A TALE OF TWO CHILDHOODS - A Nostalgic Recollection of My Innocent Childhood

Reflections from a Life Abroad......

I grew up in a village called Chack Ahmad Yar, near the Indo- Pak border in Jammu region, in the early eighties. 

I remember those peaceful Sunday mornings that signaled the beginning of my days. 

Back then, I would join a ragtag gang of boys in front of the village’s small flour mill. 

The flour mill of Sardar Labh Singh was our hub, a rusted outpost near the central well and the Gurdwara Sahib. 

It was a place where the elders of the village would gather to share stories and discuss their daily lives.  Among those elders, there was one man, Sardar Balwant Singh, who was known to all as the village’s self-proclaimed “BBC London.” 

With his booming voice and dramatic flair, he would share his prophecies of war, future battles, and world events, captivating his audience with every word. 

The men would sit around him, listening intently, while some nodded along with the conviction of a true believer, while others listened with a knowing smile that his rhetoric were often grandiose and implausible, steeped in exaggeration and fantasy but, they were good to the ears, a source of good entertainment to the idlers.

The village women, with an elegance that defied the laborious nature of their task, would gracefully balance sacks and baskets on their heads as they made their way to the fields, and the men, armed with their hal-panjali (wood plough), would also set off for a day of hard work.

Now, I sit in my home abroad, reflecting on those childhood days.

Every Sunday was eagerly awaited for the thrilling cricket match. 

Boys of various ages would gather at the village’s graveyard, where a flat patch amidst the graves served as the improvised cricket pitch. 

Surrounding this area were bushes, a nearby pond, and open agriculture fields.

Sparse Kikker (Vachellia nilotica) trees provided minimal shade, and boys would perch on the mounds, unless warned by a family member to avoid sitting on graves.

Those days, the red cork ball, valued at one and a half rupees, was a precious commodity that required the collective effort of the team to buy. 

Lacking funds, the boys would resort to stealthily harvesting grains from the fields and selling them at the local store Babu Shah di hatti to raise the necessary money. 

The bat was power, and its owner ruled the game. His word was law, but it wasn’t a law born of justice, it was the law of the jungle, where only the bat owner was the king.

Each match that began with great enthusiasm, would face frequent interruptions everytime the ball was flying off into the murky waters of the pond or getting lost in the thick, choking bushes that wrapped around us like a noose.

Then, the enthusiastic players would work through knees-deep muddy waters in the pond or into dense bushes to retrieve the ball.

The game was never clean, never fair, and we never cared. 

Losing the ball was always a wound we’d nurse for a week, only to repeat the cycle when Sunday came back around, like the clock ticking down on a life we couldn’t escape.

Undeterred, we then would move to the village school’s small ground to play hockey. 

Our makeshift hockey sticks were fashioned from tree branches, and the ball varied from a solid piece of wood to a sturdy plastic box. The game would continu until either the ball or the sticks gave way. 

The joy we derived from these games was  immense, despite the rudimentary equipment and the frequent interruptions. It was a time of unbridled creativity and companionship, where the sheer enjoyment overshadowed the inadequacies of our gear.

Reflecting upon those days, I realize how different my childhood was compared to that of my children today. 

Our games were played in open fields and graveyards, with homemade equipment. 

In contrast, my children’s lives are filled with structured activities, organized sports, and digital entertainment. 

They play on manicured lawns with proper gear and seldom experience the raw, unfiltered joy of creating their own games and finding happiness in the smallest of things. 

The memories of those Sunday mornings, serving as a beautiful reminder of a time when life’s greatest pleasures were found in the simplest of things.

Today’s children might have access to sophisticated gadgets, but they miss the raw adventures and the sense of accomplishment that came from overcoming small challenges with limited resources. 

The contrast is stark, and while I appreciate the advancements that provide children with a plethora of opportunities, I hope they also find ways to embrace simplicity and creativity. 

Perhaps, one day, they will stumble upon their own version of a Sunday morning cricket match, in whatever form it may take, and understand the profound joy that comes from such experiences.

 I see my children engrossed in electronic gadgets, seeking answers to their every question through Google, ordering food that is delivered right to their doorstep, and obtaining everything they want from online stores. 

When I tell them about those days, they laugh. 

They don’t believe me. 

They think I’m exaggerating, or worse, romanticizing a past that seems too raw, too hard.

My only school picnic tour to a place called Jhajjar Kotli  happened when I was in the tenth standard, while my children now have their school tours to Europe and the United States. 

This comparison of bygone eras with modern times highlights how far life has travelled, from my village’s graveyard ground where I played cricket with my friends to the cricket academies where my kids pay to play on weekends, it has been a journey of two generations, of two eras: yesterday’s childhood and today’s life children.

As I look back on my own childhood, it now seems like a distant dream in today’s fast-paced world. 

I wish my children had the opportunity to hear that loud call by the village chowkidar, echoing through the winding lanes whenever there was a message to be conveyed to the villagers. 

I wish my children could enjoy the cool shade and lovely breeze under a tree during the sweltering summer afternoons. 

I wish my children could experience the excitement and thrill of watching Chitrahaar with a dozen boys huddled around a single flickering screen. 

The crackle of the radio, its voice carrying cricket commentary like it was the pulse of the universe. 

But that was then, and now? 

The fire is gone, replaced by the sterile glow of a world that has forgotten how to burn.

I wish my children could understand the value of perseverance by walking five miles on foot to reach school. 

I wish my children could revel in the simple joy of a refreshing bath at the village well, where women would wash clothes and men would draw water for their animals.

The journey from a graveyard cricket ground to modern-day cricket academies encapsulates the evolution of childhood experiences over two generations. 

Yet I cherish those days. 

I cherish the scars, the struggles, the dirt under my nails. 

Because in those moments, I was alive. 

We were alive. 

And that was the kind of living you can’t buy. 

You can only earn it. Through fire. 

Through the heat of a game played in the kabaristan (graveyard) of the dead. 

Through the stories that were never meant to be told, but whispered nonetheless.

Through my stories, I hope to impart to my children the value of a humble childhood and the enduring spirit of friendship and creativity.

As the saying goes, 

“You must adapt to the times and the circumstances if you cannot change them.” 

I look back on our times and feel glad about everything we did. 

I cherish those memories as precious and beautiful, appreciating the simplicity that defined my youth.

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B.S. Dara is a reflective writer, observer of foreign affairs, and someone whose life has spanned across different continents and cultures. As a published author, Dara has used his writing as a bridge between his early years in the village and his current life as a global observer.