In a narrow lane of Kochi’s Chakkaraparambu, the clickety-clack of typewriters still cuts through the urban cacophony.
Inside a modest workshop here, rows of vintage machines rest on wooden tables, enamel chipped, keys dulled by decades of use, waiting for tending hands.
Bending over attentively, 68-year-old P V Shaji oils and pats them. Something he has been doing for nearly five decades.
In the age of voice typing and AI, he claims to be among the last full-time typewriter repairers in the country, and one of the few who still offers what he calls a “full guarantee”.
His grease-stained fingers move instinctively across rollers and ribbon reels, aligning typebars and restoring rhythm.
“I don’t do it for money. Restoring a dead machine back to life gives me immense joy. It’s like a rescue mission for me,” he smiles.
Shaji’s association with typewriters began in 1978. His elder brother ran a typewriting institute in Ramapuram, Pala. “At that time, enrolling for a typing course was common among those who cleared Class 10,” he recalls.
“Back then, if you wanted your own machine, you had to book and wait for months.”
While others chased “speed certificates”, Shaji was drawn to the mechanics beneath the keys. “Kerala then had just one widely known typewriter mechanic, Raghavan Nair. I apprenticed under him. Later, I went to study at an ITI in Madras,” he says.
His career later took him to Bombay and then to Kochi’s branches of Remington, Facit and Godrej, brands that once dominated India’s typewriter industry. He remembers helping a teacher secure a Godrej machine decades ago after she approached him with “a recommendation letter”.
“I became a senior technician and, at one point, supervised 18 technicians while handling service contracts with institutions such as FACT, HMT and TCC. There was so much competition among technicians then,” he says.
“Now, there are hardly any left. Some come to learn from me. If there is a batch of at least four, I am willing to train.”
The typewriter, Shaji observes, has not vanished entirely. “Government offices still conduct typing speed tests, and PSC aspirants must clear 50 words per minute,” he says.
For years, he trained students for such competitive exams for free. “Many return to thank me after getting jobs,” he says.
Shaji’s current clientele ranges from clerks to collectors. Institutes bring machines from districts as far as Idukki, collectors seek restoration, and filmmakers hire the machines to recreate another era.
“Recently, a film crew borrowed eight typewriters, each nearly 85 years old, for a jail sequence. Having once struggled to retrieve a portable machine delayed after a shoot, I now insist on hefty security deposits,” Shaji says.
Shelves in his workshop hold spare parts worth nearly `3 lakh. “Some are over 40 years old. I source components from Delhi, Mumbai, Jaipur and Coimbatore, and occasionally from overseas,” says Shaji.
Shaji repairs nearly every major brand, estimating he has worked on machines from over 100 companies. “Even in Delhi, where my friend once had 40 or 50 mechanics, most retired due to old age,” he says. “That’s why people send machines here.”
Repairs range from chemical cleaning and ribbon replacement to full restoration, including repainting, with costs between `1,500 and `15,000.
“I don’t charge more than what is fair,” he says. “If I repair it neatly and affordably, my conscience is clear. That honesty brings clients back.” At one point, Shaji owned 42 typewriters. “If I had kept them, they would be worth over a crore for their antique value,” he laughs.
“I once considered opening a museum. I had preserved 16 rare machines. But I eventually gave them to a foreign antique collector. Who would have taken care of them after my time?”
To Shaji, typewriters carry human stories. Many of these machines, he says, would once have typed out life-altering words — including birth/death/ marriage certificates, appointment letters, government orders, and other such vital documents.
While leaving the place, the metallic rhythm resumes. Echoes from another age.