Tale of a typewriter

RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE

I have a steel almirah that contains my coveted possessions. I opened it the other day and unlocked the “safe” compartment. Inside rested a small, grey typewriter wrapped in an old saree. A Baby Hermes in perfect condition. I touched the miniature keyboard and remembered the stories it had typed out for me. Stories that were never published. Poems that poured out of my heart. The little grey Hermes held many secrets.

I bought it from a friend who was returning to Germany. Until I got it, I had written all my stories on long full scape sheets of brown paper which were all I could afford as a student. Surprisingly, they were accepted by The Illustrated Weekly of India whose editor Mr Sean Mandy wrote nice ‘thank you’ notes urging me to write more. I still have copies of those early struggles with writing.

When I acquired this Baby Hermes, I had already quit three jobs. One was an administrative post for which I was highly unsuitable. The second was a teaching post in a leave vacancy which terminated when the “lawful incumbent” returned. The third was a librarian’s post offered on the strength of the little German I knew. I lost this as well when I hopelessly mixed up returned books with the new arrivals.

That is when my Baby Hermes came to life. I began pounding away short stories and poems for various newspapers. I quickly collected countless rejection slips. Realisation slowly dawned that I was no RK Narayan or Percy Bysshe Shelley. So, I got down to the business of writing serious articles on matters of public interest. The Hermes typed out the very first of these called “The selling of education.”

Walking down MG Road one day, I saw this box inviting contributions. I dropped my piece inside and waited for the rejection slip. Imagine my joy on seeing the article splashed across the front page of the Sunday Herald with a full column of Murthy’s matchless cartoons. My little Hermes had launched me on an exciting career from which there was no turning back.

I decided to join a shorthand-typewriting class and found one in a small lane near the busy Subedar Chatram Road. It was called Sastry’s Institute for Boys and Girls. One could hear the teacher’s booming voice above the roar of traffic on the adjoining road. He would shout “A_S_D_F_G” over and over until I learned to type those five letters blindfolded. I have never faced a public exam with greater trepidation than my Junior typing where I failed in “practicals.” I did not even know how to change the typewriter ribbon!