to the kindness he had bestowed. Times have changed, ages passed and each time I look at the old postcards, the ones with turning pictures, I see stories of people sent off to far-off lands, of struggles, of comraderies, of resilience and hope. I see their trust anchored on one person back home, with whom they shared their joys, their sadness, their weaknesses and their dreams. And the beautiful turning pictures that I own will tell those tales forever.

By Linu Job Gaurav