Lifelong bond with a typewriter

THE saying ‘old is gold’ sums up my enduring bond with my typewriter. More than just a machine, it has been a steadfast companion throughout my career, symbolising dedication, perseverance and craftsmanship.

My first job as a document writer in the district courts required a typewriter, but I couldn’t afford a new one. I enquired about a rebuilt model, which was priced at Rs 3,600 — a significant amount at the time. I saved diligently and, in 1987, finally purchased it.

After I joined an educational institution in 1988, my typewriter became indispensable. Computers were virtually non-existent, electronic typewriters were rare, and photocopiers were scarce. Students relied on typewriters for assignments, synopses and theses.

Beyond my professional responsibilities, I used my off-hours and holidays to assist students with typing — not just to support my family but also to help those who had no alternative.

The rhythmic clatter of the keys reverberated through my rented room late into the night. Despite neighbours’ complaints — “We can’t sleep with that noise!” — I stood firm because I knew that my efforts were making a difference. Since the institution was in a remote area with no nearby typing services, my typewriter became an essential tool for many people.

As technology advanced, typewriters became obsolete, yet I couldn’t part with mine. I kept it in perfect working condition, regularly cleaning and oiling it. To my grandchildren, I jokingly called it an ‘old computer’. They were fascinated by its clicking keys and how words appeared directly on paper. Even the kids in the neighbourhood marvelled at a machine that functioned without electricity, offering them a glimpse into a world vastly different from their digital reality.

Recently, when I was invited by the principal of a government school to be the chief guest at a prize distribution function, I decided to take my typewriter for a demonstration. The students admired its silvery shine and green keys, eagerly taking pictures as I typed. I introduced them to the pangram, “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” which had every letter of the alphabet. Many students brought their name slips to be typed for affixing in their notebooks, their enthusiasm reaffirming that this old machine could still spark curiosity.

Now 38 years old, it shows signs of wear and tear yet remains functional. Though I no longer use it for professional purposes, I occasionally type a few lines just to hear its familiar sound, evoking memories of long nights spent at work, when every mistake required careful correction and precision was paramount.

After retiring last year, I moved to my native place and parted with many belongings — but not the typewriter. Despite several offers, I have refused to sell it. As long as it stays with me, a much-cherished part of my past remains alive.

Musings