Mangaluru: On some mornings, even now, Pulikkottil Kaku Ittianam says she can almost hear it — the steady clatter of keys, the sharp bell at the edge of a line, the soft pull of paper rolling out of a typewriter. As World Typewriter Day approaches on June 23, those sounds return more vividly than ever, carrying her back to a life spent in careful strokes of ink and carbon copies.Ittianam will turn 92 on July 5. Sitting with quiet ease, she reaches into memories that span nearly four decades of government service — years marked not by screens and keyboards, but by the weight of foolscap sheets and the discipline of shorthand.Born in Kunnamkulam in Kerala’s Thrissur district, she passed SSLC in 1951, at a time when opportunities were few and far between for young women. Three years later, she appeared for the Madras Public Service Commission examination. When the results came, she had secured a position as a typist — the beginning of a long and exacting career.Her first posting brought her to Puttur in Dakshina Kannada. Within six months, she was transferred to the district collector’s office in Mangaluru — a move that would define her professional life. For the next 39-and-a-half years, that office remained her anchor, interrupted only by brief stints in Mysuru, Udupi and Kundapur.The work was relentless. Day after day, she typed hundreds of pages — circulars, memos, instructions — each keystroke deliberate, each page destined for offices across the district or for the public. There was no room for error, no easy delete key to rely on. Precision was a habit, not a choice.She worked under more than ten district collectors, her role often extending beyond a desk. On field visits, she accompanied officials, notebook in hand, capturing dictation in neat shorthand. Later, she would return to her typewriter and bring those hurried notes back to life in full sentences. Among those she worked with was Shalini Rajaneesh, now the state chief secretary, who was then serving as assistant commissioner in Mangaluru.Some chapters remain especially vivid. She recalls her deputation to the Major Harbour Port — now New Mangaluru Port — between 1972 and 1976, when it was still taking shape. The then chief engineer, Panditharadya, would dictate letters and technical details meant for the Union govt. It was meticulous work, and she remembers it with pride.Another memory takes her outdoors — to the site of what would become the Mangala Stadium swimming pool. Under then deputy commissioner SK Das, she visited the site daily, in rain or sun, watching it rise slowly from the ground, her role quietly tying together the administrative threads behind the project.Later, from 1985 to 1992, she was posted to the Land Tribunal department during the land reform period. There, her familiarity with complex land matters grew so deep that advocates would seek her out by name for clarification — an uncommon recognition for someone behind the scenes.When she retired in 1993 as a deputy tahsildar from the block development office, she left behind not just a designation, but a way of working — one that demanded patience, attention, and a rhythm that today feels almost distant.At home, life had its own steady course. She was married to PM John, now deceased, who worked with Metal Box India Ltd, then a prominent company. Together, they raised four children, now settled in different places.Her days today move more gently. She reads, solves puzzles, and works through crosswords — exercises that echo, in their own way, the precision she once brought to her work.But sometimes, especially around this time of year, it is the sound she returns to — the music of keys striking paper, each line earning its place. In that rhythm lies a world far removed from the one Gen Z inhabits now, yet one that endures, quietly, in her memory.
