I still remember my mother writing a handwritten excuse letter to my class teacher because I wanted to listen to the cricket commentaries. She was not willing to do it, but my father did not object either, as many older men were also absent from their workplaces because it was the Ashes, the England-Australia cricket match.

Most household and administrative letters were written on paper using ink pens or pencils during my youth. As we did not have electronic devices, we were compelled to write by hand. Schoolchildren were taught to write poems, and we were told about great novelists like Oscar Wilde, Jane Austen, James Joyce, H.P. Lovecraft, Jules Verne, and Franz Kafka, all of whom wrote with paper and pen. This was probably to motivate us, young pupils. None of us became novelists, but at least we could write a proper letter by hand.

Those times have long gone. Today, there are hardly any serious letters written in ink and on paper, and private letters are not common either. New developments and devices save time and even correct spelling automatically. I still know enough people who consider handwritten letters personal, and I belong to this group. I am glad to receive them.

It is always a pleasure to find original manuscripts of famous works in museums or private establishments. Especially in old factories, people have prided themselves on preserving old memories. From tea factories and clothing factories to industrial and car manufacturers, many have made their contributions.

Nowadays, not many people care if they receive a wedding invitation written by hand. What is important is that they get an invitation. Still, there will be someone sporadically looking for a stationery shop in their respective city. I am glad to enter these little shops during my travels, where an old gentleman or lady will serve and talk about how good the old times were, blaming the youth. These shops still exist in the backstreets of cities like London, Paris, Florence, and Buenos Aires. My annual visits to Florence, Italy, for the clothing exhibition give me joy as I buy a few papers and pencils from a hidden backyard shop, only five feet long, with an old cash register. The owner often inquires why I am buying paper and ink, and I confess that I still write my orders for shirts by hand. Italy is fortunate to preserve some of the old methods of this craftsmanship.

Recently, during my Saturday stroll in my neighborhood, I discovered a signboard saying “handwritten craftsmanship” in a hidden side street loft. I couldn’t resist knocking on the door of the tiny store, run by a charming lady. We chatted like old friends about the art of writing. She shared her experiences from Florence, where she had spent nearly two decades. We found common ground and continued our conversation. She explained that she started this refuge for people who still want to write love letters by hand, encouraging more people to enjoy and preserve the joy of handwriting.