The End of an Era… Or Is It the End of Human Connection?

"Mani, ke saath jao. Yeh postcard aur inland letter woh laal box mein daal ke aao,” Aji Ma would say.

A sentence folded into my childhood as gently as the corners of the postcards we carried. I’d grab my cousin’s hand, race down the lane to the red postbox, and with the thrill of duty (and the promise of a toffee), slip in something that didn’t just carry news, it carried soul!

But at that time, it felt like a game!
Now, it feels like a treasure trove of memory, fading quietly into the sepia edges of time.

And just like that, on August 1st, 2025, India Post officially discontinued Regular Mailing Services.

No more inland letters.
No more handwritten postcards.
No more postmen on bicycles, brown leather satchels swinging, carrying not just letters but connection, longing and perhaps a distant celebration.

What remains now is Speed Post. Efficient, impersonal and brisk.

Quite Practical!

Isn't it?

But, pardon me, I beg to differ!

Letters Weren’t Just Ink!

There was a time when the creaking sound of the gate would make us run to the entrance out of excitement. It meant a visit from someone who carried a piece of your world in his bag.

Our postman wasn’t just the mail guy. He was family folklore in motion. He knew who received a college admission, who got their heart broken via telegram, and who was silently waiting for news from a son in the Army, like my Nani ji.

He’d hand me a bundle and say,
“Bujji, give these to your dad when he comes from office.”
And I, would transform into a trusted courier, walking importantly around the house with my dad’s important news in my tiny hands.

Some letters made us laugh!

Some made us cry!

and some were read ten times, and others tucked under pillows.

Oh, so many secrets they held...

And we all, cousins, always stood in awe of how Aji Ma could fit an entire epic into a postcard barely bigger than a biscuit wrapper. She didn’t need Microsoft Word. She needed one square postcard and half an inch of margin space. She could fit the monsoon forecast, uncle Raghunandan’s marriage update, a list of things to bring from Kanpur, a Nrusimha shlok, a medical warning, and a pinch of gossip — all within that tiny rectangular prison of ink.

A Hug in an Envelope

When I was in a hostel, long before emojis and DMs, my mom would send me a letter every alternate day. That’s not an exaggeration. Every-Alternate-Day!

Some were short:
"Eat properly."
"Don’t sit too close to the fan when your hair is wet."
“You sounded tired, when we spoke last time. Apply Vicks around your neck and wear that pink sweater. It will keep you warm.”

Her words were soft wool stitched into paper.

Once, I remember closing a letter from my cousin:
“Can't wait to see you on Diwali..!”
Suddenly, homesickness melted into excitement.

In a world with no emojis, these letters were cringy to the core!

They didn’t ping.

They didn’t vibrate.

They just… arrived!

Slowly, Steadily, and wrapped with Lots of Love!

The Office Envelope That Changed Lives

Outside the home, too, Letters were sacred.

A white envelope stamped “On Government Service” was as powerful as a legal document and as suspenseful as a thriller.

One envelope could shift your entire family to a new city. Another could bring news of a long-awaited promotion. A third — quiet and terrifying — might hold a memo or a notice of suspension.

You read it slowly.
Then again.
And then again, because response didn’t mean hitting “reply.” It meant pausing, thinking and crafting a response that mattered.

When the Postman Just… Stopped Coming!

There was no ticker tape. No headline.
The postman didn’t ring a bell to say goodbye.
He just… didn’t show up one day.

First, emails. Then SMS. Then group chats.
The red postboxes started to rust.
Stamps became decoration.
Birthday cards turned into GIFs.
Telegrams turned into memory.

And now, with regular post quietly shelved, it’s not just the system that’s ended.

It’s a chapter of human connection. The one that believed in waiting!

The Drawer That Still Whispers

Somewhere in that locked suitcase, or under your bed, or inside your grandmother’s Godrej cupboard, there might be a bundle of letters wrapped in a ribbon.

You don’t open them often. But you don’t throw them either.

There’s one where your sister wrote,
“Happy Rakhi! I miss fighting with you.”

There’s one that smells of incense, the ink slightly faded. Your mother’s voice still curled around the letters! They are your true treasure. They don’t ping. They don’t remind you to read them.

But the day you do, they’ll speak.

Because unlike emails or DMs or forwarded memes…

These letters weren’t content. They were presence!

Let’s Be Honest!

We don’t want snail mail back because we love waiting 4 days for a birthday wish.

What we might want is what Letters stood for:
Slowness.
Reflection.
Meaning.
Care.
Effort.

So no, we’re not saying bring back pigeons and inkpots.

But maybe, just maybe, we can bring back the depth of human connections.

If we’re using Slack, can we write with softness?

If we’re sending 100 WhatsApp texts, can 1 of them carry a bit of warmth?

If we’re emailing someone late at night, can we check on their heart before chasing their deadline?

The End of an Era, Or the Beginning of Memory?

So here’s to the letters.
To the waiting.
To the ink stains.
To the red boxes.
To the postman with the tired eyes and kind smile.
To the pink sweater your mother reminded you to wear.
To the postcard from Aji Ma with no space left, but so much to say.

This isn’t just the end of an era.
It’s a mirror. A reminder. A nudge!

We may not bring the postman back.
But we can still Bring Back The Presence!