On a rainy morning, I plunked myself on the bed near the window. The pitter-patter of the rain made a rhythmic sound. Our neighbouring garden wore the freshest hues of green. The grey skies, unhurried rain and chirping of birds made a perfect setting for my favourite weekend ritual – reading. Whether it is newspapers or books, nothing delights me more than spending lazing mornings in their comforting company.
Weekend newspapers are a treasure chest. Each page is a door to the world of culture, culinary trends, travelogues and book reviews. There is something magical about feature writers and columnists poetically describing simple moments of life. These pages are hidden games to find stories of untold courage, quiet rebellion and innovations.
Over the years, my weekend paper trail has wandered through familiar names – Times of India, Maharashtra Times to Hindustan Times, Business Standard, The Economic Times and Mint. Each one earns its unique place in my reading list during different phases of life. What remained constant was the warmth and depth of these weekend reads.
Childhood nostalgia
Sundays were extra special. On Sundays, my uncle, living a building away, would subscribe to all the Marathi dailies. A Sunday visit to his home meant browsing through a heap of newspapers. Our friends from the fields of sports like kho-kho, kabaddi would often visit on Sundays to read newspapers. V.V.Karmarkar, a renowned sports journalist and a family friend, would often join these Sunday sessions. My aunt’s house would transform into a mini library – a hub where good reads were devoured and discussed passionately.
In contrast, our weekday newspaper reading was quick and sharp. My grandmother would wait for the newspaper with a childlike curiosity. Her daily omen was to scan the horoscope column for my brother and me. As I rushed through the last bites of breakfast before school, Aaji read our horoscope for the day aloud.
Come afternoon, her newspaper reading served a different audience – our house help. Sitting beside her, Aaji would read aloud the crime news, especially those involving children and women. Our house help also fetched the children from school. Through these readings, Aaji hoped to arm our house help with awareness and vigilance.
From reading to writing
Some days, Pappa bought additional Marathi newspapers. His review of the kho-kho tournaments had found a place in print. I still remember how, after a long day, Aai would sit with a paper and a pen as Pappa dictated his column. He animatedly recounted the kho-kho tournament, match reports and performance of the players. He preserved each clipping meticulously in a file, a memory that is still tucked away in our cupboard.
Years later, Aaji would pull out a neatly folded newspaper from under the cushion of the chair. “Tejal’s name has appeared in the paper. She has written this”, she would say lovingly to the guests. I had started working for a local newspaper by then, and each weekly edition was shared with her. The day my first byline appeared in Business Standard, Pappa brought an ice-cream pack as a quiet celebration.
Last week, as I picked my morning cup of tea, my 2-year-old niece pointed to the newspapers and chirped, “This is your paper. That is Ajoba’s”. Some habbits are hard to die. They are passed on, not as a compulsion but with their presence.
Nuture Winning Thoughts!
