I greatly miss handwriting. Reading it, writing it, feeling the handmade paper on which I loved to write. All that I handwrite now is matlabi stuff—such as Post-it reminder notes, and film review jottings. I jot notes as I watch films, it’s an old journalistic habit. All films, even the shirtless Salman ones. The only ones for which I tend to skip jotting notes in real time, are films I watch back-to-back on long-haul flights, because otherwise, relaxation feels too much like work. So, after decades of jotting film notes in darkened theatres and later sometimes struggling to decipher what the hell I wrote, now films I watch are mostly on video links or streaming sites at home, with enough light to see what I’m writing.

Marie Kondo, decluttering diva, assigns letters, photographs and related senti stuff to the last and toughest part of any home spring-cleaning drive. My letters, received and sent over the decades, are mostly from friends from all over India and the world. Early ones are from ‘pen friends,’ and the American ones, when they sent you their photo, would pose against the American flag. One of my most cherished letters, though, was sent to us by our (late) Papa: my sister and I must have been in primary school, and went every year with Amma to Dharwar, her hometown, for May holidays, while Papa stayed back in Bombay to work. He wrote us the most adorable letters, of ‘what-all’ was going on in Bombay, all in kiddie-talk, on that blue inland letter-cum-envelope. He wrote in very tiny handwriting—we called it muyye pai (ant’s feet) in Konkani—so he could cram in more news, and his handwriting continued on the side letter folding flap; only the top gluey-licky flap was spared.