To some among us, ‘qwerty’ may seem like a cryptic code word: it isn’t. To others who are more familiar with the typewriter, the sequence of alphabets from ‘Q to Y’ in that order is to help master typing. The fingers are trained by to click the keys on a typewriter using the sequence. It is based on the energy and bio mechanical efficiency and frequency a digit is used in typewriting.

So many, almost every street corner one could see the ubiquitous ‘Typewriting Institutes’ with streams of youngsters trooping in for the one hour lessons, morning to evening. Today, the schools that trained thousands of youngsters in the so called ‘twin arts’ have disappeared. Typewriting has seen its last days. Huge black monstrous machines which incessantly rattled clackety-clack, omnipresent in every office and outlet have fallen silent.

In the eighties, frustrated by the abominable inefficiency of my departmental typist who couldn’t spell a single English word (despite carrying two certificates that mentioned in stylized calligraphics that she had qualified with distinction in English typewriting, Junior and Senior), in flew into a royal rage and threw a tantrum – how many times can one correct the same word? In a huff I walked out of her room and bought myself a second hand Olympus typewriter.

The machine served me well, and although I never attended any typewriting lessons, I somehow got around to using more than using two and more fingertips quite efficiently and could type as fast as a professional, and with less mistakes. In 2001, I bought my first computer and my rapid use of the keyboard on the new gizmo amazed many – thanks to my dexterous digital training, non ‘qwerty’ style on my ancient Olympus.

Last weekend, cleaning up the attic I stumbled upon the now rusted machine, wearing a woebegone look. A part of me broke inside. I gently eased the machine, dusted and oiled it – it was nirvana to hear the rigidly rooted inoperable keys, spring loose and whine their familiar clackety-clack rattle hum.

For old times sake I rolled in two sheets of blank sheets with a carbon paper between them, and for the first time in eight years typed a sentence: When at the end of the sentence, the instrument said ‘ping’ my heart leapt with joy. The tinkle-bell that reminded me for so many years and over so many manuscripts that it was time for manually shifting the page back to the left. The ping - ping sound excited baby Bimbli no end: in fact I ran the paper back and forth a few times for her to savor the dulcet tinkle. She will never hear those sounds again ever in her life.

What I wrote was an article – the first draft of this one. An ode and obituary combined – to the unsung death of the typewriting machine – a machine that has served mankind for long and with loyalty. R.I.P, Remington, Godrej and Olympus. You