Waves Of Change: A world Radio Day reflection.

The underground messengers.

Every year, as February 13 rolls around, I find myself tuning in—figuratively and literally—to the significance of World Radio Day. This year, however, holds a special note of celebration. Goa’s own Libia Lobo Sardesai, an independence activist and lawyer, has finally received the Padma Shri at the grand age of 100. It’s a momentous occasion, not just for Goa but for those who remember the silent, invisible networks of communication that once kept revolutions alive.

Radio, for me, has always been a secret-keeper, a messenger akin to the talking drums of African folklore. It was the clandestine whisper of resistance movements, the wartime confidant of young boys and girls sneaking updates to freedom fighters. Before WhatsApp groups and encrypted messages, radio waves carried subversive murmurs and revolutionary ideas.

But my earliest memory of radio isn’t one of rebellion—it’s of routine, of community. Sitting on the rocks of Ajjarkad in Udupi, as the broadcast tower hummed its daily greeting:

“Idu All India Radioda Neera Prasara, Vartegalu Voduvavaru Narayana Rao”

And just like that, the town was informed. Children playing on the streets paused momentarily, pedestrians nodded in recognition, and walkers absorbed the day’s headlines as naturally as they breathed.

Then there was Radio Ceylon. The moment the words “Sarvagya Kundanlal” floated through the air, we knew breakfast was served.

Radio was never just about information—it was about stories. It was about a man named Krupashankar from Bihar, who, despite limited resources, built his own radio. He became the unofficial voice of his village, broadcasting weather updates, local events, and even helping to track missing cattle. He wasn’t just running a radio; he was running a community service. Until, of course, Prasar Bharati decided he was running an illegal radio. The joys of unregulated communication, it seems, were not meant to last. A British journalist, intrigued by his grassroots initiative, documented his journey, but bureaucracy had other plans. The weight of rules and licenses came crashing down on him, a reminder that creativity, when unchecked by paperwork, often invites suspicion.

Among those who used radio for a cause was Libia Lobo Sardesai, whose broadcasts in Konkani and Portuguese under the names Voz de Liberdade and A Voz de Goa played a crucial role in spreading messages of resistance. Her partner in this endeavor was Vaman Sardesai, whom she would eventually marry. Their voices, defying colonial censorship, became beacons of hope for many.

And therein lies the irony of modern-day broadcasting. Podcasts have taken over, allowing anyone with a microphone and a half-decent WiFi connection to be a radio host. No licensing, no regulations—just unfiltered conversation. The same medium, but now accessible, democratized. Yet, as podcasters ride the wave of digital audio, one must wonder—where does the line get drawn? When does a podcast cross into the territory of a ‘radio channel’?

Launching a legal radio station in India is no small feat. The government’s regulations around FM and AM broadcasting require permissions that would make even the most patient bureaucrat sigh. Meanwhile, community radios, often lifelines for rural and marginalized populations, walk a tightrope of compliance and necessity.

Radio, in all its forms—shortwave, FM, and now podcasts—remains an instrument of storytelling, of resistance, of nostalgia. It’s a reminder that sometimes, the most powerful voice is not the one screaming on television but the one whispering through the airwaves, reaching people in the intimacy of their homes, in the stillness of the night.

So, this World Radio Day, I celebrate the crackle of AM stations, the hushed voices of revolutionaries, the rhythm of breakfast-time melodies, and the undying spirit of those who defied silence with sound.