In a quiet corner of Tulsi Apartments, first floor flat 104, lived Dadi.

Her real name was Nirmala Saxena, but nobody had used it since the UPA days. For the last fifteen years, she’d simply been “Dadi” — to the watchman, kachre-wali, Airtel recharge guy, and every child under fifteen.

She looked exactly like a Dadi should — soft and round, smelling faintly of agarbatti and Mysore sandal soap, hair white as Amul butter, nighties in every pastel shade imaginable, and thick glasses that made her look permanently surprised.

Her balcony faced the society garden, but her favourite view was the building entrance — especially at 2:45 p.m., when the school van screeched to a halt and someone would tumble out, biscuits in hand, bag half-zipped, hair already in disarray.

That someone was eleven-year-old Chikki — Dadi’s downstairs neighbour and unofficial post-lunch roommate. With both parents working, Chikki had long stopped going home after school. Instead, she’d race up the stairs, skip her flat entirely, and ring Dadi’s bell three times — their secret code.

“Homework time?” Dadi would ask, already mixing Glucon-D in a steel glass. Chikki would flop onto the sofa. “Uff, moral science is boring. Tell me a story!”

Dadi always obliged.

Sometimes it was the tale of a thief who stole only left slippers — convinced the right ones were cursed. Or a crow who ran a chai stall with BYO-cup discounts for squirrels. But the crowd favourite? Bhaalu and the Bhutta War — a bear who attacked a cornfield, fell in love with roasted corn, and opened a food cart instead.

Post-lunch storytime became ritual — Dadi in her cane chair, murmura in hand; Chikki on the cool mosaic floor, tracing lazy patterns with her toe, laughter spilling between the stories and Dadi’s dramatic pauses. Somewhere between monkey spies and biscuit crumbs, magic happened daily.

One Sunday, mid-chip bite and Glucon-D sip, Chikki looked up. “Why doesn’t the world hear your stories?” she asked. Dadi chuckled, “Who has time? Everyone’s scrolling.” But Chikki was already miles ahead — the curtain swayed, and an idea arrived like a drumroll.

“We’ll make a podcast!” she declared, chips flying. “You just talk—no filters, no dancing. Like chutney aunty, but cooler.” Dadi blinked. “Podcast?” Chikki grinned. “I’ll listen. And I’ll make sure others do too.”

The very next day, Chikki showed up armed for mission Dadi Ki Kahaniyaan, dragging along her best friend Momo — a boy with big ears, bigger imagination, and a school bag that never zipped shut.

Their studio setup included:

– An old Nokia phone with a shaky voice recorder

– A faded bedsheet for a “recording tent” (star-shaped holes included)

– Fairy lights sneakily borrowed from the Diwali stash

– A yellow notepad titled Dadi’s Story Ideas

– And Momo’s tiny, slightly dented tabla set for dramatic dhum-dhums

They got to work like pros. A corner of Dadi’s living room was cleared. The tent went up, propped between two chairs and tucked behind the fridge. The fairy lights, too tangled to untangle, were wrapped around a stool for “ambience.”

A mic stand was invented using five Tinkle comics, a tiffin box, and blind faith.

Momo, now “sound engineer,” did fake sound checks in a British accent. Chikki handed Dadi the notepad like a celebrity assistant. And Dadi, equal parts overwhelmed and amused, adjusted her dupatta, sat cross-legged, and smiled like she’d been giving interviews forever.

“Ready?” Chikki asked.

Dadi glanced around the tent of bedsheets and dreams. “Beta, we don’t even have an audience.”

“You don’t need one,” Chikki grinned. “You are the show.”

Recording began with full drama. Momo, crouched under the tent like a pro sound engineer, whispered “Mic check” into the Nokia, now precariously perched on a tiffin box. The red light blinked. Showtime.

Dadi launched into the epic of Guddu, the goat who wanted to be a pilot, complete with turbulence sound effects via steel plate and spoon. Momo added enthusiastic, if off-beat, tabla beats. Chikki, playing producer, flashed a handmade NO COUGHING sign every time someone so much as sniffled.

After seven retakes, a sneeze, and Momo knocking over the “mic” once, they had their outro.

The episode was uploaded via Chikki’s dad’s long-forgotten YouTube account (last active: 2014), titled: Dadi Ki Kahaniyaan – Episode 1: Goat Pilot

Thumbnail: a hand-drawn Dadi riding a goat, both in sunglasses.

In 24 hours, their video had three views — Momo’s brother, Chikki (twice), and possibly the Airtel recharge guy. But to Dadi, it felt like a stadium. Her stories were finally out there, floating through the internet, maybe landing softly in someone’s afternoon. They celebrated with room-temp Frooti, crumbled Parle-G, and laughter that reached the stairwell.

By morning, Chikki turned marketer. Handwritten flyers went up across Tulsi Apartments — on the notice board, at the grocery shop, even above the lift button with a note: “Press this AND listen to Dadi’s Kahaniyaan!” By week’s end, Episode 1 had 25 views. Dadi stared at the number like it was a lottery ticket. Twenty-five! She’d once hosted a kitty party with six guests — this was practically viral.

Tulsi Apartments began to notice. Aunty from 202 said Dadi’s voice felt like someone oiling her hair and humming Kishore Kumar. The grumpy retired uncle now smiled during evening walks, earbuds in — secretly hooked on Guddu the Goat.

Dadi took it all in stride. She filled her haldi-stained recipe diary with new stories — some from childhood, others pure nonsense. A cow on a mango pickle hunger strike. Two rickshaw-pulling parrots turned detectives. Each episode ended the same: Chikki gave the signal, the camera zoomed (a little wobbly), and Dadi beamed into the lens, voice twinkling — “Subscribe!”

On Chikki’s birthday, something special appeared on the channel — a new episode titled “Laado’s Birthday Plan”. It was about a girl who loved stories so much, she accidentally became one. A girl who turned old phones and steel dabbas into magic.

The story ended with Dadi’s voice dropping to a whisper: “This one’s for my favourite listener.” No names, no clues — but Chikki knew. She hugged Dadi tight, nearly knocking off her glasses. The cake could wait. This was the real gift.

“You’re the best, Dadi,” she beamed.

“I’m your fan, beta,” Dadi grinned.

Then Chikki smirked, “Next time, let’s try Instagram?”

Dadi gasped.

Outside, the lift dinged. Somewhere down the corridor, on a faint phone speaker, Dadi’s voice echoed: “Sun lo, sun lo… Dadi ki kahani, sabse suhaani!”