By: Mohd Younus Bhat

There was a time—not too far in the past—when our world revolved around a single hall in a humble home. That space, worn with use and love, held more stories than the years could count. It was not just a room; it was a sanctuary of struggles and simple joys. Our nights were illuminated not by bulbs or tubes, but by the soft, amber flicker of a kerosene lantern perched on a rusty nail or placed atop an upturned brass bowl. That glow wrapped itself around our little world like a shawl. It flickered on our father’s-tired eyes, caught the curves of mother’s busy hands, and reflected off the worn pages of our schoolbooks, the fountain pens and Nataraj pencils so much popular in those days. The room never truly slept. There was always a rustle—the scratch of pencil on paper, the clicking of a fountain pen, the whispered mumbling of school lessons, or the steady clink of mother’s fingers weaving wet grass into wagoo, patijj, and cheongzii (All are different versions of handmade grass mats) on her wicker basket (foue’t or kranjou’l). Every sound had rhythm. Every silence, a purpose. The occasional cough echoed into the corners—dry, deep, familiar—like a lullaby born of cold air and lamp smoke. But none of it felt like burden. It was simply life, and we lived it with a quiet grace.

We siblings were all lured by the ultimate bait—Lipton chai—if only we could keep our eyes open long enough to study late into the night. The promise sounded grand, like a royal reward for academic bravery. But truth be told, we rarely made it to the heroic hour of 11 p.m. Despite our best intentions, our eyelids betrayed us. After full days spent playing cricket with torn tennis balls, chasing imaginary goals, and running from one end of the village to the other in search of absolutely nothing (except maybe a good excuse to stay out longer), our little bodies would surrender to sleep without warning.

We were innocent souls with tender hearts, more loyal to dreams than to textbooks, and before long, we would be snoring softly while our books lay open like unfinished promises. The Lipton chai? Often, it remained unclaimed—still steaming in mother’s kettle, a silent........

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