Source of this image: https://www.facebook.com/share/p/17P48npb5X/ 

I urge you to click on these two links and only then proceed to read this trip down memory lane.

A child driving his sewing machine car.
A child riding the sewing machine

So, like most middle-class Indian homes, our home too had a Singer sewing machine.
It was a robust, beautiful black beauty.

It was one of those machines where the sewing unit sat in a cavity nestled into a table. The stitching happened on the top, while below the table lived the wheel, the huge metal pedal, and the rope-like mechanism that connected everything to the machine above.

At first, we had a normal sewing machine that did basic stitching. Later on, we upgraded to the Singer Fashion Maker, which came with a range of embroidery options.

It was used regularly by my mother to stitch clothes, curtains, pillow covers, fan covers, and more. I remember all the lovely frocks she made for me. Some of them I can still picture clearly—that’s how vivid those memories are.

The sewing machine ranked high in terms of utility and had a designated spot in our home. Nobody dared move her from there.

While the sewing machine brought us great joy through what was made on it and what we got to wear, for my brother and me, it was a Pandora’s box of super exciting play ideas.
And those play ideas evolved as we grew older.

When we were tiny tots

As tiny tots, we would sit on the metal pedal. How we both managed to fit on it still makes me wonder how small we must have been. But yes, we did fit—and what fun we had!

One of us would be the driver. This person was in charge of the “driving wheel.” The wheel in front of the metal pedal (see the main image on top) became the steering wheel, and the driver was also responsible for making loud sounds imitating a superfast racing car.

As the wheel moved, the metal pedal moved too. This became our version of “driving over rough roads.” We must have played this car-ride game almost every day, right up until the point when we both no longer fit.

I can’t quite recall if we played this game alone. Maybe we did.

When we were a little older

Then came the phase when we were slightly older—old enough to read and write.

Let’s set the stage. This was the period after annual exams, when we had extra unused pages in our notebooks. We would tear out those blank pages and run them through the sewing machine—minus the thread—just to create perforations.

These perforations helped us cut the pages into two halves. Those rectangular halves were then run through the machine again to divide them into a smaller square and a longer rectangle, mimicking a bank cheque.

Once this elaborate process was complete, it was time to add details. We carefully filled in the name of the bank, account numbers, lines to write the amount in words, the small rectangle for the amount in numbers—basically, we recreated a cheque book to the best of our abilities.

No, we were not Frank Abagnale Jr. (Catch Me If You Can) in the making.
We were simply heavily influenced by our father’s banking profession.

Once the cheque books were ready, we would take Papa’s old office briefcase—yes, people really did carry small briefcases to work back then—and fill it with “important” things. These included the cheque books, pens, and name stamps.

Yes, we had paper stamps with our names on them. Thanks to Papa, who once got tired of writing our names on all our school books. He took us to a shop and helped us choose fonts for our individual name stamps. Imagine our thrill as kids, owning our very own name stamps!

Cheque books ready. Briefcase filled. We were set.

Setting up the office

Next came setting up the office.

We would quickly move things around in our room, shifting the study table to face the balcony (a banker must have a good view, after all!). One important-looking chair was placed on one side of the table—this was the manager’s chair.

Two chairs were brought in from the dining area and placed on the other side of the table. These were for the customers.

Then came dress-up.

My brother would wear a tie from Papa’s cupboard, for he was the self-proclaimed and forever-chosen Bank Manager—the important guy!
I, of course, was his loyal customer, always in need of money.

We took our role play very seriously.

I would knock and enter the manager’s cabin. He would ask me why I was there. I would explain that I needed a loan for “so and so.” He would then call for his peon to bring water and refreshments.

By now, you know it was only my brother and me playing. So who played the peon?

Who else but yours truly.

I would rush to the kitchen, bring a glass of water and something else—for me, the customer.

After the peon (me) brought chai-paani for the customer (me) and the Sahab—the manager—and after a few more discussions, the manager would lift the briefcase from under the table, place it on top, and flip it open in style.

He would fish out a cheque book and pen, then close the briefcase and return it to its place. He would ask me the loan amount, just to be sure. Then he would carefully write the amount in words and numbers, sign the cheque, and hand it over to me.

“When will you return the loan?” he would ask.

I would mumble some future date and thank him sincerely.

Years later, my brother did land up with a career in finance.
As for me—well, I am yet to go to a bank for a loan!

I thoroughly enjoyed this trip down memory lane with our sewing machine and all the games we created around it.
I hope you enjoyed this ride with me too.