The Hindu Business Line : Freedom in the AIR

From 1949, for 12 years or so, as a special events announcer at All India Radio - Delhi, on every August 15 morning, barring one, my voice would ring out, “Over to the Red Fort”, before the events — stirring or otherwise — were translated into a descriptive commentary for listeners countrywide.

Now retired for many years, with the 60th anniversary of Independence Day almost upon us, I find myself slipping back in time to many different memories associated with August 15.

Peshawar, August 14, 1947

On a quiet evening, four women — my mother, siblings and I — sat on assorted chairs in front of our house, awaiting the passage of time. There was a clear sky above and a myriad stars flickering down at us. That night the silence was not broken as usual by the occasional crack of a rifle from somewhere in the curfew-bound city. The only movement around us was our kitten playing in the dark. The dog, the rabbit, a turkey, and the weedy youth — the cook — were presumably asleep. My middle sister and I kept hopping inside to check the time, for we hoped to catch on radio the momentous happenings that would result in the birth of two nations. At half an hour to midnight, we finally trooped in and ranged ourselves around the radio. The hissing sound coming from the instrument mingled with the raucous voices of squabbling sisters. There was a moment of clarity, and a voice said something — but it was indistinct. Then my middle sister made an “air dash” to Karachi, from where came a loud and eerie whoop! Atmospherics! We hastily “returned” to Delhi, only to hear more indistinguishable voices and speech. And so it continued, till the end, when presumably the new nations, now considerably reduced in size, emerged to keep, each in its own way, its “Tryst with Destiny”. We switched off, not a whit the wiser about what had happened and went to bed — in a new country!

Delhi, August 15, 1949

Hope in her younger days.

The Partition and the first Independence Day lay behind us. Now we awaited the second anniversary. A small group of Army officers — colleagues of my brother — with wives, girlfriends and sisters, gathered at New Delhi’s Gymkhana Club. Dancing was occasional, conversation desultory and time passed by on wings of melody provided by the band. Nearing midnight, a minute or two to go, we arose with our partners to welcome the anniversary on dancing feet. When the waltz seemed to near the end, a sudden hush descended on our group. Most couples danced off to the edge of the floor, tacitly giving space to a couple in distress who, twirling a little too ambitiously, had lost balance and slipped. We watched my brother and his partner as they descended gradually and very gracefully to the floor before rushing to assist them up. The band played the last bars. We moved back to our seats and raised a toast to this somewhat dramatically ushered in second anniversary of Independent India.

August 1972

The Silver Jubilee of Independence Day loomed ahead. As a Producer, I viewed the coming event with serene unconcern. After all, beyond arranging suitable music for the occasion, what did I have to do with the special occasion? Plenty, as it turned out. Two days ahead, an order from the Directorate informed me that a radio commentary would be relayed from the Central Hall of Parliament on the night of August 14. Commentator: Melville de Mellow; standby: Hope Gaur.

The next two days were hectic. I would be frequently and summarily summoned by my old boss for briefings, which were always prefixed by his warning: “Don’t try and back out of it this time.” The briefing consisted of several excursions to the Central Hall of Parliament to familiarise me with specific locations and seats, a particularly important door on the side through which the President would make his entry. It was an ornate door, I recall, and had a special name which I forgot even at the time and still, regretfully, fail to recall. Throughout the briefings, de Mellow would pause to assure me repeatedly: “Don’t worry, you won’t have to even breathe into the mike unless I have a sudden heart attack.” Come 14th night and we were in our positions upstairs on the first floor while the TV occupied the media space on the ground floor. “Upstairs” was actually a temporary construction — a thick-wire mesh floor had been fitted into a wooden frame. As I sat on a stool on this floor, behind the commentator’s booth, ready with bits of paper, pens and a glass of water for the commentator, I was reminded of my early days in AIR when I was a young announcer and de Mellow’s chief stooge.

August 14 ticked by, and then it was midnight. Action! I was tense, the engineers twirled knobs and de Mellow spoke. The proceedings seemed to have commenced. I saw nothing, heard occasional voices from below and waited throughout the presumably long, lengthy proceedings.

Then I had an idea that if I could steal across the wire-mesh floor towards the left corner, I might get to see something. I did just that. As I approached it, the left corner of the floor dipped dangerously and I rushed back to my stool, my heart thudding furiously. It took a long while for the heartbeats to normalise. Fortunately, the great man, during this period, required nothing — no pen, paper or water.

Much later, tension built up as it was action again. De Mellow spoke, the engineers twirled knobs and switched off, and my erstwhile boss emerged, smug and beaming. Handing me slips of papers he had no further need of and bidding us all a cheerful farewell, he bounced along the wire-mesh flooring and was gone.

I gathered his slips of paper and my own bits and pieces, and nervously found my way down the back stairs.

The next day I made tentative enquiries about what exactly lay below the shaky wire-mesh floor. It was the air-conditioning plant! I shuddered.

For Rs 90, my “standby” payment, I almost became part of the Independence Day Silver Jubilee history!

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