It's the Small Things | Letters to My Father

Ever since I can remember, I have loved to write. Not the grand writing of prose by budding authors, but the writing to myself in journals, scribbling notes to myself in the last pages of my registers, writing motivational messages on the walls of my puny little hostel room, and even writing down famous lines of poetry on my pillow covers!

The feeling of letting myself go, and giving free reign to my thoughts with pen on paper, has helped me in equal measure to escape into a world of my own as well as to bring me back to reality as needed. It has helped me bond with my inner self and in building a little world where I could talk to my dad, anytime, anywhere and know that he will be there for me.

Back when I was 15 years old, and mobile phones were still a good decade away, I was expected to write back home informing my parents of having reached safely, and the general “all is well”.

While my sister painstakingly filled a post card with “how are you, I am fine”, I wrote my heart out on the double centre pages of my registers, filling up all the empty spaces, with the OG emojis (hand drawn!)

I wrote of college life, of friends, of hostel woes, of how I missed home, of everything and anything under the sun!

My father loved reading my letters and would never disappoint in writing back some fun anecdotes and inspiring stories to keep me going with the rigors of a medico’s hostel life.

He was a man of few words, and I had taken after him. While we both spoke little, our letters to each other were our main means for me to relate all that was going on and for him to share his experiences, memories and nuggets of wisdom with me.

The years flew by and before long the internet had arrived, I got married and busy with kids and before I knew it the letters had dwindled to a thing of the past. I had moved abroad and felt that Papa hardly spoke to me on the phone. I missed him.

I started mailing him again, and slowly but surely we were back...making adjustments with digital life! Covid struck, we were all stuck in limbo, miles apart and the emails brought a sense of home with them for me.

My father was now getting old, finding it difficult to type out mails, the typos increased but I kept writing to him and he loved receiving my mails.

Until one day, he signed off, forever.

I yearned to speak to him once more, to hear his voice addressing me the way only he did…and then remembered I still have him with me!

Although he is gone now, taking with him my love for writing letters, he left behind a treasure trove of all the mails we wrote to each other.

I miss him all the time and go through our letters, my stories of everyday life to him and his warm encouraging words that keep me going even when I can't hear him anymore.

While my love for pen and paper is irreplaceable, I must confess that having emails stored on my phone where I can access them anytime, anywhere serves as a priceless reminder that my dad is always with me.

Arshia Rahman is an MD in Pathology, with a keen interest in writing and travelling. 

We’ve grown up hearing that “it’s the small things” that matter. That’s true, of course, but it’s also not – there are Big Things that we know matter, and that we shouldn’t take our eyes, minds or hearts off of. As journalists, we spend most of our time looking at those Big Things, trying to understand them, break them down, and bring them to you.

And now we’re looking to you to also think about the small things – the joy that comes from a strangers’ kindness, incidents that leave you feeling warm, an unexpected conversation that made you happy, finding spaces of solidarity. Write to us about your small things at thewiresmallthings@gmail.com in 800 words or less, and we will publish selected submissions. We look forward to reading about your experiences, because even small things can bring big joys.

Read the series here.

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