Somewhere, I had mentioned the institute where I learned typewriting, shorthand, and other commercial skills. This piece is dedicated to those youthful days of frustration and hope.

Around the age of fifteen, I entered these interesting yet challenging times. In the 1960s, and even much later, typewriting and shorthand institutes were ubiquitous. People with these skills were in high demand as computers were unheard of at that time. Many boys and girls, mostly from middle-class families and a higher percentage from lower-middle-class backgrounds, flocked to these institutes. All were preparing themselves to be clerks, typists, and stenographers, with steno jobs being better paid.

I was lucky to join an institute near my house. The grand old man who ran it was a severe asthmatic but completely dedicated and sincere in his teaching. He was strict and demanding. The institute had basic typewriters for beginners, where the carriage would lift when pressing the shift key for capital letters, while better typewriters were reserved for advanced students.

It was a gathering place for boys and girls, but interactions were minimal, especially under the watchful eye of the grand old man, who was quite strict.

The whole area buzzed with the energetic clacking of typewriters. Budding love affairs—or more accurately, infatuations—sprouted between some students, looking so fresh and pure, only to be abruptly crushed when one of them completed their exams and left the institute.

There was one boy who hardly ever made a mistake while typing. We admired him greatly. His class timings were different from ours, but I managed to catch up with him, and we eventually became good friends. Another boy, who always dressed in white, was an excellent stenographer and later joined the same institution where I worked. Then there was the boy who once shouted to me from a bus, urging me to apply for a job where he worked—a moment that changed my life forever.

The institute would hold send-off functions for those boys and girls who had passed their exams and were moving on. These were joyous yet bittersweet days. The entire institute felt like a close-knit community. This was also the place where I learned accountancy, banking, commercial law, and other subjects that significantly helped me in my future career.

Reflecting on those days, I can still remember the names and faces of many of the students. They all seemed happy while at the institute—after all, they were learning skills that would help them secure jobs and support their families. Yet, there was always a hint of worry, a crease of concern on their faces, as they anxiously thought about what the future held. I hope all those boys and girls did well in life, settled down, and found happiness. I miss them.

Whenever I pass by the area where the institute once stood, nostalgia sweeps over me, bringing back fond memories. Unfortunately, the old building has been demolished, and an apartment complex is being constructed in its place.

Who knows how many people now in high places once passed through the doors of that institute?

Continued in 105. Relatively Related