How can I ever forget those days? The happiness of those days was something else. Words are not enough to describe those moments. Those days when we lived freely, without worrying about what anyone would say, playing happily in our own little world… When I think of them now, my eyes fill with tears. Oh, if only those days could come back once again…
When I see today's children always glued to their phones, I can't help but think — when we were little, once we finished eating and stepped out of the house, we would return only when the sun went home. If we came inside to drink water, we feared our friends might disappear, so we filled water into a bottle and ran back to play. We would return home only when the birds had gone back to their nests and it had grown dark — sometimes even after being scolded for staying out too long.
We played games like climbing trees, Chowkabara, Jootata, and "Color Color, What Color"… Summer holidays felt like festivals! Visiting grandmother's house was pure joy. We would go to the garden with friends. Even though we were warned not to go near the lake, we still went, played, got our clothes wet, and dried them in the sun before going home — afraid of being scolded. Even if we got caught and beaten by our parents, those days were still sweet.
We rode on bullock carts around the village. We were told not to go near the cowshed, yet we went there to watch the milking. The moment the cow lifted its leg, we panicked, spilled the milk, and ran back in fear. How can I ever forget those days?
We never sat at home even for a minute — always outside playing. Plucking flowers and pretending to cook with them. Throwing stones to pluck mangoes. Stealing tamarind and eating it like chocolate. Making dolls out of mud. In the afternoons, even though mother tried so hard to make us sleep, we would wait until she slept and then sneak out to play again.
Even when grandmother said she was tired, we insisted, "Tell us a story!" We followed her everywhere. When she cooked, we sat nearby watching her. Even when she warned us about the fire, we wouldn't listen and would say, "I'll help you," trying to assist her.
When summer holidays were about to end, the sadness was unbearable — I still remember it. Every time we left grandmother's house, we cried. Going back to the same school, the same homework, waking up early — it all felt heavy. No matter how late we slept, we wouldn't feel like waking up. Even when the sun was high, mother would scold, "Aren't you going to school today?"
Village mornings were magical — cool breeze, sweet sounds of birds, cows and calves calling out. But in the city, mornings are filled with car and bike noises. Somehow, without interest, we would go to school.
If it rained on a school day, it was a celebration! Getting drenched in the rain was pure joy. Mother would send us with a raincoat and umbrella, but while returning we would say, "I forgot them," just to walk in the rain. We even waited for heavy rain hoping school would be declared a holiday. Eating hailstones and then falling sick with fever — even that felt sweet back then.
Now, when I see children playing, I feel like joining them. Those "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" and "Johnny Johnny Yes Papa" days were so beautiful. As children, we sang without even knowing the meaning. Even today, when I hear a child say "Johnny Johnny," I feel like loudly replying, "Yes Papa!" But then comes the fear — what will people say? "You're grown up now, why are you playing like a child?"
One question always remains — why did we grow up so fast? Couldn't we have stayed children a little longer?
How beautiful those childhood days were…
Those days that will never return again.