Some childhood memories don't fade. They just wait for you to sit still long enough to hear them again.
I have been looking for a radio. Not something fancy. Just a simple, old-school radio with a dial and an antenna. The kind that crackles a little between stations. The kind that makes you feel like time is moving slower.
Here's the thing. I work on my laptop most of the day. Notifications, deadlines, tabs everywhere. And somewhere in the middle of all that, I started wanting something different. Something that doesn't need Wi-Fi. Something that just... plays. Without asking me to choose a playlist or subscribe to a plan.
So I started searching online, and the more I looked at those vintage-style radios, the more my childhood memories started flooding back. One memory in particular. A very specific one.
The House with Two Verandas
Every winter vacation, we would go to our village. And not for a week or ten days. For three whole months. That's how winter vacations worked back then. Three months of no school, no homework, just village life.
My brothers and I used to spend a lot of time at our aunt and uncle's place. Their house was connected to our old ancestral home. Like, literally connected. You'd walk through a door and suddenly be in the older part of the house.
And between these two homes, there was this veranda. Wooden floor, green paint on the pillars, open to the mountains. The kind of veranda you see in old Himachali houses. In winters, the sun would come in at just the right angle and warm up the whole space.
That's where we used to sit. Not on chairs. On the wooden floor. All of us. And that's where the radio was.
The Veranda Afternoons
Most days, we'd be out. My brothers, our cousins, and I would disappear into the village for the entire day. We'd explore everything. The forest, the water sources, the narrow paths between old houses. Honestly, it all felt like we were living inside a Harry Potter movie. Every corner had something mysterious, something new, something that made us feel like little adventurers.
But on the days when we didn't have plans with our cousins, no big expedition, no forest mission, we would end up at our aunt and uncle's veranda. And those turned out to be some of the best childhood memories I have.
My uncle would be sitting there, just relaxing. My aunt would be around, always making sure everyone was fed. We'd sit on the warm wooden floor, soaking in the sun, and the radio would be playing in the background.
Sometimes someone from the village would walk in during the afternoon. No phone call, no text, no "let me check if they are free." They would just show up. Sit down. Start chatting. And suddenly the veranda had one more person, one more voice, one more story.
Galgal, Snow, and Kansa Plates
Of course, my aunt would bring out milk and snacks for us kids and tea for the elders. On good days, there'd be proper Pahari winter food, galgal ka khatta with that sharp, tangy kick, or siddu straight off the stove.
And when it snowed? We'd scoop up fresh snow and mix it with milk and sugar. Sometimes with salt and red pepper instead. That was our ice cream. That was our dessert. And honestly, no fancy café has ever come close.
Besides, if the afternoon stretched long enough, we'd have our lunch right there on the veranda too. No dining table needed. Just plates on the floor, food, family, and the radio still going. Eventually, by evening, we'd head back home. Simple as that.
You Didn't Choose the Song. The Song Chose You.
That's what was so different about radio. You couldn't skip. You couldn't search. You just waited. And honestly? That waiting was kind of beautiful.
Sometimes you'd sit through five songs you didn't care about, and then suddenly, your favourite one would start playing and it felt like a small reward for all that patience.
We didn't have Spotify or YouTube back then. We had patience. And that patience made every song feel earned.
I remember us humming along to songs we didn't even know the names of. Songs we never chose but somehow became part of our childhood memories forever. That's the magic of radio. It gives you things you didn't ask for, and you end up keeping them for life.
But the moment a really good song came on? Everyone would go quiet. Someone would say "Shhh, shhh," and we'd all just listen. My uncle, my aunt, the village visitor, and we kids all still do. All listening to the same song at the same time.
And then sometimes, right in the middle of your favourite part, the signal would dip. Static would eat the best line. Someone would rush to adjust the antenna, and by the time it was clear again, the moment had passed. We'd all groan. And then laugh. And then wait for the next one.
What I Have Realised About Nostalgia
We only feel nostalgic about times when we felt safe. Not excited. Not thrilled. Just... safe. The kind of safe where you weren't thinking about what comes next. Where nobody was performing. Where my uncle sat barefoot and my aunt fussed over food and the village visitor talked about nothing important. And we were just kids being kids on a wooden floor in the winter sun.
It's not your brain missing the past. It's your body remembering what safety felt like.
And mine remembers wooden floors warm from the sun. Galgal ka khatta on a steel plate. Snow scooped into a bowl with sugar. My aunt's voice calling us for chai. The crackle of a radio between two stations. And three months of winter vacation that felt like they'd never end.
These aren't just childhood memories. They're the blueprint for every kind of calm I have chased since.
So Yeah, I'm Buying a Radio
I sat with that feeling for a while. And then I thought, why not just bring a little bit of it back? Not the veranda. Not the village. I can't bring those back. But the sound? Maybe I can.
Here's my only problem, though. I can't listen to today's songs on a regular radio. They just don't do it for me. What I want is something that comes with old Hindi songs already in it, you know the kind, but also lets me switch to FM when I feel like it. Something like a Carvaan, maybe. That whole vibe.
I want something on my desk that doesn't ping. That doesn't need updates. That just plays music I didn't choose and lets me sit with it. Like a tiny veranda in the middle of my workday.
Maybe that's what I'm really looking for. Not a radio. A feeling. The feeling of being somewhere safe, doing nothing, and being completely okay with it.
Some childhood memories don't knock before entering. They just walk in, sit down, and stay, like the village visitors on my uncle's veranda.
You might also enjoy:
