I arrived in Delhi in early June — the first time I’ve left North America since I was 3 years old. I left with only half of my prescribed antimalarials, no return ticket and no planned housing accommodations. In my first few days, I rode a motorcycle for the first time in my life, slept in bed-bug-ridden motels above backpacker’s bazaars and was scammed by taxi cab drivers. Every step I take brings me closer to another legendary monument, from Delhi’s crumbling forts to the pink palaces of nearby Jaipur. Perhaps the most famous of these is the Taj Mahal, located a short drive away in Agra. Commissioned in 1631, the mausoleum was inspired by emperor Shah Jahan’s love and grief for his late wife Mumtaz Mahal. In the years following her death, he wallowed in misery, abandoning music and fine clothing. Now, both Jahan and Mahal are entombed in its ivory-white halls.
Admittedly, despite being surrounded by architecture older than my country of birth, I’ve spent much of my free time calling my partner via WhatsApp. Instead of marking day trips in my weekly calendar, I’ve begun a countdown of days until I can see them in New York. This wait was made worse by the fact that during my first days in Delhi they were busy with a literature program which forbade technology. I was forced to wait for their snail mail like a chronically depressed military spouse. It’s not a unique experience. In the 5,000-year-old “Bhagavata Purana,” Princess Rukmini sends a love letter to Krishna. Ovid wrote extensively about love letters. In the Victorian era, when public affection was taboo, etiquette manuals enshrined letters as an ideal expression of love. For much of history, they were the only way to express affection over great distances. During my partner’s literature retreat I experienced this practical need firsthand, alternatively frustrated by the difficulty of contacting my partner and delighted by the opportunity to craft something special for someone I love.
Modern telecommunication has completely revolutionized love. In 2014, in Minneapolis, Denny Vinar found himself thinking about his high school girlfriend, Karen, whom he had a child with. They had planned to get married but Karen’s parents forbade it, forcing the young couple to give up their child; they had held their daughter for only an hour. Though 53 years had passed since they had last seen each other, Denny tracked Karen down on Facebook, eventually flying out to see her again. They were married in 36 hours. Still not content, they contacted the adoption agency and found their daughter. Of his reunited family, Denny told CBS reporters, “We still dance in the kitchen and we always will.” These success stories, previously unthinkable, are now everywhere thanks to the wonders of modern technology. A few years ago, my mother dragged me to Toronto to meet school friends she had not seen since her early twenties. When I finally went to bed at 4 a.m., my chronically overworked, drowsy parents were still giggling like school children in the living room alongside their old pals.
Of course, even though two-thirds of the world now has internet access, we have yet to enter a socially harmonious utopia. In fact, the World Health Organization has called loneliness “a pressing global health threat,” with many public health impacts. Loneliness is linked to a 50% increased chance of developing dementia, a 30% increased risk of coronary artery disease and higher overall mortality. Another study, published in American Psychologist, found that middle aged Americans tend to be even lonelier than their European counterparts. The study’s authors attributed this difference to our nation’s weaker social safety net, higher residential mobility, valorization of rugged individualism and weaker family ties, among other factors.
In the American Medical Association’s Journal of Ethics, Andrew P. Smith and Hasah Alheneidi suggest that social media can both cause and worsen loneliness.
Meta is infamous for its string of controversies. In 2021, a document leak revealed Facebook’s internal studies found that the platform was harmful to the mental health of young teens, particularly girls. The same leak showed that Facebook was aware that its algorithm promoted content that encouraged self-harm and eating disorders. Facebook also regularly collects data on its users, like when it hired contractors to transcribe audio calls or when it partnered with Cambridge Analytica for political advertising purposes. Despite this, the addictive design of social media algorithms means that many of us spend far too much time in front of screens — thus giving companies more data to harvest and sell. Teenagers are once again the most affected; according to Pew Research, 24% of teens are online “almost constantly.”
What does it mean when our deepest expressions of love are now mediated through platforms designed by corporations with no regard for our social well-being? When you miss your partner or your parents or your best friend, the constant convenience of instant communication feels like instant relief. And there are moments — such as during the death of a mutual friend — when instant communication is irreplaceable. But constant contact and expecting our loved ones to always be digitally available is no different than constantly scrolling through social media to avoid even a nanosecond of boredom. Longing, like boredom, is actually a deeply instructive and healthy emotional process. The thousands of love letters sent through the centuries were not merely inferior forms of communication. They were profound meditations on love, born through longing. The uncomfortable, aching absence offers the heart a chance to better understand what is gone.
In the Odyssey, a narrative all about this aching absence, the titular hero travels the world, encountering adventure at every turn. He blinds a cyclops. He encounters tribes of cannibals and lotus eaters. But to me, the Odyssey is not a story about grand heroics. It’s a story about a man who wants to return home. It’s a story about a man who loses twenty years of his life to a war he does not believe in, misses his son’s childhood and watches a generation of Ithacans die abroad— and only survives because he knows Penelope is on the other side and still loves him.
Waiting for letters taught me that I would die in the Odyssey, feats of athleticism aside. Letters demand a patience and faith alien to the instant communications of the modern world. While my partner was gone, I worried constantly about whether they would hate me upon their return. Without quick reassurance, I was forced to address my insecurities and make space for trust. I recalled a moment from the first semester of sophomore year when my arms were infected. Much of the skin had peeled off, they were swollen and they were leaking. We weren’t dating then, but my partner carefully bandaged my arms every night for weeks. If I could trust them then — when we were almost strangers and my body was crumbling — I could trust them forever.
I still have a long journey before I return to New York. Before I leave Delhi, I might see the ancient walls of Red Fort or read my landlord’s decaying books on Mao or I might stuff myself with local Tibetan finger foods. Despite the limits of instant communication, I will still send out calls and WhatsApp chats. But even in this rapid world, there’s still space for the slow handcrafted care of a love letter. I’m still short on antimalarials but I have a fresh pack of pens and a postcard of the Taj Mahal. To my love, I wish you were here.
Statement Contributor Awmeo Azad can be reached at awmeo@umich.edu.
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