Voice Within The Box

As told by-The Refrigerator

“Most of the present younger generation has not had a good fortune of seeing a radio as big as a closet. These closet look a likes sat on top of a large table occupying a place of pride in mid twentieth century average Indian household. And most of these average households of bygone era were filled invariably, with an assortment of children of varied shape, size and age. With each other for company and heads full of explosive ideas, each jostling to be discovered first, they were a positive threat to most appliances. In such a situation, a closet look-a-like radio was a sitting duck, an advertisement surpassing all others. No two opinions about it especially when a voice could be heard, coming from somewhere deep within attracting attention to itself. Let me explain. These were the Television-less times of remote-less lazy summer afternoons. Mostly peaceful siesta hours were also fertile periods, providing, dreaded young opportunity to unleash some of the most outlandish ideas spilling out of their overactive but under utilized brains. On one such afternoon, Purja’s idea of finding the man whose voice could be heard from inside of a radio, found unanimous support.”

There was a pin drop silence. The new members held their breath, hanging on to refrigerator’s every word. There was an undercurrent of reserved anticipation of some thing intangible. “So on an oppressively hot afternoon, Purja along with Gira, Goltu and little Pints dismantled the Radio. His father’s tool- kit played a sterling role in unscrewing everything that could be unscrewed. All parts were marked, numbered and stored out of Pints reach who was more interested in running around kicking or hiding them. Even a rough sketch for visual instructions, was drawn by Gira. The plan was to reassemble the radio after meeting the elusive man with a golden voice.

“Gira, since you are good at drawing, make a sketch of all the circuits. It will come in handy when we put the radio back together again.” Humpty Dumpty fiasco had taught our Purja this vital lesson.

“Yes! I will do that. But go slow, so that I can follow what is happening. Otherwise you will only blame me.” Gira, a laid back artist by nature, gave her unique interpretation to the said circuits in a style we know as modern art. Even Picasso would have been proud of her if he had had good fortune of seeing the sketch.

Initially, radio resisted the onslaught but soon gave up, resigning to fate under persistent pressure of Purja’s screwdriver. To their great disappointment, the elusive man of golden voice could not be found though they went through all the circuits minutely. He had vanished without a trace. And to make the matters desperate, they could not put the radio back again. The sketch of multiple modern art interpretations, fell short of its actual function. None could unravel its mystery. Gira and Purja fought, blaming each other for the soup they were in while Goltu tried stopping Pints from climbing into the radio.”

“Don’t be a fool Pints. Stop, grinning and kicking everything all over the place. You are a pain. What do you think you will do in the radio- Sing gibberish? Get out this minute.” Goltu scolded, pulling Pints out of the radio.

Gira sulked, holding Purja responsible for the mess. “I should never trust you. You have weird ideas and I get trapped for no fault of mine. I should do what Sesa does- stay away from your scatter brain schemes.” Gira accused angrily, sitting amidst the parts of a dismantled radio.

“If only you had not tried showing off your drawing expertise by doing some far fetched sketch of electrical circuits in the form of a geometrical human eye, that too in zigzag colorful strokes if you please, we would have been ok. Your imagination either gets stuck or runs haphazardly.” Purja retaliated. He was already under pressure and could do without Gira’s rebellion. There followed a heated exchange of harsh words with both cousins vowing never to speak to each other again.

The refrigerator paused to breathe deeply. It was old and needed to rest its compressor. Not a peep could be heard from the audiences.

As if on a cue, an old wooden gate that had functioned as a full time-pass swing to multiple children, busy keeping an eye on neighborhood or waiting for homebound dads in hope of a candy or two, straightened. Wiping tears of laughter from the eyes, it spoke in a sing- song voice, “ Stop being scared guys, we all lived through this. Well! There was no one swinging on me waiting for Fathers inc. in the evening. This was big. You see this was the first time they had intruded so obviously in their dad’s territory, namely, the electrical gadgets. They were scared hence hid behind the text- books, hoping for leniency by creating a studious impression but their ears stayed peeled to every untoward fatherly sound. Though they had piled up every nut, bolt, wire and other alien radio things inside the radio before placing the back cover, screwing it tightly, the man inside would not speak. Although the tempered radio looked normal, the nut bolt co. made a lot of noise, on a slightest pretext of movement falling over each other, clattering to be let out. They were both punished none-the less.”

“Thank God I wasn’t born. Or they would have taken me apart in hope of roaming the world.” Said, the rather subdued, plasma T.V., breaking a shocked silence.

“ I think, if most of us E.G.’s[electrical gadgets] were not in a bad habit of showing off and boggling curious young minds, we wouldn’t have needed to go through Purja’s ‘screwdriver test’, like we all did. We all functioned in a manner not easily understood by all. Especially the high profiled E.G.’s, like that round wall clock with missing everything but the dial, sitting next to the phone, and of course our respected defunct heater- table fan duo on my left, suffered the most by being in the combat zone- direct every day contact. We all went on an indefinite strike to be noticed.” Said, a retired blender rather philosophically.

“What strike? None of you, except you refri, were functional after little tyke’s screwdriver treatment. The heater was coldness personified, the clock lost all sense of time and kept ringing in alarm, the table fan screeched loudly on being switched on and our philosopher, the blender kept throwing up.” Observed an amused aged black telephone with an ample backside, a good friend of the refrigerator. Strike was just a technical mambo- jambo to divert attention, the phone felt.

“Our electrical engineers hadn’t bargained for a unique punishment they underwent though. After all fathers inc. had an image to live up to. Telephone, be a darling and tell them about the nosey punishment,” requested a tired refrigerator, amidst heated discussions about wisdom of letting Purja types roam unchained, between the newer members, majority of whom were of electrical origin.