representative image showing a typewriter
Credit iStock Photo
There were very few typing institutes back in the 1970s, when I was growing up in the coastal town of Mangalore (now Mangaluru). To instill discipline in me, my elders in the family insisted that I learn some skills and soon decided to send me to a typing institute. They had two reasons: one, of course, was to help me find a livelihood, and the other was to teach me the importance of learning a skill and how it will improve with practice.
It was during the summer holidays in the early 1970s that I enrolled in a typing institute soon after writing the SSLC examination. The fee was nominal, and the institute provided papers. It seemed as if the elders in my home were not sure about my success in the examination. Moreover, they thought that an iron stool and a wooden table were sufficient for a typist to make a decent living. With this, I began my brush with the art of typing.
Being the youngest in our batch, I was considered a wonder boy. To impress them, I was enthusiastic to show off my skills, though some of the students were at an advanced stage. On the first day, our instructor, a nun, taught us about the typewriter and its functions: the horizontal and vertical keys, the roller, and the smooth handling of the machine, particularly on the right side. The machine was of ‘Halda’ make, and after a few days, I could manage it with confidence.
Unfortunately, I made little progress beyond pecking at 'a s d f'. People started asking at home. They insisted that I show the day's progress. But I made up an excuse: the sheet got wet in the rain, or it flew away with the gusty wind, and so on. Then the pressure at home mounted on me to join'short hand’ classes on the same premises. Their idea was that I should spend time and learn skills instead of loitering near railway bridges, stationary stores, and flour mills.
As days passed, ‘a s d f’ continued to remain in my mind. Though ‘l k j’ were handy, my right fingers resisted and did not press those keys. In the institute, I preferred to sit by the window so I could watch the crows, tender coconut trees, and tiled houses. Fortunately, my SSLC examination results were out, and I had secured passing marks in general science and other subjects while I just scraped through in 'mathematics.’ And I was only too happy to end my brush with 'a s d f.'
All these came flooding back to my mind while travelling on bus route No. 15, and it passed by an institute. The memory of Halda, Godrej, and Remington Rand machines was fresh in my mind. The memory of the wooden stools and creaky tables; the rain, the old building, the tiled houses, and the wooden window seemed more vivid than the typing lessons I learned.