Do you know, the stillness around,
While peaceful, inviting even a pin-drop-
Does invoke nostalgia from the golden cup-
Which steams into sympathy for the lost chaos.
The lost ambling, the muted squealing, the free
Uninhibited playing- the syncopated beats of
A child's sundry existence. I am reminded
Of my childhood days- I look over the shoulder,
And don't trip, but smile, pushed ahead. Such is
The power of the people that filled those days.
Those Saturday mornings, spent entirely outdoors,
Playing some game or the other delightfully, gleefully,
The restlessness of the place as we debated, finally deciding
On the next game. The winner didn't matter- with so many
Such games- who could ever keep track?
Of course, those were the days when gadgets
Had a subtle, accessory presence- not the dominant
Monopoly that they exercise over us now.
Friend to friend, home to home, we bustled,
Spending time with flesh-and-blood, not with silicon-
To put it coarsely. Letting friends win games, regaling them
With stories of our creation, teaming up to do things
That were never seen through to completion-
Yet the initiative, and not the result, is what counted.
I was carried away into the golden days of childhood,
The boundless, limitless expanse of several wondrous worlds,
Intersecting each other. The distinct worlds
Of distinct individuals- overlapping each other,
Guilelessly. The invention of nonsensical games,
The carol of songs that we would now not like
To claim to have once liked- yet, those very songs which,
As we will never unabashedly exclaim, tie us to
Those magical days- when we'd wear ourselves proud,
Undaunted, unabashed, for our friends to see.
Whenever I wish to travel back to that happy little universe,
I look around, hoping to see it unfolding before me,
In the freshest childhoods of today, being folded, unfolded,
Prized open exuberantly, held aloft tenderly...
But I hear the rain-drop fall, and I greet silence.
The childhoods that would abound in the open, frolicking,
Gallivanting, heaving and panting- have retreated indoors.
Masks chaff them into an amalgam of freedom and restraint.
Freedom is yanked away from them young, preparing them
For a tryst with inhibitions, young. I cannot but frown
At the silence. Endearing as it may be to me,
It speaks of the unuttered laughs of toddlers,
The vanishing squeals of those playing kids,
Whose disturbance we used to lament.
It's not endearing any more. It seems cruel,
To someone who can see the golden fibers
Of her growth, in those warm days outdoors,
Where worlds would intersect, and voices flow.
The worlds would intersect, the voices flow-
Tunes would be adrift and faces would glow..
The glow has changed, it originates in screens,
In glowing games, glowing letters, glowing icons,
It's been transferred from the children to their screens..
Do the screens transmit it back to them?
Do the screens lend them an intersection of worlds?
They do, only it is information-packed, heavy,
While being expansive- it isn't limitless- there are limits-
When the eyes go sore and the fatigue kicks in..
When the fingers are wrinkled, pale and thin.
Fun never wears kids out! Look at us back then
Without a care, voices hoarse, tired, confused,
We weren't worn out. Then this must not be
What fun is. This intersection of digital worlds
That the kids now try their hardest to embrace,
Can't replace the original. To see them trying
So hard, touches and breaks my heart at the same time.
I want to give them my golden days,
Wrapped in the intersection of golden ways.
Image Courtesy: campwyoming.net/blog/way-children-play
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