Murphy and me

Cirsa 1972. A Mumbai suburb with predominantly middle class inhabitants , a mix of Gujarati, Maharashtrian , south Indian and the necessary anglo Indian Mary, Janet and John thrown in for good measure. It was the usual short walk from School. While the late evening hues bathed the land, the dark clouds hovering across the skies meant imminent rain. It also meant a delightful and complete drenching. Soon , slow and tiny droplets of water fell on my face . I hummed ". Rain drops are falling on my head " and walked briskly. It turned into a deluge. With B J Thomas on my lips , I trudged along, gleefully enjoying the rain. The new notebooks, probably, felt my joy too! After a quick wash and drying upon reaching home, I was ready. It sat there majestically as usual. The baby with finger on her cheeks was her brand logo. Hope I got the gender right! Occupying the pride of place, up on a special wall mounted stand. The Murphy radio was any family's window to the outside world. Likewise of many during those days. Its design was unlike the chip based ones of later years but had those small glass tubes with diodes inside. Obstinate it was occasionally and my unskilled hands , often, managed to goad it back to life. Radio is a listening devise. The voices of many came across to you even as you went about your chores. Anywhere, inside the house. But I could have none of that. I perched on top of a stool which itself was on top of a table. It had to be that way. Up and close to the Murphy than you would dare to be today, near the the idiot box. Brain Jhonston's majestic voice boomed as he described John Snow thundering in to bowl to Farook Engineer. I sat riveted. Jhonston, Allen Macgilvray and Lindsey Hasset kept company as the Murphy teleported me to the Lords cricket ground. I am sure, but for my Murphy , India would have lost many more matches those days! Other days and back home, the mesmerising voice of Bobby Thalyarkhan, the erudite Anand Settlevad and mercurial Raju Bharatan filled my home. The latter is now a bollywood music historian. The after dinner desert, indulgently served to my mom and me by my sis,every night, was the aap ke farmaish with Murphy tuned in to Vivid bharati. Without Ameen Sayani and Binaca geetmala , no Wednesday was allowed to transit to Thursday. Rewind to mid 1969, and you would have found me perched on the infamous stool listening to VOA streaming live the landing of Apollo 11 on the moon. As Armstrong spoke his, now immortal, line about a small step for man but a giant leap for mankind, I kissed my Murphy and became forever passionate about space and the cosmos. The baby with a finger on her cheeks , surely, played a part in making me whatever it is that I am. Over the years and when the diodes stopped blinking for ever, and when the ladies of the house un emotionally wanted Murphy to be given to the maid, I respectfully, draped it with cloth and placed it in the cupboard for long as I can recall. Truly, we never really parted.