Before texts, DMs and WhatsApp, love was a song on the airwaves — longed for, sent in secret, and heard with bated breath; romance was all about song dedications
My first memory of radio is my father, hunched over his old Murphy transistor, its paint chipped, its antenna bent at an odd angle. Every morning, he would tune into some programme or the other, the hum of a bhajan or strains of classical music mingling with the aroma of chai. He never missed the news bulletin on Akashvani. The measured voice of the announcer — steady, authoritative — made the world feel less chaotic, as if everything could be contained within those clipped syllables.
There was a romance to radio that no other medium has ever captured. Love, in the time of the transistor, was a delicate thing — shy, coded, secret. Love was confessed in song dedications. A boy from some corner of the country would send a request to ‘Aap Ki Farmaish’, hoping that his beloved, listening in another town, would hear it and understand. “This song is for Meera in Allahabad, from someone who wants her to know he’s thinking of her.” The song would play — perhaps a Mukesh melody, perhaps a wistful Kishore tune — and for a few minutes, love became something tangible, carried through the airwaves.
Love on the airwaves
When a song played on the request shows, hearts leapt. A carefully written letter sent to the radio station, hoping that some unseen host would read your name, your message, your longing aloud to the one you loved. “This song is for Sunita in Kanpur, from Rajesh in Lucknow. He says he is thinking of you.” Just that. And in that moment, as Rafi’s voice soared, two people across cities, across distances, felt as if they were standing side by side.
What could be more romantic than waiting for a song, knowing that it had been sent across the air just for you? What could be more heartbreaking than listening every night, hoping to hear your name, and never hearing it? For many, there was heartbreak in waiting night after night for a name that never came, in realising that the song playing wasn’t for you, in understanding that someone else’s love story had found space where yours had not.
The romance of the radio request show was in its unpredictability, in the way it turned the most private emotions into something fleetingly public, but also deeply personal. In an age before instant messaging, before the relentless urgency of double blue ticks and typing indicators, this was how love was declared — through patience, through waiting, through the delicate thrill of not knowing if your song would make it to the airwaves.
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For those who loved in the era of the radio request, every evening was a ritual. The tuning of the frequency, the adjusting of the antenna, the hush that fell upon the household as the announcer began to read the dedications. Names of lovers, of friends, of lost connections floated in the air, tying together people who may never have otherwise met. There was magic in the anonymity of it all — the idea that someone, somewhere, was listening, was waiting, was hoping.
Wishes, regrets, apologies, and love
Some dedications were exuberant, celebratory — “This one is for Seema in Delhi, from Ravi in Mumbai. He wants you to forgive him.” Others carried longing, a quiet ache that settled in the spaces between the words — “To Farhan in Kolkata, from someone who wishes things had turned out differently.” And then there were those that felt like whispers, messages meant for only two people in the world, despite being sent out to thousands of listeners — “For Meera in Ajmer, from Nawaz in Delhi. He says, ‘You know.’”
It was the waiting that made it all the more precious. Unlike today, when a text can be sent and read in an instant, love then unfolded in slow motion. A letter posted to the radio station took days to arrive, days more to be sorted, and then, perhaps, if the gods of romance were kind, your message would make it on air. If it did, it was a sign — of fate, of destiny, of a love meant to be.
For those who received dedications, the moment was electric. If you were Sunita in Kanpur, and you heard Rajesh’s name over the crackling frequency, the world stopped. The walls of your room blurred, the noise of the household faded, and all that remained was the voice of the announcer and the music that followed. However, if you listened each night and never heard your name, the silence felt deafening. You wondered if the letter had gotten lost, if the host had chosen not to read it, or worst of all, if no one had sent anything at all.
In a way, the radio request was a precursor to the missed call, to the text left unanswered, to the tweet that never got a reply. The uncertainty was its own kind of longing, a love story written in static and song. But there was comfort in knowing that the radio waves carried more than just music. They carried wishes, regrets, apologies, and above all, love.
Love over FM
Over time, as technology evolved, the ritual of the 9 PM dedication show began to fade. Letters to radio stations gave way to text messages scrolling across television screens. The intimacy of a handwritten note was replaced by digital playlists sent over messaging apps. Today, love is declared through Instagram stories, through late-night voice notes, through songs queued on streaming services. The magic of the unknown, of waiting and hoping, has been replaced with certainty. But something has been lost in that certainty.
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Even as traditional radio request shows disappeared, the spirit of love over the airwaves found a new home on FM channels through late-night confession shows like Love Guru. No longer just about song dedications, these shows have become spaces where love stories are narrated in hushed, velvety voices — stories of first crushes, of long-distance heartache, of rekindled romance. Callers dial in to pour their hearts out, sharing secrets that they wouldn’t tell even their closest friends. The hosts, part-therapist and part-poet, offers gentle advice, sometimes wise, sometimes indulgent, but always wrapped in a voice that made love feel both personal and universal.
There is a thrill in hearing strangers bare their souls, in recognising one’s own story in someone else’s confession. A man who had been in love for ten years but never found the courage to say it. A woman who had broken up but couldn’t move on, still clinging to a voice from the past. A couple who met on a train, lost touch, and wondered if fate would bring them together again. Love on FM is no longer just about dedications — it is about conversations, about human connection in an era when love is becoming increasingly digitised. And so, even now, in the age of instant everything, there are still some who tune in to hear love spill through the static; perhaps it’s the proof that some romances are meant to be heard, not just read.
