Crystal-clear memories of licensing days

THERE was no refrigerator in our neighbourhood in those days. The radio was the only expensive piece of equipment available. Brands like Tesla, GEC, Bush and Philips were becoming popular. However, using a radio required a licence costing Rs 15 annually, issued by the Department of Posts and Telegraphs. Any violation of the rules attracted a penalty and possible imprisonment. Bamboo poles, used as supports for the T-type aerial on the rooftop, were a telltale sign of the radio being used in a house. Government inspectors had a sharp eye. Therefore, only the well-off could afford a radio set. What about the others? They relied on their ingenuity.

The scrap market was flooded with wireless equipment after the end of World War II. A headphone could be procured for a rupee or even less, while a rudimentary crystal radio could be improvised by any bright mind. Only an enamelled wire coil and a small antimony crystal (used those days for making surma) were required. However, the medium-wave signal from the nearest station required the same rooftop aerial and a well-grounded earth connection. The headphone connected to the aerial and the earth through a simple circuit would catch Radio Pakistan, which used to broadcast Hindi film songs. But when we came to know that even a crystal radio required a licence (Rs 3 per year), we brought down the bamboo poles. So, what to do with our headphones?

It was a chance discovery that two headphones, the moving diaphragm type, connected to each other could serve as a functional telephone. The device worked both as a microphone and a receiver. If you were a neighbour on our side of the street, you could get a connection, provided that you bought your own length of flexible wire. During the 1955 floods in Punjab, this system proved useful. My friend and college-mate Tarlok would sometimes use that toy telephone. One day, he received a guest who happened to be an officer in the department of telegraphs. Though he was impressed by the contraption, he advised us to dismantle it so that we would not land in trouble. We did it willy-nilly.

My friend, who was minting money by drawing and painting textile designs, told me that he wanted to buy a radio. He took me along because he thought I had good knowledge of the subject. I recommended the latest high-fidelity GEC model, which he bought for a whopping Rs 499. But I didn’t know then what was in store for me.

His wife had no qualms about playing the radio at full volume even when I was trying hard to study. Asking her to reduce the volume was out of the question as I did not want to offend her. But then a bulb and a tubelight starter connected in series as a make-break circuit came in handy to generate an equally loud and disturbing signal. This forced her to switch off the radio. I needed no licence to counter one signal with another!