One of the cuts on the soundtrack of my life begins with the whistles and squawks of a radio tuner, followed by the pips of the Greenwich Time Signal, and the rousing theme of BBC world service radio, that ended with the clipped, almost declamatory, ‘This is the BBC'.
The scene it plays to are of quiet mornings on our farm, my father peaceably lighting his pipe and shuffling the morning paper, my mother doing the crossword and finishing her tea, my brother and I just back from our early play session with the dogs.
Sometimes, my father gathered us round the radio set, our watches stopped on the hour, fingers poised over their knobs, ready to depress them at the final long pip from the time signal. Being in Bangalore (now Bengaluru), so far from the transmission, I'm not sure how accurate it was, but at least if we ever went on spy missions as a family, we'd never have to stop to synchronise our watches.
Even today, the radio is a vital part of my father's morning routine, just that now he's listening to a clean satellite signal, with none of the atmosphere of short-wave transmission.
While this is a warm memory of inclusion, radio does bring back memories of exclusion as well. It seemed like everyone but me in my all-boys junior school was obsessed with cricket. Many of the boys would sneak small battery-powered radios into school to listen to, and share news from, the match commentary.
I, who when asked what I thought of "the match" would always have to say, "What match?", envied them this passion. I couldn't imagine being so interested in any event that I was driven to listen even during class; risking punishment and confiscation of a precious device. (Though sometimes even the teacher would get in on it and ask "What's the score?")
I was never much of a radio listener, but as with so many commuters, it was a large part of my day when I drove regularly. But once the car was parked, radio would never come into the house with me, even though I'd sometimes linger in the garage over a song I liked.
Anyway, I almost never heard new music that really grabbed me. And if I did hear one band or singer that sounded good and a little different, the airwaves seem to fill with weak copies almost instantly. I worried that I was turning close-minded and cynical, until I came upon Radio Dandelion, and my ears widened in surprise.
On this internet radio station run by volunteers, I was hearing music that not only sounded new and different, but almost reached out and slapped me with its strength of character.
While they do play some (barely) commercial stuff, there's very little there I've actually heard of. Not just the bands, but entire genres. Enigtronica, queercore or power violence, anyone? Some songs are recorded on laptops at impromptu gigs in bedrooms. Others are by loners on MIDI systems, still others demos sent in by garage bands. It's all brand new and completely under the marketing man's radar.
Listening in, I feel as if I'm grouping around the radio again, my finger on my watch button, ready to keep time and be in the present, even if only for a little while.
As someone who often feels left out of the stream of lives around me (just like that non-cricket-playing boy from junior school) it's a good feeling to find more tunes to add to that soundtrack.
Gautam Raja is a journalist based in the US.
