The Life and Time of a Radio: A Memoir

chillibreeze writer — Vinitta Mathew

It must be as old as my grandfather. I remember the radio, ever since my memory was old enough to remember things. A black, rustic looking contraption with two tape decks sporting orange centers that I used to imagine were its eyes and two big, grey knobs on either side that looked like its ears. I can't remember if it could ever smile though. I like to think of it as a serious radio.

Listening to the radio was not just routine for my grandfather. It was his radio that made him feel alive.

The radio would be up and running at 5 am everyday. It was my grandfather's little way of letting the house know that the day is all ours, to seize by its horns.

As kids on vacation, we found that this crackling put us right back to sleep. A silly assurance that our grandpa is up to protect us from all the creepy, gooey, crawly tormentors that the night brings with it.

The only time the radio ever interested us, was when it was either too hot or rainy to go out and play. We enjoyed twisting and turning all the knobs and switches, this way and that and then laughing to see our poor grandfather struggling to revive it.

If I were to close my eyes now, to imagine my grandfather, I can picture him seated on his brown chair, his shiny bald head tilted devotedly towards the radio, face impassive. Like a priest in a confessional, like lovers sharing a secret.

My grandfather began losing his sight when he turned 70. It was a slow process. An inch of darkness budging in with every passing year. He used to be a very strong, very active man and it worried him immensely. He grew all the more dependent on his radio. Like a pain balm promising some temporary relief.

It happened one afternoon. My grandfather's radio went dead. He feared death for the first time that day. He could almost smell it, taste it.

My grandfather refused to accept that his beloved radio was gone. Every day he would take the radio in his hand and prod and cajole it to talk back to him. Even the faintest sound from it would excite him.

Once when I called home to chat with him, he asked me if I could get him a pocket radio. Only if it wasn't too much of a trouble, he said. I said I will. The week went by in a blur. It was only on the day before I left for home that I remembered about the radio. I rushed to the first electronic shop I saw and chose the only model available with them, with a 'Made in China' sticker. It cost me about 125 rupees and took me barely 5 minutes. A hasty purchase that meant nothing to me then. The look on his face was priceless when I gave it to him that day. A month later, I heard from my mother that the pocket radio never worked at all.

He never lost hope that he would one day bring back his old friend. He kept trying and he even left the switch on all the time. Just in case life struck at the oddest of moments.

My grandfather breathed his last during his sleep on a Sunday after Easter. He was long gone by the time the doctor arrived.

The house was teeming with people the next day. People going in and people going out and a hundred things to do before the funeral. We were in his room cleaning up, when we heard it. A cough, a sputter, some more sputtering, and then it crackled back to life. A life that didn't mean a thing to anybody. But to me it did, to me it meant a whole lot.

Just then my uncle came into the room and pulled out the plug.

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—About our writer:

Vinitta,

A creative writer & editor with 4.8 years of work experience and a post grad degree in Mass comm. Have donned the grease-paint of a travel writer with Tourism India, corp comm associate with Ernst & Young, proof reader with McKinsey, trainee roles in print & visual media, Mktng Comm associate with IBS. Loves writing poetry, short stories, articles, features, reading, music, food, Jhumpa Lahiri, Calvin & Hobbes, travel, films.

The Life and Time of a Radio: A Memoir

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