Woodworking has always been a part of me, a quiet rhythm that began in early childhood. My parents often mused that it must have come from my grandfathers, who were skilled in their ways. My paternal grandfather, whom I never met, passed away before my father even reached his teenage years.
But I remember my maternal grandfather vividly—a quiet man with weathered hands and a knack for fixing things. Once, during a vacation visit, he built me a pushcart. It wasn’t fancy, but it was perfect. I can still picture myself pushing it around the pea gravel courtyard, the wheels inevitably wobbling off. Each time it happened, I would race to him, my small voice calling for help. Without a word, he would pull out his trusty tools and secure the wheels again, his calm precision mesmerizing even then.
Later, in middle school, my walk to and from school became another brush with woodworking magic. Along the 20-minute journey was the home of an elderly carpenter. Day after day, I passed him at work, outside his house, with tools in hand and sawdust in the air. His deliberate, unhurried movements were captivating, as if the wood guided him. Often, I would pause to watch, entranced by the symphony of his hands shaping raw timber into something beautiful.
My woodworking journey began with simple hand tools. This modest collection included a hand drill, planer, chisels, sanding stick, hacksaw, and trusty essentials of hammers and pliers. I remember the day I first saw an electric circular saw in action. I must have been eight or nine, and it belonged to our front-door neighbor, a Navy man. The gleaming device seemed like something out of a dream, a futuristic marvel that wasn’t even available in India then. I couldn’t help but wonder how he had acquired such a treasure, and my young mind was filled with visions of one day wielding such power myself.
When I moved to the United States, my passion for woodworking followed me across the oceans. My toolkit grew with time, though it remained faithful to hand tools for years. I became an avid viewer of The Woodwright’s Shop, an enchanting woodworking show hosted by master craftsman Roy Underhill on PBS. His expertise and dedication left me in awe, and I longed to own some of the traditional tools he showcased. But life, as it does, nudged me forward. When I bought my first home in Grapevine, TX, the projects began to outgrow the capabilities of my beloved hand tools. Reluctantly, I made the leap to power tools, and though they were efficient and indispensable, they never quite carried the same charm. Yet, I held on to a few cherished hand tools—a hand drill, a planer, and some hand saws—reminders of a simpler time.
Years later, in my Southlake, TX home, my woodworking journey came full circle with a new project. I set out to design and build a custom table for my Korg keyboard in the study room—a table that would also serve as a workspace when the keyboard was not in use. The design was intricate: a hinged top layer for the work surface, with a second shelf below for the keyboard. The challenge was to make it fit perfectly into a peculiar wall inset near the study room’s entry door without obstructing the pathway. Piece by piece, I brought the vision to life, blending precision with creativity. The result was more than just a table—it was a testament to the timeless allure of crafting something with one’s own hands.
Even now, the photographs of that table remind me of the journey—of the grandfather who fixed my pushcart, the carpenter who shaped wood by the roadside, and the young boy who first dreamed of holding a circular saw. Woodworking isn’t just a hobby; it’s a thread that weaves through my life, binding moments and memories into something tangible and enduring.
