Akash Vani

I asked my soul: What is Delhi?
She replied: The world is the body and Delhi is its life….Mirza Ghalib

Here, I share with you my experience with one of the many magnificent monuments of Delhi. A city soaked in history, legacy and dynasty. Home, battle field, hearth to generations from Balbans, Khiljis, Tughlaqs, Mughals, East India Company, Gandhi’s march to freedom, this very place was now home to many others who had migrated to Delhi for better life prospects.

I had just entered a teenage when my parents moved to New Delhi. It was a decision which I did not welcome with a smile.  I did not want to leave my space, but I was obliviou to the fact that I was moving out for good.  New Delhi had its own charm, which could not be found anywhere else. The big, wide roads which were embracing the architectural wizardry of Luyten did not go unnoticed for very long. Every day I would look forward to the “DilliDarshan” escapade.

During, one of these adventures I was taken in by the colossal building of “All India Radio” on the Parliament Street. Now this was a place I did not want to miss for the world. What it meant to me was what education meant to illiterate or food meant to a street urchin or may be sales meant to shopaholic. And yes! There is a reason for this profound eagerness to know about AIR.

My Aunt worked for All India Radio (AIR), during summer holidays when she would come to my small town, she would brag nonstop about her office. Everything from how the news was read, how the recording happened, which celebrities, artist and stars she met at the studios, how people would line up outside to catch a glimpse of their stars and everything that was there to be told.  They were enough teasers for a young girl of my age.

Drive to my destination

I nudged my sister and prepared to go to “AIR” bhavan the next day morning. We both walked down from our house to the nearest bus stop. How crowded the bus stop was! On one of the electricity pillars there was a small tin board listing the sporadic bus routes that ply on that road. There were no benches to sit on. The chunky pieces of iron pipes which ran parallel under the bus stop roof appeared more like drain pipes. People standing and waiting for a long time were expected to perch on one of these pipes to get some rest!  We could see one yellow and green colored DTC bus arriving.  Quite a bunch of people flocked towards the front door. They mounted the bus. Poor us! We could hardly move an inch in the jostle. We did not know the tricks and ways of sneaking into the DTC bus.  My sister and I could not make to the front door and let the bus go. Disheartened we waited for the next bus to arrive.  The next bus surprised us by its punctuality and like a couple in love we grabbed each other hands and sprinted for the DTC bus. Now that’s a different story on how we managed and treaded our way inside the bus. In the cacophony of the passengers talking and the giant sounds made by the bus, we heard a honey dipped voice of the bus conductor shouting “Akashvani, Akashvani”. Driven by adrenalin we zoomed to the exit door and dismounted the bus.

Grand entrance

As we stood next to the AIR building, there were two entrances, one was a huge gate from where cars and van could enter the AIR complex and the other was a gate for pedestrians.  We entered through the small gate which was for walk in’s.  There was a guard, but he did not react to our presence. As we entered the grounds of AIR office, we spotted a barrack on the right side. We entered inside.  Inside there were five counters juxtaposed with each other. Behind every counter there were AIR front desk officers sitting to receive the guests. On the table there was a huge register which was meant to log the entry and exit for all the people coming to AIR. These front desk officers did not show a hint of a smile. The cotton saris that the ladies wore were sloppy and they dotted a big bindi, reminding me of a yesteryear actress Rekha. Men were in leather slippers, regular trousers and half sleeves shirts made popular by the actors of the early 90’s.  However, to me they appeared like several clones of my principal from school.

We waited for our turn and sat upon the dusty, grimed and stained beige color sofa. Two seats across my seat was seated a famous news reader. She seemed to be waiting for her driver. She was so impeccably dressed in a staunch white cotton sari, plaited and draped to perfection. Her hair was so well done up, not even a strand of hair had strayed from its allotted place. She glanced at me once, passed a smile and then walked up to the counter to make a reminder call to her driver from the ancient landline instrument.  The barren walls in the reception area were decked up by a laminated photo of the backwaters of Kerala, which proudly flashed “Government of Kerala” at the bottom right of the picture.

It was a long half an hour of wait.  A time so well spent observing the hustle and bustle of the nerve center of India’s only Media Centre then. People walking in and out of the room with files, papers, recorded cassettes, unsealed cassettes in their hands.  Some had come for interviews and looked nervous. After all it was all about getting a goverenment, secured and pensionable job. Since AIR and Doordarshan had a monopoly, so the vacancies were even more priced opportunities. In one corner of the room was seated some gabby influential office bearer, bragging nonstop about how he used his references to secure a government job for his nephew.  His audience presumably seemed to be his juniors who didn’t dare to oppose him.

In between all this entered a stout looking, potbellied man carrying a tray of shot glasses. On closer look I realized that the glasses had tea in it. He was generously offering it to the officials. I thought to myself how lucky is this chaiwala, he comes here every day and can see the artist, news readers and celebrities. The last Diwali distempered walls were dabbed with betel leaf stains everywhere.  Astonishingly the ‘spit here’ was clean but the area around the spit pan was hopelessly blemished.

Ah! There came my aunt after a real long wait. Well I did not have to guess, she apologized and said that she was in the recording room and was recording an interview. My aunt went to the counter wrote something on the enormous log book, which looked no less than the log book maintained by Yamraj in Yamlok.

Visit Inside

She escorted us in and we tried to match up to her giant leaps. She headed towards a squalid looking barracks which was at quite a distance from the reception. As we entered, there was long corridor with rooms on both sides of the corridor. Each room was allocated to each regional language. The display board outside each room clearly mentioned “Akashvani – Telugu Vibhaag”, “Akashvani – Assamese Vibhaag”, “Akashvani – Urdu Vibhaag”.  At the end of the corridor there was a cold water dispenser. People had queued up for water after lunch. The complete path was dark and dingy with no ventilation. A group of young girls dressed in Mekhla Chadar were briskly overtaking us and darting towards one of the recording rooms for a regional dance performance.

We were sheepishly following Aunty. She took an abrupt turn on the left and walked briskly towards another block. Now this was where the recording would happen. There was complete silence inside the building. Through the aisle there were recording rooms on both sides. There was recording in progress in these rooms. We happened to enter one of the bay rooms from where we could witness the artist and observe what the producer was doing. In between the two there was a glass window through which they both were conversing in sign language.

Aunt expressed gratitude to the producer for letting us in and we both young sisters thanked the lady and walked out.  Looked like my Aunt was in a hurry to skim us through the tour. She was jumping from one block to another.  Our next destination was the Western Music department.  The room was beaming with young interns, some of whom were producers and some were artists.  There was group of really funky looking boys and girls who had come with their guitar for a recording. They were practicing in a corner. A lady dressed in worn denims and a khadi shirt walked up this group. Her hair was tied up in a bun and a pen was holding the heavy black hair.  They had a small conversation. A small tape recorder was playing “Guns n Roses” on the “Akashvani” Western Music station. The scene looked enticing and I thought that one day even I would come here with my band for recording my performance.

 Aunty leapt out and obediently we shadowed her. The closest destination to the “western music” station was the AIR canteen.  We parked ourselves at the bleachers outside. Aunty ordered for some south Indian savories.  We both gobbled the food hurriedly, waiting to go to the next stop.

Our next stop over was the room where the news readers woke up India with their husky and resonating voice. It was studio no 1, but it was a little disappointing. The room was filled with stale smell of used beedi. The recorded cassettes were lying carelessly on the floor. All the grammatical corrections in the transcripts or a relook at the contents were done in this besmirched room. espite the entire fetid environment the people who broke news to the people of India worked with great panache and élan.

All said and done, it was a visit worth the time, a long standing dream finally came true.