Every once in a while, a piece of paper becomes more than just news, it becomes a memory. For many of us who grew up in the 1990s and early 2000s, the Sunday Post, a four-page weekly supplement, was the heart of our Sunday mornings.
Sunday mornings were different back then. We didn’t scroll through apps or binge videos. We waited eagerly to hold the Sunday Post in our hands with our breakfast. It was part of the weekly rhythm of life, something to look forward to after a long week of school or work. The regular Nagaland Post came every day, but Sunday had its own magic with those extra pages of Sunday Post.
I still remember those days, flipping through every page with curiosity and excitement. There were stories about inspiring people, business owners who built dreams from nothing, young entrepreneurs trying new ideas, and ordinary men and women whose courage and kindness made them heroes in simple ways. Every column felt like a conversation with someone who had lived, learned, and wanted to share that journey with us.
My brother and I especially loved the competitions. There were quizzes, art contests, writing prompts, and puzzles that made Sundays exciting. I still recall the joy of winning a couple of times, and the fun of going to claim our prizes from local shops and restaurants. Those small adventures made Sunday feel special. Those simple competitions became memories we treasure even today.
Those were times without fancy smartphones, instant games, or music streaming. If we wanted music, we went to the internet café to download MP3s from LimeWire. If we wanted to chat with friends, Yahoo Messenger was all we had, with its happy little notifications and sometimes glitchy connections. In between those small joys and frustrations, Sunday Post served as entertainment, fun, insight, and sometimes even a quiet lesson about life.
Children these days have it easy. Their Sundays are filled with endless options, videos, games, and stories right at their fingertips. But the simple thrill of waiting for that paper, turning each page slowly, and discovering something new, that kind of joy can never be replaced by technology. It was slow, thoughtful, and full of surprises.
I still have some old copies of Sunday Post tucked away in a cupboard. When I look at them now, I don’t just see print and ink. I see laughter, curiosity, quiet Sunday mornings, and a younger version of myself making memories with my brother.
Maybe one day it will come back in some new form, not just as pages on paper, but as a bridge to those precious memories of waiting, reading, and dreaming together. I understand why it had to stop. Times change, and the media changes with them. But for those of us who grew up with it, Sunday Post will always be a piece of magic tucked into four extra pages every Sunday, teaching us to read, to wonder, and to feel connected to a world beyond our home.
Imna Longkumer
Nagarjan, Dimapur
Sunday, February 15, 2026