top of page
Search
Writer's pictureThe Greedy Reader

The Magic Box

I have a completely irrational love for typewriters. In spite of never having owned or used one, I’m overcome by the desire to possess one of these machines. I remember people from my parents’ generation lamenting at the mess associated with the typewriter, especially ink stains on fingers and clothes. But those very factors increased their desirability. I secretly admired these quirky machines that could create such havoc in the lives of adults.


For a few years in my early childhood we stayed in an old house, with large rooms, a terracotta tiled roof and a mango tree in the compound. My father’s office was on the top floor and we resided on the ground floor. Not a very conducive environment from a child’s point of view due to the increased number of adults in the vicinity. However my brother and I still managed to circumvent this obstacle. I have fond memories of my brother climbing onto the roof of the two-storey building and getting his foot trapped between the roofing tiles. Caused quite an uproar, with adults converging from all directions, but it was well worth the scoldings we later received, for the absolutely high adventure quotient. I digress. Steering the story back to my typewriter-love, my father’s office was the first place I met this beautiful machine. We were expressly forbidden from going upstairs and disturbing the hard working ‘uncles’ in that serious environment. Mostly we followed this rule. However, there were rare occasions when tootling around in familiar environs got boring and I would sneak upstairs . As long as I stayed out of my father’s orbit it was fine. The uncles would spare us indulgent glances before returning to their work. My favourite character was the diminutive Gopi uncle who was the typist. He had twinkling eyes and the most welcoming smile. I remember gazing with rapt attention at his wizardry with the typewriter.


Gopi uncle was the brilliant commander who conquered vast swathes of pristine white paper with his

alphabet soldiers. Staccato taps on the keys let loose an army of alphabets onto the paper. They huddled in groups big and small and a few brave soldiers stood alone. The font was so beautiful and each alphabet had a distinct character, with jovial O’s and straight-laced A’s giving each other company.

The entire process, starting with inserting glossy inky blue carbon paper between the crisp sheets of white paper, rolling it smartly into the typewriter with just the edge sticking out, the staccato typing, the confident whack on the side of the machine to bring the paper back to the right side, all this combined to form a beautifully choreographed routine. Gopi uncle had a small cloth that he used to wipe his fingers from time to time. Those were the days when somebody would convert the boss’ words into squiggles of shorthand, which was then typed out into language that could be deciphered by mere mortals. And that was another source of astonishment to me. Mysterious swirls crammed into tiny pieces of paper was perused by Gopi uncle before he started firing away at the typewriter and churning out torrents of words. How could I not think that he was anything other than a magician !

I’m amazed when I look back now and realize that I never tried my hand at typing, even though Gopi uncle would surely have indulged me if I’d asked. This speaks volumes for the degree of reverence with which I viewed typewriters, since I was a very curious child and believed in poking my nose into everything.

My next tryst with a typewriter happened when my father gifted a Brother typewriter to my older sibling, who had just started out on a career in journalism. It was a very compact model with its own cover and looked quite sleek. But I had already given my heart to Gopi Uncle’s old machine and the new aspirant was not stately enough to take its place.

I live in the hope of getting my hands on a working typewriter. I plan to type out my poems and posts on it, and dream of getting inducted in the secret society of typists, where ink-stained fingers and smudged clothes are badges of honour. I feel that somehow my words will be infused with the magic that resides in typewriters.


18 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Comentários


bottom of page