Lost in Malgudi: R.K. Narayan, You Made Me Like This

Dear R.K. Narayan,

I don’t know when or how this letter might find you. I’m not sure whether you have some mysterious connection, like our Wi-Fi, that reaches across our worlds. Still, I feel compelled to write, hoping my mail somehow finds its way to you.

A secret disclaimer: This letter is and should be strictly confidential between us.

You may not know me; I am just a speck in the ocean, and our lives are separated by over four decades on this Earth.

Coming to the point, this letter is to let you know that you made me like this—a hopeless dreamer, endlessly wandering through your stories and my daydreams alike.

When I first noticed you in newspapers and articles, I got the impression that you were very serious. Later, when I started reading your books, I discovered another side of you, a side I felt I could truly connect with. Yet, I was still a little hesitant for no reason.

And about me, I’m not very good at being warm with people I don’t know well, and I usually don’t trust anyone enough to open up. Yet, surprisingly, in your case, perhaps through your writing, I somehow felt that I could be frank and open with you. Hence, this letter.

When Doordarshan first telecast ‘Malgudi Days,’ I was in college, and the signature tune immediately caught my attention. I’ve carried Malgudi in my heart for decades, and I still do. Its schoolchildren, its eccentric shopkeepers, its lazy afternoons, they shaped the way I see the world.

I still remember Swami, Rajam, and Mani, your mischievous trio who made Swami and Friends feel like my own childhood all over again. And The English Teacher was so gentle and moving that I kept staring out of the window long after I finished it.

Your stories are simple, warm, and quietly funny. They took me to your fictional village, and from there, I traveled to many other imagined places. You taught me that the ordinary becomes extraordinary when we pause long enough to notice. You may not have seen, even in your wildest dreams, the impact you’ve had on me.

I’ll tell you something, but don’t tell anyone. I like to believe that since you gave your dreamy village, Malgudi, a name that begins with ‘M,’ and even your autobiography, My Days, starts with ‘M,’ I have a feeling that, in some small way, you might like me.

I even thought of naming my imaginary village with the same first letter as yours. I’m sure I will never write an autobiography; there isn’t much to fill the pages, so I may not attempt it. But if I ever did, it too would begin with that letter.

You know something, I was pleasantly surprised to learn we have something in common—we’re both Librans. Perhaps that’s why I feel such a strong connection with you.

Also one more thing, seeing some of your recent photos, you reminded me of my Papa; there’s a warmth in your expression that felt familiar. He also used to write well. Did you ever happen to cross paths with him in the library corridors?

I sometimes wish we had lived in the same time, perhaps even met thirty years ago. But then I think, even if we had, this spark between us might not have been there…just a guess.

I’m sad that I never got the chance to see you in person, and even now, I carry a little guilt in my heart for that missed moment.

Thank you for making me an incurable dreamer. Even now, long after turning the last page, I find myself wandering, again and again, through my ‘N-village.’ Your gentle stories always stay with me, wherever I go.

Thank you for Malgudi, for the laughter, the warmth, and the quiet wisdom.

Forever from Malgudi,
With lots of love (I don’t know when it started),
Me

P.S. Statutory warning: Reading this mail may cause a gentle nudge to reply. If you do, I’d be over the moon! If not, no worries, I completely understand. Still, I can’t help but imagine what it would be like if you did.