My dear voice from the past

There is an ancient radio in my house, becoming more ancient by the day as I join the senior citizens’ group. What used to occupy pride of place long ago is now resting in one corner of the house, gathering dust. It still has a little bit of life left, and makes some plaintive sounds when switched on. Logic says I should let it go, but there are so many memories attached to my dear Murphy radio that I cannot imagine our house without it.

I must have been around 5 years old when the radio arrived at our house. All of us gathered around as my father opened the carton and lifted out the radio. The carton had a picture of a very pretty baby with curly hair, one chubby finger touching the side of his/her lip. I must have fallen in love with the radio just at the sight of that lovely baby. My father placed it on the table, plugged it in and then moved some dials and suddenly there was music in the room. My little sister, wearing a pretty frilled frock, swayed instantly to the sound of the music – I can remember the scene as if it was yesterday, rather than over 50 years ago. I also recall being entranced by the back of the radio, waiting to see the singer and the musicians walking out from there at the end of their performance.

The radio was a complicated one – one side was the knob for powering it on or off and the volume control, and the other side had a dial/knob combination. The knob could move to 12 different bands and the dial could be adjusted to choose different stations. There was a tiny green display window and when the tuning was adjusted to make the sound clearer, the display would change to a fine line. How much fun we had moving the dial a bit and watching this thin line undulating! In these times when 2-year-olds are able to swipe and select YouTube videos of their choice, the simple things that entertained us when we were young must feel infantile, but I can still remember the satisfaction I would get as I fiddled with the dial till the thin green light steadied, and the music became crystal clear.

This was of course only after I grew older and was allowed to touch the radio. As the radio became a part of the family, our lives adjusted around the timings of various programmes, and all my memories of my childhood include the radio as a permanent member of our household. One of my earliest memories is of my parents silently crying as they listened to Melville De Mellow’s commentary at Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru’s funeral. We learnt to keep track of schedules so that we did not miss our favourite programmes. We knew the timings for the Cadbury’s Bournvita Quiz contest with Hamid Sayani that all of us listened to, as also the Double or Quit that entertained the entire family.

Our dinner time was after the Binaca Geet Mala on Wednesdays, and I remember sitting and religiously noting down all 18 songs for my friend who was not allowed to listen to the radio as it distracted her from her studies. We listened to the 15 minutes Inspector Eagle play episodes that my father tolerated impatiently, and he would change to a different channel as soon as this quite noisy programme  was followed by Hawa Mahal. Till today, I can recall the screeching sounds that were the background music for Inspector Eagle arriving by car somewhere, and the beginning notes of Hawa Mahal. The National Programme of Music was my parents’ favourite programme and as kids, we groaned when it came on, falling asleep listening to stalwarts of those times. Today, as I enjoy Carnatic and Hindustani music, I am so grateful for those broadcasts that opened up this amazing world to us. 

I can remember listening to the commentary on all 5 days of cricket Test matches, often being assigned the duty of noting down all relevant details when wickets fell – who took the wicket, who was out, at how many runs, in which over and so on, for my brother who sometimes had to miss out on some commentary while running errands or playing with friends. The Srilanka Broadcasting Corporation would play entire soundtracks of Hindi film music. If my mother heard our school bus arrive just while one of our favourite songs was aired, she would increase the volume so that we could hear the song from the gate and then race into the house to listen to either Zeenat Aman being invited on to the stage to sing in Yaadon Ki Baarat, or to drool over Rajesh Khanna saying ‘Gaao’ to Sharmila Tagore in Amar Prem. 

Waiting for our favourite songs was somehow so much more exciting than just browsing and locating the songs of our choice online. My sister and I would always have a notebook handy to jot down the lyrics, leaving gaps wherever the songs went too fast for us, to be filled up the next time the song came on air. BBC and Voice of America were other channels we listened to, and I have spent hours in front of the radio, just changing bands and then fiddling with the tuner to locate other stations in far away places. The sound of the kookaburra for Radio Australia or the announcer saying ‘Radio Moscow’ transported me to other worlds. 

My mother always said that she knew when I awoke because the radio would instantly be turned on. Many years after I was married and had left home, I was thrilled when my parents, while moving to another house, gave the radio to me. One day, I am sure it will be able to capture VoA (as we knew Voice of America) – till then I shall let it sit in one corner as a storehouse of many fond memories.

Coping in these strange times

 

For the past few weeks, things have been spinning beyond my control. Various friends are, along with me, coping with the frailty of their elderly parents. A friend is reaching the last dose of chemotherapy while another friend just went in for her first dose and is struggling with the after-effects of the onslaught on her body. My brother is not well; we haven’t had much to say to each other for the past 15 years, but I still feel lousy knowing that he’s reacting badly to the heavy medication and is feeling debilitated.  Family and friends are testing +ve, with or without symptoms, but it is still worrying. 

How does one stay positive in times like these? Earlier I used to wake up already looking forward to my workout. I always loved knowing that I had a busy day coming up, and managed to squeeze so much more into a day that was predominantly taken over by an 8-hour work schedule. Now, instead of looking forward to a day that is devoid of any pre-ordained programme, I loll around in bed looking for just one hook to my day. A video call with friends, a concert or a talk online at a fixed time, a friend dropping in, even if for something as inane as borrowing some yarn, gives me that one hook around which I can plan my day. It is not that I am bored, or don’t know how to keep myself occupied, but leisurely activities like knitting or reading or listening justify that adjective ‘leisure’ only when they are book-marked by some activities that make me feel useful. This is something I thought I had learnt to work around and I should have by now.. my knitting and other handwork is helping me produce some beautiful creations, my reading is definitely helping me firm up my convictions,  and my listening has helped me grow as a person. Why am I not able to do it without feeling that at least one part of my day got wasted?

To answer the question that started the previous paragraph, I have started doing more jigsaw puzzles and word games, and solving fewer crosswords. While talking to Supriya today (our talks always make me think and we really should talk more often), I realised that the puzzles and word games (thank you, Mr.Wardle for Wordle) are easier to complete and that helps as I feel like I am actually in control of at least some things. I am binge-watching animated musicals – just knowing that it all ends well at the end is so reassuring. This is probably what makes me watch selected bits and pieces of Dil To Pagal Hai or Notting Hill or Pretty Woman.  

The latest issue of Caravan arrived last week and it has been lying on my table. It has the UP CM on the cover, looking particularly malevolent, and I know that it’s going to be very difficult reading this issue of the magazine. The news from UP over the past few months (years?) has been horrifying and this article on the Reign of Terror will probably touch on all those news items – I know I should be informed, and I know I have an opinion but I just do not have the headspace just now to read even one line of the article.  Easier to sit and re-read the Little Prince for the 100^th time, or Pride and Prejudice for the 1000^th time. It makes me an escapist, right? Never mind, it also keeps me ready to wake up and face tomorrow and the day-after. 

Pongal - the Harvest Festival

I dig further and further into the soil and arrive at the base of the turmeric root. I am thrilled when I scoop it up and lay it out on the tray – the smell of fresh turmeric mixed with red damp soil is amazing, and takes me right back to my childhood and the tradition of ‘manjal keethal’.  Aunts, young cousins, neigbourhood maamis and their daughters would drop in during the day with their own tiny piece of raw turmeric, and my mother would rub the tuber on their foreheads while chanting some blessings.  Knowing the times, I am sure the blessings for the married with children to remain sumangalis, the married women yet to have children were probably blessed with a hundred sons, and the unmarried youngsters would have been blessed so they could get married soon.  I don't know if turmeric was grown easily and harvested around the same time in Calcutta, but it is more likely that the turmeric was freshly brought in from Tamil Nadu.

In Calcutta, in the area around Lake Market where most South Indians lived, and where even the South Indians from Alipore came shopping, Pongal was celebrated as traditionally as possible. Fresh turmeric, turmeric leaves, sugar cane – suddenly all these Pongal essentials would be available in the stores. I am sure they did not come cheap, but there really was no option – we just had to have these items ready. The leaves had to be tied around the pot in which milk would be boiled on Sankaranti morning. On the day, we would all gather around the stove to say Pongal o Pongal while the milk boiled up to the top and then overflowed a bit (often drenching one part of the gas burner, making the burner quite ineffective for a few days). We would also watch as the flames came dangerously close to the leaves and the smell of roasted turmeric leaves was part of the olfactory experience I associated with Pongal for a long time. 

After spending a major part of my life in North and East India, I am now living in the South and Pongal traditions are finally making sense to me. Turmeric is harvested around Sankaranti, as are sweet potatoes, and sugar cane, and rice. The Chakkara Pongal can be made with freshly harvested rice and pulses and sweetened with freshly made jaggery. I can truly appreciate why Pongal is a Harvest Festival. 

Did we celebrate Pongal and other Tamilian festivals in Kolkata with more rigidity than warranted? Did our parents, and we later as parents, feel like we were losing out on our connection to our roots if we did not maintain the same rituals and traditions.