When it was all a child’s play

Someone once told me, and aptly so, never let the child in you die. At that time I did not pay much heed to it, but for reasons unknown, the thought lingered in some corner my memory. The little joys of life that peppered my childhood have translated into beautiful memories that I so fondly treasure.

The flights of fantasy at that age knew no bounds. Everything was so intriguing, so fascinating -- the colours of butterflies, the trail of ants, the call of cuckoos -- I had friends in them all.  We didn’t need words to communicate. In our own space and at our own pace we enjoyed each other’s company.  

Tiptoeing to catch dragonflies was a favourite pastime during the summers. There were always one too many, sprinting from one twig to another, disappearing and reappearing in a blink, even before my nimble fingers could nab them. And every time that I managed to get hold of one, I would offer it a blade of grass and watch the fun -- the fragile thing trying to grasp it, nibble on it, all at the same time. Soon I would let it free and set my eyes on another one.

In the sultry, boring summer afternoons, after the drudgery of loaded lessons in school, nothing got me going like the jugalbandi with a cuckoo which I never saw -- despite umpteen attempts to spot her in the dark and deep foliage that surrounded my house. The bird’s two-note call was so piercing and incessant  in the stillness of the noon that I invariably took it upon myself to give her company, matching every note,  making mine sound as real as hers. This would go on till the little birdy would give up on me, at least for the day.

With ants, I had a different equation. I would while away hours watching them carry food, sometimes just a grain of sugar, sometimes a wing of a dead fly, sometimes some biscuit particles. Their team work, co-ordination and relentless effort to stock up food for the winters always amazed me. On my part, the digression would always be in the midst of a brain-racking math problem or a boring history lesson that I had to learn by heart. Thanks to these cute creatures who allowed me a space in their tiny world, my world would cheer up instantly.

There are stories aplenty, of such engaging trivialities that have marked my growing years. I know the child in me has not died. It’s only lying dormant till a chirpy little sparrow comes hopping on its windowpane.   

What’s their words’ worth?

Now this is what I call a verbal diarrhea. The world of news is replete with instance of madcaps pronouncing loud and clear, how inane they are. If words could kill, by now the Delhi rape victim must have died a thousand times over. It doesn't take much to scar one’s sense of dignity, and words do the job like no lethal weapon ever could.

Even as some mindless morons go about suggesting ludicrous ways as to how the victim could have escaped her fate, I wonder why, why at all are we even giving them any publicity? Why are we letting them hog headlines, become page one leads? Why are we allowing them occupy our thoughts, even if in the most detestable manner?

In fact, the sheer profanity of their thoughts leads me to think if it’s all a publicity gimmick. After all, at a time when the nation is on the boil on an issue that has jolted a collective conscience, such rhetorical disasters cannot be dismissed as naive opinions. And when they come from people who are pied pipers in their own right and bask in their exalted space, there has to be a purpose, probably a ploy at play. And if this is their way of hitting the headlines, someone’s got to draw the line for them.  For characters like these, bad publicity is good enough. Isn't it obvious that these men are riding on someone’s pain to garner quick fame, even if it means getting infamously famous? What befuddles me further is the brazen manner in which they squarely put the blame on the media, each one of them, every single time, for supposedly misinterpreting their wise words.

One speaks of Lakshman rekha, another of marriage as a contract and yet another of how to evoke brotherly love in a man when threatened with rape. Even as I shudder at the thought of more such priceless pearls of wisdom tumbling out of blockheads worth a place in a museum, I increasingly seem to understand why they say silence is golden.     

Greetings without cards

When you can tweet, scribble on walls, or simply touch the send button, why put pen on paper. At the risk of sounding outdated, I must say I do miss the once-upon-a-time year-end ritual of posting and receiving greeting cards. The mountains, the rivers, the flowers, the rising sun, birds on the far horizon  -- the glossy greeting cards were more like envelopes full of hopes and good wishes landing at your door steps.

I remember during my growing years, this season, I would eagerly wait for the postman every afternoon. With bag-loads of inland letters, postcards and greeting cards he would go cycling around town, dropping messages that travelled countless miles, stamped and sealed for long journeys. In the pleasantly warm, wintery afternoons, my ears would be all perked up, what if I missed the messenger pass by. 

Envelopes of different hues, cards of different shapes and sizes; it always felt so special that someone had actually taken that much of effort, spared that much of time to pick up the right one from rows full of them, personalized a note, made sure to put the address right and then post it on time, all of this just to spread a smile.  

Hand-made cards were much in vogue among school friends. A lot of the stuff that we learnt in our SUPW (socially useful productive work) classes would come in handy. On a creative high, we would unleash the Wordsworths and Shakespeares in us to express our deepest of thoughts in words.

Today, I so often miss those little moments that made life so beautiful. I still have a lot of those cards and hold them so dear. Whenever I mange to escape from the crazy maze of life, I turn to them, read them, feel them, go back in time with them. And every time, even before I know, there’s a smile on my lips and tears in my eyes.