Threads of Broken Radio

One morning, the familiar rhythm of our home fell silent. The old radio—my grandfather’s most treasured companion—sat broken on the table. For him, it was more than a machine; its static and music carried the voices of his culture and the pulse of the world into our small home. His face, usually so alive with joy, was clouded with a profound sadness that seemed to pull the light from the room. I was just a boy of eleven, but something in me stirred. I longed to bring back his smile.

With no knowledge, no tools beyond my hands, and a stubborn will, I began taking the radio apart. The logic was simple: to fix it, I had to understand how it was built. I spent hours sorting through tangled wires and dusty circuits, a bewildered child navigating a foreign world. I could not fix it then, but what stayed with me was not the failure — it was the spark. The curiosity to learn, to understand, and to create never left me.

That spark carried me through a childhood shaped by struggle. My parents, with only basic schooling, worked endless hours in a textile factory to provide me with the education they never had. And yet in school, I remained a ghost in the back row — a quiet boy who failed subjects and kept his opinions buried, certain that I was destined to remain invisible.

But then, one teacher changed everything. He saw the boy in the back and urged me to step forward, to sing in front of the class. My heart pounded, but when my voice filled the room, something inside me broke free. He taught us to visualize goals, to set targets, and to believe that effort shapes destiny. From that day, I walked differently.

I learned my voice was not just for singing; it was for leading. I started small, speaking at daily assemblies, then joined the school band, learning to march in step with a collective goal. Each small act of courage compounded, until I found myself in a role I once thought impossible: school captain. The boy who once shrank from the world was now leading it.

And as my confidence grew, so did my grades. I became a college topper not because I was the smartest, but because I had learned to persist.

Books soon became another catalyst. My brother handed me a biography of Steve Jobs, and I devoured it like scripture. The story of a company built in a garage by dreamers who believed in the intersection of technology and art struck something deep within me. Jobs’ vision convinced me that innovation lives where disciplines meet.

I chose a Bachelor of Information Management — a program that bridges business and technology — because I wanted to stand at that same intersection.

There, I discovered coding. What fascinated me was not just syntax or logic, but the way a blank screen could become anything — a system, an app, a tool that could bring a broken radio back to life.

One of my proudest projects was creating a music player of my own. I filled it with devotional bhajans — the same songs my grandfather once played on his harmonium. The first time I pressed play and those familiar notes filled the room, it felt as though I had finally mended more than a machine; I had restored a piece of my grandfather’s joy, linking my new passion to his old one.

At that moment, I understood that technology, at its heart, is not just about efficiency or progress — it is about memory, connection, and bringing joy back into people’s lives.

Looking back, I see a thread running through it all: the broken radio, the kind teacher, the books, the code. Each moment was a seed, planted in struggle but watered with curiosity and persistence.

Now, as I stand at the threshold of studying computer science in the United States, I am not only carrying my own dreams but also the silent hopes of my parents and the smile of a grandfather who once lost his music.

For me, technology is not just about algorithms; it is about people — about restoring what is broken, amplifying what is silent, and creating new possibilities from imagination and determination.

And maybe one day, I will build something that brings the world back into someone’s life — just as I once tried to do with a radio.