World Radio Day Today–My Love Affair with The Radio (Part 1)
It’s World Radio Day today. I am full of nostalgia as memories sparkle, like stars blooming in the velvety nights of Kashmir.
Picture this: It’s a little past 3 pm, and the day is crisp – the kind of crisp that makes the air feel alive, carrying with it the faint scent of earth and smoke.
The kitchen is kutcha, its walls painted with the earthy aroma of muddy water, a scent that feels ancient, grounding, as if the very soil has seeped into the room. My mother sits in the corner, her hands moving rhythmically, kneading flour into a soft, pliable mound. Few doughs rest on a plate dusted with flour that keeps it from clinging to the surface. In the corner, the Daanbur—a traditional stove—crackles and hums, its flames dancing like mischievous spirits, leaping and twirling, playing a game only they understand.
The twigs and wood snap and hiss, their burning scent mingling with the earthy air, creating a symphony of warmth and nostalgia. The firelight flickers, casting golden shadows on the walls, painting the room in hues of amber and ochre. The ghee glistens and melts in a small cup, fondly called chin pyalie, perched delicately on a pan resting atop the Daanbur, the traditional stove that crackles with life.
The flames dance beneath, their warmth infusing the air with a comforting, buttery aroma that seem to wrap the kitchen in a golden embrace. All these are part of my childhood memories, and what truly brought the household to life was the radio – a steadfast companion in every home, its voice echoing from the crack of dawn until the stars claimed the night. It was the heartbeat of the home, a constant hum of news, music, and stories that wove itself into the fabric of daily life.
I was just a child then, sitting cross-legged on the floor, sharing breakfast with my parents and grandparents. The radio would blare its morning messages, and I, too young to understand, would tilt my head in confusion. The women’s voices, melodic yet foreign, would chant, “Subhuk Payaam soanie, shireen kalaam soanie, bouziv ti shaad roziv, Shireen kalaam soanie.payaam- e Subahi.” To my innocent ears, it sounded like some mysterious Ladakhi incantation, a language of enchantment that I couldn’t decipher.
Among the three treasures of my childhood—the Daanbur, the chini pyalie, and the Radio—none have survived the relentless march of time. They have faded into the annals of memory, relics of a bygone era that once defined the rhythm of our lives.
The Regal Radio
The radio always held a special place in my heart. I was captivated by its magic, its ability to conjure voices and melodies from thin air.
My grandfather, a man of simple pleasures, owned a small radio that he kept in an empty tea bag—a peculiar, sack-like pouch with the imprint of tea leaves on its fabric. It hung delicately to a nail in our old house, a humble vessel for something so extraordinary.
I still remember the day my grandfather rummaged through that bag, his hands pulling out forgotten treasures. Among them was a watch, heavy and archaic, its weight surprising in my small hands. He told me it needed to be wound with a key to come alive – a notion that, at the time, failed to amuse my youthful curiosity. And then, he revealed the radio—a sleek, black device, elegantly designed, its surface gleaming with a quiet sophistication. It was beautiful, almost regal, and I was instantly mesmerized. From that moment, I harboured a dream, a burning desire to possess that radio at any cost.
It wasn’t just an object to me; it was a portal to a world of stories, songs, and voices that felt both intimate and infinite. The radio symbolized something greater—a connection to my grandfather, to the past, and to the simple joys that once filled our home.
Even now, as I think back, the image of that black radio lingers in my mind, evidence to a time when life moved slower, and the smallest things held the greatest magic. Alas, I never mustered the courage to ask him for that radio.
What truly brought the household to life was the radio – a steadfast companion in every home, its voice echoing from the crack of dawn until the stars claimed the night
It wasn’t fear that held me back, but a strange, unspoken reverence—a sense that some treasures were meant to remain where they were, untouched, as if asking for it would somehow break the spell it held over me. So, I contented myself with listening, absorbing every word, every note that spilled from its speakers.
Airwaves and Ghazals
I became a devoted follower of programs on the radio, my young mind meticulously memorizing the schedule – knowing exactly which show would air and when. The radio was my companion, my teacher, my window to a world beyond the confines of our home.
From a tender age, I was enchanted by Urdu ghazals. The soulful melodies, the poignant verses, the way each word seemed to carry the weight of a thousand emotions – it all resonated deeply within me. The radio brought these ghazals to life, their haunting beauty filling the air and weaving themselves into the fabric of my childhood. I would sit for hours, lost in the cadence of the poetry, the rise and fall of the singer’s voice, the delicate strumming of the sitar or the harmonium in the background. It was more than just music; it was an experience, a journey into the heart of something intense.
Those moments by the radio were pure magic. Even now, the thought of it brings a bittersweet ache – a /longing for those simpler days, for the sound of my grandfather’s voice humming along to a naat, for the warmth of the Daanbur and the glistening chini pyalie. The radio may have vanished, but its echoes remain, a timeless melody that still plays softly in the corners of my heart.
Radio Kashmir Srinagar Was An Emotion
Ah, Radio Kashmir Srinagar it wasn’t just a station; it was an emotion, a lifeline that connected us to the pulse of our culture, our stories, and our shared humanity. The anchors and broadcasters were not just voices on the airwaves; they were institutions unto themselves, pillars of wisdom and eloquence. Their words flowed like a river, smooth and unerring, carrying with them the weight of authority and the grace of artistry.
I used to imagine their faces the way an artist sketches from memory, shaping jawlines with syllables, filling in eyes with intonations, and tracing smiles from the warmth or sharpness in their speech. It was as if they had been sculpted by the very essence of their craft, their dedication evident in every syllable, every pause, every inflection. I often marveled at their precision, their flawless delivery, whether it was the crisp morning news or the evocative segments of “Aaj Ki Surkhiyan”.
Mistakes were unheard of, as though the very air of Radio Kashmir Srinagar was imbued with a kind of magic that shielded it from error.
My Enchanted Memories
Each day began with the meticulous announcement of the day’s program roster, a ritual that felt both ceremonial and intimate. The broadcaster’s voice, steady and assured, would unfurl the schedule like a map, guiding us through the hours ahead.
It was a promise, a pledge that no matter what the day held, Radio Kashmir Srinagar would be there, a constant in an ever-changing world.The fluency of the anchors was not just a testament to their skill but a reflection of their deep connection to their work.
They didn’t just read scripts; they breathed life into them, their voices carrying the weight of history, the warmth of familiarity, and the spark of curiosity. They were masters of their craft, and their dedication was a quiet reminder of the power of passion and perseverance. The anchors were maestros, their voices mellifluous and magnetic, weaving words that didn’t just reach the ears but touched the very strings of the heart. Each program was a masterpiece, carefully crafted to resonate with listeners of all ages, from wide-eyed children to wise elders who had seen the world unfold.
I remember Ghazal Usne Chaidi, a program that felt like a warm embrace for the soul. The ghazals, with their intricate poetry and soulful melodies, would transport me to a world where every word was a brushstroke, painting emotions I could barely name.
A Universe Of Programs
But Radio Kashmir Srinagar was more than just ghazals. It was a universe of programs, each catering to a different facet of life. There was Dhadkan, anchored by the brilliant Humayun Qaisar—a thrilling quiz show that kept listeners on the edge of their seats. The excitement of participants answering questions, the tension in the air, and the joy of learning something new made it a favourite in every household
For women, there was “Bazm-e-Niswa”, a platform where voices often unheard found their space. Women from all walks of life would share their stories, their struggles, and their triumphs, creating a tapestry of experiences that felt both personal and universal. And then there were programs for children, where young voices giggled, sang, and recited poetry, filling the air with innocence and hope.
(Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi lives in Ganderbal. When not engaged in life’s busier pursuits, he is most happy daydreaming or weaving nostalgia)