My Love Affair With Radio

(MENAFN- Kashmir Observer)
My Love Affair with radio

By Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi

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 ghee would glisten and melt in a small cup, fondly called chin pyalie , perched delicately on a pan resting atop the Daanbur, the traditional stove that crackled with life. The flames danced beneath, their warmth infusing the air with a comforting, buttery aroma that seemed to wrap the kitchen in a golden embrace. But 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.

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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- e subahi' ” To my innocent ears, it sounded like some mysterious Ladakhi incantation, a language of enchantment that I couldn't decipher.

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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. Of these, the radio held a special place in my heart. I was utterly 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 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. But 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 that moment, I harbored 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, an 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. 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. I became a devoted follower of its programs, 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 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 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.

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 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.

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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 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 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. 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.

Ah,“ Hello Aapki Farmayish” -a program that wasn't just a show, but a celebration of connection, music, and the sheer joy of being heard. It was a jope for countless listeners, a space where dreams met reality, even if only for a few precious minutes. Anchored by the ever-graceful RJ Sakeena, the program was a symphony of voices, laughter, and melodies, a tapestry woven with the threads of countless hearts yearning to be part of something magical.

The premise was simple, yet it carried the weight of a thousand emotions. Listeners would call the radio station, hoping, praying, that their call would be the one to make it through the labyrinth of busy signals and endless rings. The competition was fierce, for the number of callers was always too many, and the chance to connect with RJ Sakeena felt like winning a golden ticket to a world of dreams. Months could pass before luck finally smiled upon a caller, but when it did, oh, what a moment it was!

The air would crackle with anticipation as the lucky listener's voice came through the speakers, trembling with excitement, their words tumbling out in a rush of joy and nervousness. RJ Sakeena, with her warm, inviting voice, would greet them like an old friend, her laughter a soothing balm to their racing hearts. The conversations that followed were nothing short of beautiful-raw, heartfelt, and brimming with the kind of authenticity that only the radio could capture.

Listeners, often artisans with calloused hands and stories etched into their souls, would share snippets of their lives with RJ Sakeena. They would speak of their struggles, their joys, their dreams, and, of course, their favorite songs. These weren't just songs; they were memories, emotions, pieces of their lives that they wanted to share with the world. And when RJ Sakeena played those songs, it was as if she was unlocking a treasure chest of emotions, letting the music spill out and fill the airwaves with love, longing, and nostalgia.

The joy of the listeners knew no bounds. For them, hearing their favorite song on the radio, requested by their own voice, was a moment of pure magic. It was validation, a reminder that their voice mattered, that their story was worth telling. And when the song played, they would often share the moment with friends and family, turning it into a collective celebration, a memory to be cherished for years to come.

The program“ Gaemii Bayan Hiend Khatri Program” was a jewel in the crown of Radio Kashmir Srinagar, a cherished program of wisdom and guidance that reached deep into the hearts of the villagers episode began with a sacred invocation-the Tilawat-e-Quran Pak, its verses flowing like a river of divine light, setting the tone for what was to come. The recitation was followed by a soul-stirring Naat-e-Shareef, its melodic praise of the Prophet (peace be upon him) wrapping the listeners in a blanket of spiritual warmth. These opening moments were more than rituals; they were a reminder of the program's roots in faith and its commitment to uplifting the soul before the mind came the heart of the program-the voices of the two anchors, steady and wise, like seasoned farmers sowing seeds of knowledge. Their discussions were plethora of topics, woven with care and insight, designed to educate, inspire, and empower. They spoke of farming techniques, of soil and seasons, of crops and care words were not just instructions; they were stories, anecdotes, and lessons drawn from the earth itself, shared with a warmth that made every listener feel seen and valued.

The program was a masterclass in community building, a space where the wisdom of the past met the innovations of the present. It taught farmers how to nurture their land, how to adapt to changing times, and how to harness the power of tradition to create a better future. It was a program that didn't just speak to the villagers-it spoke for them, amplifying their voices and addressing their needs with a sincerity that resonated deeply.

But nothing quite compared to the anticipation of “Shaherbeen” . The moment the anchor's voice would ring out,“ Apni ghadiyan milayien, Shaherbeen time, the entire household would fall silent. It was more than a program; it was an event. The husky, commanding voice of the newsreader had an aura that was impossible to ignore. It was as if the world paused to listen, every word carrying the weight of the day's events, every sentence delivered with a gravitas that demanded attention room would fall into a hushed silence, a sanctuary where even the slightest disturbance was an unwelcome intruder.

I remember, with vivid clarity, the sharp, metallic clink of a ladle brushing against a pot in the kitchen-a sound so innocuous, yet so jarring in that moment of collective focus. My father's head would snap toward the source of the noise, his gaze fierce and piercing, like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. It was as if the accidental sound of utensils had committed a grave offense, daring to disrupt the sanctity of the broadcast. Such was the gravity of those evenings.

In our home, the radio was more than just a device-it was a constant hum of life, a pulse that never faded except when the *Azaan* soared through the air, silencing everything in its sacred embrace. As night tiptoed in, wrapping the world in its quiet solitude, I longed for the radio to be mine, to have its crackling voice as my companion in those lonely hours.

But fate had its own ways. My father, drawn to the magic of late-night Kashmiri dramas, often kept it by his side, his face illuminated by the soft glow of its dial, lost in the world it wove. When he was done, the radio would pass into my sister's hands. Yet, time and again, I would hear his familiar voice calling out,“ Tala ye radio di bayas”-(Give this radio to your brother) . And the moment it landed in my grasp, my heart would soar, lifting me straight to cloud nine.

Oh, how his voice would wash over me like a river of honey, smooth and golden, carrying with it stories that seemed to breathe and bleed. Neelesh Misra was not just a narrator; he was a magician, weaving words into worlds. His tales, crafted by the Mandli-a circle of writers he mentored with care-were not mere stories. They were fragments of life, love, and longing, each one a masterpiece painted with the colors of human emotion.

I was in the 11^th grade then, a time when the heart is both tender and tempestuous. As I listened, I would lose myself in the labyrinth of love stories, each one more poignant than the last. The background music, a symphony of strings and sighs, would rise and fall with the rhythm of the narrative, while classic songs, carefully chosen to mirror the mood, would tug at my soul. It was as if the radio had become a portal, transporting me to a realm where every note, every word, was alive with meaning. Those nights were not just about listening; they were about losing myself, about finding pieces of me hidden in words, about living a hundred lives in the span of a single hour. When Neelesh Misra's voice would fade, and the melodies would take over, it felt as though my soul was being carried away on a gentle breeze, floating through time and space, unmoored and free. Those moments were pure magic, a symphony of sound and sentiment that I would carry with me long after the radio had been turned off.

Even now, as I write these words, I can hear the faint echo of those nights-the crackle of the radio, the warmth of my father's voice, the haunting beauty of Neelesh Misra's storytelling. Ah, the bittersweet symphony of dreams and destiny! Neelesh Misra wasn't just a voice on the radio for me-he was a beacon, a guiding star that lit up the path to my own creative awakening. His stories didn't just entertain; they stirred something deep within me, a quiet yearning to weave my own tales, to pour my heart onto paper and let it breathe. And so, in the throes of my 11^th-grade year, I dared to dream. I dared to write.

I remember it vividly, as though it were yesterday. The air was thick with inspiration, and my mind buzzed with the electricity of a story waiting to be told. It was a love story-raw, tender, and achingly real. I poured my soul into it, every word a heartbeat, every sentence a sigh. The characters came alive in my mind, their joys and sorrows spilling onto the page as I scribbled furiously, my pen dancing to the rhythm of my emotions. It was my debut, my first attempt at storytelling, and I was convinced it was my ticket to becoming a writer.

With trembling hands and a heart full of hope, I reached out to Neelesh Misra himself. I sent him my story, my little piece of the universe, wrapped in the fragile parchment of my dreams. I imagined him reading it, his voice narrating my words, his listeners captivated by the tale I had spun. It was a dream so vivid, so intoxicating, that it felt almost real.

But fate, as it often does, had other plans. My story, my precious creation, was written on a piece of paper-a paper that found its way into the pocket of my favorite hoodie. And one fateful day, my mother, in her endless quest to keep our lives tidy, washed that hoodie without a second thought. The water seeped into the fabric, and with it, my words dissolved into nothingness. The ink bled, the paper disintegrated, and my story was lost forever, like a whisper carried away by the wind.

I remember the moment I discovered it-the sinking feeling in my chest, the lump in my throat, the sting of tears I refused to shed. It was as though a part of me had been washed away too. That story wasn't just words on paper; it was a piece of my soul, a fragment of my dreams. And yet, in its loss, I found a strange kind of solace. It taught me that stories, like life, are fleeting. They come and go, leaving behind echoes that linger in the heart.

Neelesh Misra's impact on me didn't fade with that lost story. If anything, it grew stronger. He had shown me the power of words, the magic of storytelling, and the courage to dream. And though my debut tale was lost to the whims of a washing machine, it was never truly gone. It lives on in the stories I've written since, in the dreams I continue to chase, and in the belief that one day, my words will find their way to someone who needs them, just as his words found their way to me.

So, here's to lost stories and found dreams, to the hoodies that carry secrets, and to the voices that inspire us to create, to dream, and to believe. Because sometimes, it's not about the story that's lost-it's about the stories that are yet to be written.

Ah, Ramadan-the sacred month that transformed not just our hearts, but also our homes, into sanctuaries of faith, reflection, and togetherness. And at the center of it all, like a faithful companion, was the radio. It wasn't just a device; it was a lifeline, a spiritual guide, and a unifying force that brought every household closer to the essence of Ramadan. During those blessed days, the radio became more than a medium-it became a part of our souls the quiet, predawn hours, when the world was still cloaked in darkness and the stars twinkled like scattered pearls, the radio would come alive. It was time for Sehri, the pre-dawn meal, and the airwaves would hum with the voices of Islamic scholars, their words illuminating our hearts like lanterns in the night. They would speak of the significance of Ramadan, the virtues of fasting, and the importance of intention (neeyat). Their voices, calm and wise, would weave a tapestry of faith, reminding us that Ramadan was not just about abstaining from food and drink, but about purifying the soul, seeking forgiveness, and drawing closer to the Divine we sat together, sharing the simple yet sacred meal of Sehri, the radio would accompany us, its presence as comforting as the warmth of the food. And then, as the time to end Sehri approached, the radio would announce the moment with a solemnity that sent shivers down the spine. The dua for fasting would be recited, its words echoing through the stillness of the morning, filling our hearts with a sense of purpose and devotion. It was a moment of collective spirituality, a reminder that we were all part of something greater, something divine.

But the radio's role didn't end with Sehri. As the day unfolded, it continued to be a source of guidance and inspiration, airing programs that delved into the teachings of Islam, the stories of the Prophets, and the lessons of patience, gratitude, and compassion. It was during these programs that the true spirit of Ramadan came alive, not just in our actions, but in our hearts and minds then, as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and gold, the anticipation for Iftar would grow. The entire household would gather, the air thick with the aroma of dates, kebabs, and freshly fried pakoras. But before we could break our fast, there was one thing we all waited for-the announcement from Radio Kashmir Srinagar. It was as if time itself held its breath, waiting for that moment. The radio's voice, steady and authoritative, would cut through the silence, declaring that it was time to break the fast. That announcement was more than just a signal; it was a guarantee, a trusted marker of time that united every household in the valley joy that followed was indescribable. The first sip of water, the first bite of a date-it was a moment of gratitude, of relief, of connection. And as we sat together, sharing the meal and the blessings of the day, the radio would continue to play, its melodies and messages adding to the warmth of the gathering. It was during these moments that the radio felt less like a machine and more like a member of the family, a silent participant in our prayers, our meals, and our conversations. During my post-graduation days in Dehradun, a strange emptiness settled in my heart every Ramadan-I longed for the familiar voice of **Radio Kashmir Srinagar.** The air felt incomplete without its soulful naats, the rhythmic recitation of the Holy Quran, and the heartfelt Ramadan specials that once echoed through our home.

One evening, lost in nostalgia, my friend decided to bridge the distance between us and our homeland. With a hopeful smile, he fiddled with his phone, searching for a way to tune in. An app-our only lifeline-became the thread connecting us to home. But it was a fickle companion, working in bursts, teasing us with brief moments of joy before fading into silence.

Then, it happened. A sudden burst of static, a flicker of sound-and there it was! Radio Kashmir Srinagar, crackling through the tiny speakers, breaking the miles that separated us. Our joy knew no bounds! We sat there, grinning like children, absorbing every word, every note, as if it carried the scent of home, the warmth of our loved ones, and the spirit of Ramadan itself.

In that moment, Dehradun disappeared. We were home.

Ah, the radio-my first love, my silent confidant, my companion in the quiet hours of the night. There was something inexplicably magical about lying in bed, the room bathed in the soft glow of moonlight, with the radio resting beside me. Its hum, its crackle, its whispers-they were the lullabies that carried me into dreams. It wasn't just sound; it was a feeling, a warmth that wrapped around me like a blanket on a cold winter's night.

The radio was more than a machine; it was a storyteller, a musician, a friend. It carried the voices of strangers who felt like family, the melodies of songs that felt like memories, and the echoes of a culture that was slowly slipping away. It was a lifeline to a world beyond my own, a world where stories were told with passion, where music was played with soul, and where every word, every note, felt like it was meant just for me.

But then, as the years rolled on, the world began to change. The advent of mobile technology in 2013 marked the beginning of a new era-an era of instant gratification, of endless choices, of screens that glowed brighter than the moon. Suddenly, everyone had a mobile device in their hands, and the radio, once a cherished companion, began to fade into the background. Social media platforms, streaming apps like Spotify, YouTube, and YouTube Music became the new norm, offering convenience and variety at the tap of a finger.

And yet, with all their convenience, these platforms lacked something essential-the soul of the radio. They couldn't replicate the feeling of tuning into a live broadcast, of hearing a voice that felt like it was speaking directly to you, of stumbling upon a song or a story that felt like destiny. They couldn't capture the intimacy, the spontaneity, the magic of the radio.

Alas! the radio, which had fought so valiantly to preserve our culture, to keep our stories alive, to connect us in ways that technology never could, began to lose its battle. It was a slow, quiet decline, like the fading of a star in the night sky. But even as its light dimmed, its legacy remained. The radio had done its best to save our culture, to keep our traditions alive, to remind us of who we were and where we came from.

And though the world may have moved on, my love affair with the radio remains. It lives on in the memories of those quiet nights, in the echoes of the stories it told, in the melodies it played. It lives on in the part of me that still longs for the simplicity, the authenticity, the magic of those moments. The radio may have been replaced, but it will never be forgotten. It was, and always will be, my first love.

The author is a columnist and feature writer based in Ganderbal. He X's @peermohdamir

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