Once, the clack-clack of keys striking paper filled every government corridor and courtroom in India. That symphony now lingers only as an echo in memory. But in the corners of Santiniketan, nostalgia has found a voice again— an exhibition that celebrates the tale of the typewriter.
At the Arthshila Art Gallery, the exhibition “With Great Truth and Regard” rekindles the legacy of this once-revolutionary machine — the typewriter — which shaped an entire generation’s relationship with words. Designed by Sarita Sundar, the exhibition draws inspiration from her book of the same name, weaving together stories, artifacts, and sounds that bring the forgotten rhythm of typing back to life.
“There was a time when typing had a sound — a melody of purpose,” Sundar reflects. “Now computers hum silently. That sound was nostalgia. This exhibition exists to remind the new generation of that feeling — of creation that could be heard.”
The journey of the typewriter began far from India. In 1868, Christopher Latham Sholes, an American inventor, birthed the first prototype. Five years later, Remington & Sons transformed it into a commercial marvel. When the British brought it to India in 1890, it quietly infiltrated the nerve centres of bureaucracy — from courtrooms to registry offices — soon becoming synonymous with efficiency, precision and authority.
It wasn’t until 1955 that the Indian firm Godrej indigenously produced the first homegrown typewriter, a proud stride toward self-reliance. For decades, it created livelihoods for thousands — typists, clerks, and stenographers — forming an invisible workforce that powered the nation’s paperwork.
Before computers, every examination result, government order, and legal document was born through these metallic keys. Teachers and elders often urged students to “learn typing” — a skill once deemed indispensable. But as the digital tide rose, the sturdy machine fell silent.
The exhibition at Arthshila is more than a nostalgic showcase — it’s an ode to the tactile intimacy of words once struck, not typed. Visitors can witness early typewriter models, deconstructed parts labelled with their forgotten names, and even try their hands at typing — to feel the deliberate resistance of a key, the sound of words coming alive.
Historic photographs adorn the walls — Dr Rajendra Prasad and Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, both captured mid-sentence over their typewriters — symbols of a newly independent nation finding its own script. Accompanying visuals, engineer’s notes, and rare archival documents from Godrej’s vault complete the chronicle.
“The name of a generation is the typewriter,” says Chirdeep, the exhibition’s photographer. “There’s a story in every clack, every error corrected with ink. Once, a child asked his mother how to ‘delete’ a mistake on a typewriter — that confusion itself marks the line between generations.”
Though the typewriter has bowed to technology, its spirit remains etched in India’s bureaucratic DNA. Even today, a few relics still click faithfully inside Rashtrapati Bhavan, Parliament, and Supreme Court offices — a living reminder of how India once thought, wrote, and recorded its truth.
Brinda Pathari, head of Archives at Godrej, sums up the sentiment: “We may have stopped making typewriters, but we can never stop telling their story. This exhibition ensures the hum of history never fades into complete silence.”
The exhibition, free and open to all from 11 am to 7 pm till January 12, invites visitors not just to see, but to listen — to the sound of a nation once typed into being.
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