It was the evening before Mahalaya, and I was headed home through the thick evening traffic. It had started to rain unexpectedly, and although I was not far from home, the traffic was frustratingly slow. As I stared aimlessly through the car window at the raindrops streaming down the glass, I noticed an old man bent with age, carrying a toolbox. There was something familiar about him.
After taxing my old grey cells, it came back to me. Of course—this was Damu Kaka, as my father had always addressed him.
Growing up, I knew him as the man my father called whenever anything electrical needed repairing, from light fixtures to household appliances. In those days, he was tall and ramrod-straight, with thick-rimmed glasses. He always wore an impeccably ironed, half-sleeved white shirt and black trousers. Perched on his Atlas bicycle, he looked more like a high-ranking executive than an electrical handyman. His dignified manner of speaking made me hold him in high regard.
Whenever he visited our home, my mother would sit him down with a cup of tea, and he and my father would talk at length about everything under the sun. He also ran a small shop on Mori Road where he repaired watches, radios, and all manner of electrical goods. Over the years—especially after I lost my parents—we had lost touch, and eventually I had forgotten about him.
I lowered the window and called out, “Damu Kaka! Look this way!”
It took two more attempts before he turned towards me. I beckoned to him, and he approached hesitantly, unsure whether I was really calling him.
“Do you remember me? I’m Mr. Sen from Navjivan—Block 18.”
He peered at me through his thick glasses. After a moment, recognition dawned on his face.
“Ah! Of course. I remember your parents.”
“It’s raining. Hop in—I can give you a lift if you’re heading towards Mahim.”
He thought for a moment before accepting my offer. By the time he got into the car, he was quite drenched.
“Thank you. I didn’t expect it to rain,” he said.
Although he had aged considerably, he still carried that familiar air of dignity.
As we inched through the traffic, Damu Kaka and I caught up with each other. His wife had died a few years earlier, and his children now lived far away. Life had become somewhat lonely, he admitted, but the repair shop kept him occupied. He had stopped making house calls almost a decade ago, and failing eyesight and a slight tremor in his hands no longer allowed him to work on delicate circuit boards or watch mechanisms. Still, whenever his health permitted, he opened the shop for a few hours each day.
“Your father was very interested in sound engineering,” he said. “He had an old reel-to-reel tape recorder that he loved. I repaired it several times, and we had many interesting discussions about tape recorders and speakers. He was even on a listening panel at Philips, evaluating the sound quality of their speakers.”
I smiled. That sounded exactly like Baba. “He also had an old radio,” Damu Kaka continued. “I repaired it quite a few times—especially at this time of year. Before Mahalaya, he always wanted me to check the tuning and make sure it would receive the Akashvani broadcast clearly.”
His words brought a flood of memories. There would be a commotion in our home at around three in the morning, with my grandmother waking everyone. Baba would assume the role of radio operator, turning the dial ever so carefully from side to side. My mother, sister, and grandmother would hover around him, willing him to find the precise spot where the broadcast would emerge clearly through the static.
Even now, I could picture the scene: my grandmother with a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders; my grandfather demanding silence with a raised finger; my mother serving tea; and my sister, still half asleep, fighting unsuccessfully to keep her eyes open. There would be an intermittent whistle and crackle as Baba adjusted the knob. Then, finally, the static would clear and the majestic voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra would fill the room, bringing joy, awe, and emotion all at once. “Nobody touch the radio now. We’ve got it!” someone would announce, and the entire family would settle down to listen.
“You seem lost in thought, young man,” Damu Kaka said, bringing me back to the present.
“Yes,” I replied. “You kept that radio alive for us. That was special.”
By then, we had turned onto Mori Road. The rain had stopped, and the Pujo lights shimmered in the puddles along the street. Volunteers crowded around the pandal, putting the finishing touches in place before the Goddess arrived. “That’s my shop,” Damu Kaka said.
I stopped the car and got out to help him. As he stepped onto the pavement, he turned to me. “Come inside if you have a minute.”
I was eager to get home, but I did not want to refuse him. I followed him obediently.
The shop looked tired and dilapidated. A solitary tube light flickered overhead. Old clocks lined one wall, radio sets were piled on dusty shelves, and a gramophone sat forgotten in a corner. Amid it all was a framed photograph of Damu Kaka as I remembered him: young, handsome, and ramrod-straight beside his Atlas bicycle.
“I’m going to close the shop,” he said. “There is hardly any business now. People don’t repair old watches, radios, or electrical goods as they once did. They replace them. And I cannot work as I used to.”
He reached onto a shelf and carefully lifted down an old Murphy radio. He wiped the dust from its wooden cabinet and placed it in my hands.
“I restored this last year. It still works. I want you to have it.”
I was taken aback.
“No, Damu Kaka, I can’t take this. You keep it. But thank you—that is very thoughtful.”
His expression clouded.
“Take it, young man. Otherwise, all these things will go to waste. I have collected them over a lifetime, and I would rather this one went to a home where people still understand what a radio can mean. Your family loved listening together. It belongs with you.”
He spoke sternly when he saw me reaching for my wallet.
“And no—I want nothing for it.”
I understood that further protest would hurt him. I accepted the radio, thanked him, and promised to visit him again.
When I reached home carrying the Murphy, my wife stared at it in disbelief.
“What have you brought home now?”
“An old radio,” I said.
“I can see that. Why have you brought home an old radio?”
“It’s a long story, dear. Let’s have dinner. We need to wake up early tomorrow.”
She shook her head. “Every Mahalaya, something stranger happens to you. This one may have beaten them all.”
A little before four the next morning, I placed the Murphy on the table and switched it on. My wife went to make tea. The dial glowed a muted amber as I turned the knob slowly from side to side, just as Baba had done all those years ago. Static filled the room, followed by a high, wavering whistle. I adjusted the dial ever so slightly. The noise cleared, and then the unmistakable voice of Birendra Krishna Bhadra emerged from the radio.
For a fleeting moment, they were all there. Dadu raised a finger, demanding silence. Thamma drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders. Ma entered carrying the tea, while my sister fought unsuccessfully to keep her eyes open. Baba leaned towards the radio, guarding the dial as if the slightest touch might make the voice disappear. Damu Kaka did not give me a radio, he gave me a connection to my past.
My wife placed two cups of tea on the table and sat beside me silently. Outside, dawn was beginning to colour the eastern sky in shades of gold and orange. For a little while, before Mori Road stirred awake, we were all together again. Magic still happens at Mori Road.
Happy Pujo, folks!
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