Copyright © 2012 moody-musings.blogspot.in

Sunday, 18 March 2012

Past perfect

Childhood memories have a curious way of staying on with you even when you have past your prime. In those days, all you had to do was go to school, come back and devise strategies to bypass maths homework to prolong the time spent with friends playing outside. An unsullied mind, carefree disposition and bucketloads of energy…we didn’t know what wanting for more was like.

I have heard many say that when they were young, they wished they could grow up fast. I, on the contrary, always knew that I would be terribly missing these days. True, I hated maths and wanted to wish it away, but the evenings spent at the playground and the gully cricket tournaments more than compensated for it.

I was the only female member in my all-boys para gang and the only discrimination I faced was in the football field where I was always made the goalkeeper, while the boys dribbled away the ball to glory.  But I more than made up for my lost chance at exhibiting my talent at the cricket matches. With a cricket bat almost my size, I would whack the ball over the terrace wall everytime a full toss was delivered to me. No doubt I was much in demand during team selections.

We would squabble over inanities one day and blissfully forget about it the next; raise a ruckus during quiet afternoons in the pretext of a game and still get away with it.

There was a certain innocence about that gender-neutral friendship, which somehow got lost along the way. Some of my friends drifted apart, some got busy with their lives and some simply grew up too fast.

Today, the rules of the game have undergone a sea change. Kids play football, but at cyber cafes; they flaunt their tricks with the ball and dodge the opponent seated at the computer next to him. They cheer a goal and throw up their hands in despair when the ball misses the net, oblivious of the fact that they are mistaking the virtual reality for the real and losing out on so much more in the process.

Today, childhood, it seems, is in a hurry to graduate to the next level. Playgrounds are a rarity and kids romping around in them even more so. The click of the mouse in the sheltered cocoon more familiar than the dust and grime accompanied by innumerable cuts and bruises.

The oozing blood from my knees, that followed my first cycle ride, and the Dettol-soaked cotton was no doubt painful, but it also taught me that wounds heal over time and pave the way for a more thrilling ride the next time — making both the fall and the rise equally significant and worthwhile.

No comments:

Post a Comment