THE CLACK THAT SHAPED ME

If there is one sound that defined my childhood, it was not the chirping of birds, the blaring of morning alarms, or even my mother’s call for breakfast. It was the clack-clack-clack of my father’s old typewriter.

My father, a man deeply involved in social service, used that typewriter like a magician uses his wand, tapping out letters, appeals, and applications that often turned strangers’ problems into possibilities. The rhythmic chatter of those keys was pure music to my curious little ears. Like any young explorer drawn to mysterious machinery, I could not resist the urge to test it myself.

Whenever my father was not around, I would sneak up to his desk and begin what I liked to call my practice sessions. In truth, it was creative chaos, with pages filled with half-written letters, random newspaper headlines, and occasionally a full-blown family tree, complete with cousins twice removed and a few imaginary relatives added for flair. By the end of my “typing spree,” I had managed to waste several crisp sheets of paper and probably half a ribbon.

But here is the beautiful twist: Dad never scolded me. Not once. Instead, he smiled, perhaps amused that his typewriter had found a new apprentice. One fine evening, he said, “Alright, if you are so fond of it, let’s make it useful.” From that day on, he began dictating his letters to me. I was promoted from serial key-pounder to official typist of the household.

That is when I learned something that school never taught: the art of words that matter. Those letters were not mere strings of sentences; they were lifelines, to pensioners, to villagers, to people in distress. As I typed, I watched language in action, how empathy could fit into a paragraph, how hope could be tucked into a sentence.

Of course, my early drafts were a comedy of typos. A missing space could turn “public welfare” into something entirely unprintable. Dad would laugh and say, “Proofread, son; every key has a consequence.” I did not realize it then, but that line turned out to be a life lesson too.

Years rolled by, the typewriter was replaced by a computer, and the clack of metal keys gave way to the soft tap-tap of a keyboard. Yet my fingers still move to the same rhythm, a beat born from those evenings with Dad.

Today, my job demands that I draft and type endlessly - reports, emails, circulars, and enough official documents to drain a small forest’s worth of paper. Every time someone compliments me on my typing speed or my way with words, I silently thank that dusty typewriter and the man who taught me patience through punctuation.

If schools shaped my intellect, that old Remington shaped my identity. It taught me that words, when struck with purpose, can create change, and that sometimes the loudest lessons in life are the ones learned through the gentle clatter of keys.

So yes, while others may boast about coding or painting as their out-of-school skill, mine remains a humble one: typing. Unlike most skills, this one did not just make me faster; it made me better.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I still hear that familiar clack-clack-clack, urging me on, to write one more line, one more story, one more letter worth remembering.

This post is a part of Blogchatter Half Marathon 2025