B S Dara
As a child growing up in a village in the eighties, I remember the peaceful Sunday mornings that signalled the beginning of my days. Back then, I would join a group of boys in front of the village’s small flour mill, 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.
The village women would gracefully balance sacks and baskets on their heads, heading to the fields, and the men, armed with their hal-panjali (wood plough), would set off for a day of hard work. Looking back now as an adult in my late forties, these memories of my childhood days bring a sense of warmth and nostalgia, reminding me of the simple yet vibrant life we led in that serene village of ours.
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 fields under cultivation. Sparse Kikker (Vachellia nilotica) trees provided minimal shade, and spectators from neighbouring villages 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 to raise the necessary money. The boy, the owner of the bat held a revered position within the team, often making final decisions during the games. Each match began with great enthusiasm, but frequent interruptions occurred as fielders worked through knees-deep muddy waters in the pond or into dense bushes to retrieve the ball. Many times, the ball would be lost, leading to disappointment and the need to await the next Sunday for a re-match.
Undeterred, we would move to the village school’s small ground to play hockey. Our makeshift sticks were fashioned from tree branches, and the ball varied from a solid piece of wood to a sturdy plastic box. The game continued 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 share stories of my childhood with them, they often respond with incredulous expressions, as if to say, “Unbelievable that you lived such a difficult life!”
My only school picnic tour to Jhajjar Kotli happened when I was in the tenth standard, while my children 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, I find myself yearning for the experiences that shaped my early years, experiences that seem 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 of watching Chitrahaar, with a dozen boys gathered around the only television set in the entire village. I wish my children could relish the thrill of hearing cricket commentary on radios. 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. Through my stories, I hope to impart to my children the value of a humble childhood and the enduring spirit of friendship and creativity that defined my youth.
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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