Paper, Chai aur Badi Maa

A Peaceful Oasis :

Nestled within the heart of a vibrant, bustling city lies a tranquil oasis – a charming colony of bungalows, where nature's splendour unfolds. Delicate tree twigs sway gently, while parks welcome babies and the elderly to revel in their serenity. Friendly stray dogs wag their tails in greeting, as the colony awakens to a peaceful morning calm.

There lies a beautiful house, its entrance adorned with vibrant, blooming bougainvillea, welcoming everyone warmly. Ahead of it is a garden – a kaleidoscope of colours, with lush flowers, shrubs, and verdant plants thriving amidst the occasional prickly thorn, where beauty and grit entwine, embracing life. 

As we step inside, a cosy room beckons, filled with the musty scent of books covered in the shades of warm neutrals and earthy wooden artefacts. A vintage radio sits perched on a side table, while the autotrophic indoor plants stretch towards the sunlight streaming through the window. The warm rays danced across their favourite subject, tracing the intricate threads of a saree, skimming the soft curls resting on a pillow, and finally settling on a wise, wrinkled forehead.

Badi Maa rubbed her eyes gently, a tiny smile forming on her lips. She sat up, gathering her curls into a loose bun, but a stray tendril escaped, gently caressing her left cheek. With a gentle cupping of her hands, cool water soothed her skin, washing away the whispers of the night. As morning sunlight filled the room, she made her way to the kitchen, where the promise of a steaming cup awaited her. She placed a pan over the stove to brew her authentic tea, carefully chopping the ginger and adding other herbs and spices. Adjusting her glasses, she waited for her morning elixir of relaxation and caffeine to boil.

A Morning Routine :

As she stepped onto the veranda, cradling a steaming turquoise cup, she dabbed at her sweat with the folds of her six-yard saree, her eyes scanning the main gate with a mix of longing and concern. The creaking of the old wooden gate seemed to echo her own restless heart. Silence. With a sigh, she settles at her antique table, arranging fallen flowers with practised grace. The morning, she knows, is not quite complete.

That day, I had risen early. From the terrace, the soft wind brushed my face, the world hushed except for the gentle hum below: “Lat uljhi suljha jaa balma...” Badi Maa, fingers tracing her teacup, sang to the morning. Drawn in, I ran down and sat beside her. She smiled, warm and surprised. I chatted; she listened. But her thoughts wandered. 

A conversation across generations:

She began recounting her morning routine from years ago, when Bade Papa was still around. Amidst the chaos of a busy household, those early hours were her sacred “me time.” While the house still slept, she’d sit with her cup of tea, savouring the newspaper away from the noise, lost in a world where the scent of ink and paper transported her to a simpler time.

She spoke of the crisp pages beneath her fingers, rereading her favorite column for comfort. Even a five-minute delay from the paperboy would unsettle her, as if her most precious possession had been withheld. Over the years, she had forged a quiet bond with the newspaper vendors—sometimes exchanging stories, other times just a warm smile. Now, she said, mornings felt empty, robbed of the joyful sound of the paper landing at the doorstep. Digitalization, she lamented, had stripped away these simple joys and human connections. As a Gen Z member, I bristled and defended the digital age—instant information, global access, endless convenience. She listened, amused, her worn hands cradling her cup like a relic from a bygone era.

When I finished, she leaned in, her voice soft and reflective. “The tactile joy of a newspaper,” she said, eyes closed as if reliving it, “the fragrance, the crispness, the vendor’s stories—no screen can replace that. Back then, thirty minutes with the paper was enough to understand the world. Now, we’re drowning in information, unsure what truly matters.”

As she spoke, her face softened, and for a moment, I saw the young girl she once was—curled up with a newspaper, lost in the quiet magic of words and mornings long gone.

Fading Memories:

She waits with bated breath for the newspaper's daily arrival, her eyes scanning the horizon for the familiar figure of the newspaper boy. His visits are a nostalgic lifeline, connecting her to the carefree days of her childhood. The rustle of the newspaper, the smell of the ink, and the boy's cheerful greeting are sensory triggers that transport her back to a simpler era.

The sound of his bicycle bell, or the cheerful "Paparwallah!" he calls out, brings a smile to her face, much like the ring of the last school bell or the familiar tune of the neighbourhood candy man. It's a sound that heralds the arrival of news, stories, and a connection to the world beyond her doorstep.

Sometimes, the newspaper boy would arrive earlier than usual, just to share a few moments of conversation with Badi Maa. He'd regale her with stories of his own family, his struggles in school, or his dreams of becoming a musician. Badi Maa would listen intently while offering encouragement and lending a non-judgmental ear, as she carefully folded the newspaper and handed him a few juicy oranges from her garden, or a handmade sweet, wrapped in a small piece of paper. On special days, she'd even surprise him with delicate flowers, sometimes making a small bouquet of the fallen flowers and leaves, or a colourful candy, tucked into his pocket. These brief encounters brought a sparkle to her eyes, reminding her of the simple joys of human connection in an increasingly digital world. Sometimes, he would bring his writings scribbled on paper and subtly hide them between the newspaper folds for Badi Maa; sometimes, she would recite her favourite poetic lines and songs to him. Their bond was uniquely special, oscillating between the warmth of a grandchild and grandmother, and the camaraderie of best friends.

Though he valiantly tries to keep the tradition alive, his visits have become increasingly sporadic – a privilege she cherishes only once or twice a week, if fate smiles upon her. Every morning, Badi Maa waits with bated breath, her heart full of anticipation. She carefully arranges the day's offerings: freshly picked flowers, a basket of juicy fruits, and her favorite poems and songs at the ready. But as the hours tick by, and the morning sun climbs higher in the sky, her excitement slowly turns to dismay. The silence is deafening, punctuated only by the occasional chirping of birds or rustling of leaves. 

When there's no morning visitor, Badi Maa's face falls, her eyes clouding over with disappointment. She tries to busy herself with household chores, but her heart remains heavy, longing for the warmth of human connection. The world, she knows, has moved on. The paper that once arrived with a boy’s laughter now lives behind glass—cold, flickering, silent. Conversations have become comments. Stories, scrolls.

But Badi Maa remains—a keeper of small rituals, of shared glances, of voices carried by ink and air. On her veranda, with a cup of chai and memory at her side, she waits not out of habit, but out of hope. Hope that someone, somewhere, will still choose presence over pace. That the human touch, though quieter now, hasn’t vanished entirely.

Because for her, the newspaper was never just news. It was a connection. And some things are worth waiting for.

Written by Riya Tyagi