A love letter to Chandigarh, written on cassette tapes

Vinyls were bowing out and CDs were just a rumour in foreign-returned suitcases. The undisputed hero of the 1970s and ’80s was the humble cassette.

Cassettes weren’t just plastic rectangles — they were personality statements, especially in City Beautiful, whether T-Series or HMV. And when the tapes did get tangled courtesy faulty stereos, the music would suddenly slow down like a dying car engine in Monsoon rains.

But like surgeons, we’d pull out the ribbon, wind it gently around a pencil, and perform emergency surgery with a tape. That sliver of scotch tape holding Bryan Adams together was stronger than most teenage relationships.

And where did we find all this magic? In Chandigarh’s musical temples: Classic Centre in Sector 10 and Deepak Radios in Sector 17. Classic Centre had this serious-looking uncle behind the counter who seldom smiled but could mix “Last Christmas”, “Under the Bridge”, and “Dekho, dekho, yeh hai jalwa” on a single cassette like a maestro. He’d frown if you asked for extra bass — but still press that little button that made your deck thump.

We’d place two Bolton speakers ten feet apart — away from the wall — for “optimum echo.” The reverb from “Hotel California” shook the windows in the next Sector.

And then there were the “Yankena” –– the Madonnas who made the city beautiful and were worthy of this magical tool. A mix of punk and femininity in mesh tops, huge sunglasses, Walkman clipped to jeans. They didn’t walk — they grooved on the geri route.

We loved them, all of them, and would try to woo them our own way. Bawa, our bathroom singer, tried crooning “Everything I do” outside Home Science College until a pigeon pooped on him mid-chorus. Chiku Xeroxed lyrics and gifted to the tallest of them all, whom we called “Top ka gola” at Choice card shop. I doubt her grandchildren now know anything of this past. Chiku’s Xerox turned out quite bad. Happy tried his luck by gifting her a pre-recorded MJ cassette which turned out to be shlokas, as cassettes without labels looked the same

I, meanwhile, walked the path of audio seduction through a customised cassette — Madonna’s ‘Vogue’ ruled side A. Gola popped it into her Walkman, and her face lit up. “Bass itni tight! Clarity bhi full!”

Two weeks later, her cousin’s car stereo chewed it up. I repaired it with a sliver of cello tape. She called it magic. I called it love.

Today, music lives on clouds, speakers are Bluetooth, and lyrics are Googled in a second. But my Chandigarh still hums in the hiss of a cassette, in the clunk of an eject button, and in the hope that the tape doesn’t get chewed during Tarzan Boy’s “Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh.”

Because once upon a time, love came with two reels, a pencil, and a little cello tape.

Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh