Something was missing. The first cup of the day did not taste right. Where’s the newspaper? The maid confirmed that it had not been delivered yet. I was furious. I was expecting the calling bell to ring any minute (usually the hawker rings thrice). My patience was running thin when a sleepy voice from the other side of the bed reminded me, “Yesterday was 15th August…”

The morning paper will not come — the realisation dawned. I suddenly started missing the news about all the important things that had happened in the past 24 hours. When is Lee taking on Andy? More importantly, what was the final score of the hockey match (I had gone to sleep after the Dutch scored their second goal)? What did our German coach say after the match?

Anxiously, I switched on the TV and looked for a news channel. I was right in time for the sports capsule of the breakfast news. India had lost 1-3. The goals were shown and then the newscaster moved on to share market prospects and other more serious matters. I still did not know what our new German coach had to say. It was like an unquenched thirst. I could have climbed a wall.

Like me, many are addicted to their daily paper. Fortunately, deprivation happens only on a few mornings of the year. The intensity of the addiction thus remains well hidden, not only from the reader but also possibly from the marketers of newspapers.

That a newspaper reaches millions every morning is well-known. Indeed, that is the only yardstick used to measure its efficacy as a medium. Higher the readership, more the advertiser pays for the task that a newspaper performs for him: inert delivery of his message.

Missing in action: No morning paper, no news, no nuggets

The logic of the transaction is simple and straight-forward. It has never been made complicated by the thought that an addiction is symptomatic of dependence and intimacy. Or by the possibility of an individual newspaper delivering more than inert messages.

Perhaps one major reason is that the relationship has been left at a generic level; it has not been given shape. Very few viaducts have been built between a newspaper and its readers. Yet, that this intimacy is beyond headlines and advertisements would always need a statement. Indeed it would beg recognition, deserve solemnisation.

Curiously, everyone knows that the intimacy already exists. And what a setting for it to exist! On a bed it is just “she, me and you”. Every morning, after the night before. This is the scene in homes that buy a lot of stuff during the day. A newspaper has a choice. It can remain an inanimate bundle, a mute witness to private family moments. Or with a bit of effort it can truly become family.