Musings of a newspaper
addict
published in The Hindu - 08/10/17 http://www.thehindu.com/opinion/open-page/the-thrill-of-the-morning/article19819797.ece
How I wait to hear the
‘thud’ of the rolled bundle falling on my terrace! A few minutes late and there
I am - perched on the railing, waiting eagerly to catch a glimpse of his cycle
turning the corner towards my house. It sure looks fantastic. With a large bundle
tied on their handles and carriers laden with another, the bicycles swim in my
lane. The satchel on their handle bars
holds some more- the rolled ones. The practiced fingers nimbly pick the exact
newspaper from the bundles or the satchel, depending on whether they are to be
delivered to a ground floor verandah or, to an upper floor terrace and, the
dexterous arm akin to an Olympian javelin thrower sends it to the desired
place. All in one seamless action!
I am a confirmed newspaper
addict. Without it the morning seems
bland, the morning- tea insipid, and, the day morose. They
may have been the mornings of a remote
town, Sakti in Chhatisgarh, or a non-descript railway station where my train
happened to stop during some journey , the Heathrow airport where the flight to
USA took a break , or the cities in USA where I have had short sojourns, I have gone all out in search
for a newspaper. Yes, the printed version- which one can feel and smell and can
hold in one’s hands. Having had one, I flip and cursorily make a mental note of
the choicest and juiciest topics, and then lay it down on the lap to savour it,
to chew and digest it in the celebrated words of
Bacon. I even deliberately leave some of the articles unread for the next day,
if the newspaper is not to be available
that day on account of a press holiday. I cannot let my morning tea be tasteless !
It
wasn’t so in the beginning. Those were the days when we children were asked to
read newspapers to improve both our language and knowledge, and it was a
reluctant compliance of course. The comic strip, the
sports page and, the weekly Children’s page were the initial hook-ups. The graduation
to the editorial and op-ed pages took some years and the preparation for the
civil services exam made it staple. The newspapers then catered to all age
groups. They were meant to be read not to be merely seen as some of them now. Page
three was just another page in a daily, which usually carried local news.
It wasn’t an adjective then. While our teachers and parents insisted that we
read the newspapers, I dread asking my kids to do that. Not only have all the
well-known newspapers stopped having an exclusive kid’s space on their sheets,
some of them have also gone ahead for a blatant display of patent adult stuff on
them in the name of life style articles.
‘But why is mine so late today?’, I grumble , careening
myself as if I would be able to see beyond the road-bend. Well may be some
newspaper might have reached the distribution centre late or may be his
cycle-tyre got punctured. I suddenly
realize that he must have left his home at the crack of dawn to be there at the
newspaper sorting center. The foggiest morning of a crippling winter or, a monsoonal one, raining hailstones makes no
difference to his schedule. So, while we in our blankets, lie warmly ensconced
in dreams, he is out there loading grim realities on his handle bar. He cycles
dripping wet to get our newspaper dry and crisp as a papadum. I realize
that this drudgery is to supplement his paltry income from some low-paid job
the rest of the day.
I espy my paper-wala shooting
newspaper missiles, bang on targets, of specific balconies and porches, as he
speedily cycles towards my house. My reverie breaks. I move a bit back from my
perch, take a stance à la Jonty
Rhodes and focus my attention to catch the roll of newspapers hurled from below.
Skand Shukla
