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.
