Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I have seen many clock towers in my long years on this planet. The one I love the most is in Colombo. It was constructed more than a hundred years ago; and it was the only clock tower in the whole world that was also a lighthouse.
I have a feeling that a clock tower does great service to its people. By proclaiming the right hour 8212; and sounding loud chimes at 30-minute interval, it seems to say: 8220;Time waits for no man!8221; And while statues of our prominent leaders are garlanded today and brought down tomorrow, clock towers are treated uniformly with attention.
I always considered Karimnagar8217;s clock tower as my own. As a boy I used to play around it. As I grew a little older I used to drink tea 8212; served at a Lipton stall 8212; sitting on its steps. And I would gaze at its face almost always.
Last year, in my late seventies,
I revisited Karimnagar for two reasons. The first was to see our old house. The second was to re-acquaint myself with my ghanta ghar, as it was locally called. My house had disappeared without a trace; but, thank God, the clock tower was still there.
From a nearby restaurant, while sipping tea, I fondly gazed at it. Old times came back in a rush, and I recreated my days of innocence: horse-driven tongas, gaslight burners, empty roads, even during sunny hours, and children in the middle of the road flying kites. The 1930s came back to me in a rush. Just then, as if to wake me up from my daydreaming, a bell resounded from my clock tower. It reminded me that it was time to depart.
