.jpeg)
There’s something undeniably charming about the older parts of Indian cities—the places where life runs a bit slower, the tea is a bit stronger, and people still talk to each other like neighbors rather than strangers rushing past. Every so often, when I’m wandering through those lanes, I overhear conversations that feel like they’re straight out of another era. Folks arguing, laughing, guessing, all around these quirky number traditions that have lingered through generations.
It’s odd how certain cultural fragments refuse to fade, even when the world has gone completely digital around them. Not because the practices themselves are glamorous or sensible—far from it—but because people once built tiny rituals around them. And rituals, no matter how peculiar, have a way of sticking to humanity like burrs on clothing.
In the middle of this tangle of old myths and neighborhood nostalgia, you might still hear someone bring up matka 420 (here mentioned strictly in a cultural and historical sense). Not with the seriousness of someone studying finance, but with the casual familiarity of recounting an old folk tale. It’s less about numbers and more about the chatter, the memories, the tiny spark of thrill people once found in guessing what couldn’t possibly be guessed.
If anyone ever wrote a long book on why humans behave the way we do, I bet there would be an entire chapter on our obsession with finding patterns. We read signs into everything—a dream, a random event, a bird crossing the road. There’s something comforting in believing the world has a secret rhythm that we can somehow decode.
Back in the day, especially in mill towns and tight-knit neighborhoods, people would gather and trade theories about numbers like amateur philosophers debating the universe. It wasn’t logical, and it definitely wasn’t scientific, but it felt important to them. And when things feel important, they become a part of culture, even if no one fully understands why.
People weren’t looking for wealth; they were looking for connection. Something to think about, something to dissect, something to laugh over later.
There’s a certain rhythm you can almost imagine:
the clang of steel shutters opening, the smell of hot fritters, the clatter of old cups on saucers. A few men, maybe some women too, drawn into lively discussions about numbers, dreams, coincidence. It was a community ritual—imperfect, flawed, but oddly comforting.
One person would swear by a theory, someone else would ridicule it, and yet another would quietly scribble down their own guess. Nobody was really an expert. Everyone was pretending, analyzing, laughing, bonding.
It was never just about the number. It was about the companionship that formed around predicting something that, realistically, had no predictable logic.
Then came the era of smartphones, instant notifications, lightning-fast internet, and with it—the slow fading of the old social warmth.
Neighborhood conversations that once unfolded over steaming cups of tea were replaced by quiet scrolling sessions. Instead of groups arguing over guesses, people exchanged hurried messages filled with numbers and half-baked theories.
Technology didn’t erase the tradition entirely; it simply hollowed out its soul a bit. The heart of it—the laughs, the face-to-face debates, the teasing, the stories—got lost somewhere between screens.