stories of childhood

World is a stage and life is a play in seven acts, says Shakespeare. I believe childhood precisely outlives the other acts, insulated from the notions of lament, loss and life. That does not mean any absence of emotional states- passions and grief. The vehement expression of sorrow when I ‘lost’ my favourite place- my mother’s lap to my newborn sister is still alive and often resonates in my reminiscences of the past. Living through this stage without fearing its end, these indelible years get carried with us as we spend our lives further. 

Recollecting my days as a child provides me with familiar comfort. Seeing how far I have come brings nostalgia and a reminder to be kind to the person that child has turned into. To narrate childhood memories is to convey the entire childhood itself, all of it being more memorable than any other life act, which is also why no one should ever be robbed of their childhood. 
I would be more than willing to look back upon some of my memories too;

teddy, toys and togetherness
My forever companion throughout these memories– a butter yellow coloured teddy bear not bigger than 30 centimetres, is now itself a fond memory of mine. Even though I have forgotten the long-drawn line of thoughts that made the younger me name him ‘mucchi’, the emotions behind it seem no less home. What it means ‘to care’, ‘to love’ and ‘to hug tight’ was well taught by him. He was given away to a poor kid by my very benevolent mother, surprisingly I only knew it when I was old enough to think about the past. The pain was acute, I wanted to keep him with me forever; that was some years ago. Now despite the fact that I miss him, I believe that that kid needed him more than I did. Isn’t that why losses happen?

hair, heterodox and him
I have loved long hair ever since I was a child. It was symbolic of being an adult for me and for some reason, my short hair could never fit into the definitions of feminity. This wasn’t felt until I moved from my grandparents' home to West Bengal where I was exposed to girls of my age from locality and school. I remember the red face looking into the barber’s mirror when my dad took me for a haircut, trying to stop the tears from falling down. His shop is detailed in my head, a small room with big chairs, a few steps away from the Air Force back gate. My sister and I sat next to each other on a wooden board placed over the massive chair’s arm. He was a jolly kind of man, more than my father who was easily irritated by my tantrums. 
I carried this resentment for quite a long time. I still like long hair but I find myself rather settled with a medium length.

crayons, comics and chemistry 
Painting has been intimated to me for as long as I can think of. I scribbled every single blank page of my alphabet book or champak with ever-fascinating wax crayons. When my little sister was a few hours away from this world, I drew my mother lying on her bed in the hospital, nothing was as dear to me as her. Drawing continued comforting me when my mom was busy caring for the new member. It was as if someone would hand me over a box of crayons and I would have no care about anything else happening around me. I wrote stories with random doodles on the wall with Camlin Oil Pastels. As I grew up reading small words and making sense of sentences printed in books, I enjoyed reading Twinkle; Supandi tales are my favourite. What is said to exist between two souls is what I have with them– chemistry.

khel, khilone and kitchen set
As much as I hated my little sister taking away what was legitimately owned by me, I found my all-time companion in her. We used to play ghar-ghar by delicately arranging our plastic utensils and kitchen paraphernalia. The role-play of teacher-student took place when my little sister started going to kindergarten. My sister bent me towards a different genre of games than the ones I used to play as the only dear child in the house. I have always loved solving puzzles, playing with the ball, trying to defeat the rolly-polly doll and doing things I was not supposed to be doing. I didn’t hesitate even once to pester my mother, demanding her to take me to parks; where I could roll down the grassy hills. On the contrary, my sister introduced me to games that required sustained attention for a longer period of time. We would spend hours dressing up our barbies and imitating conversations on their behalf. 

railway, rajdhani and rituals
Travelling to my Nani's house by train is just immemorable. We used to commute via Rajdhani Express which ran from West Bengal to Purani Delhi. The train was one of the distinct royalty of her kind. No wonder I remember the slightest of details of the very ‘surreal’ menu she served. A little pouch of tomato ketchup, a small packet of Marie Gold Digestive, a chiplet of Amul butter and Kissan Mixed Fruit Jam with white bread that had no brown layer around it– were such a delicacy. My love for making my own cup of tea with tea bags, milk powder and powdered sugar was at its pinnacle. Making friends with other people in our cabin, exchanging traditions and food and fighting for the upper berth were the unsaid rituals of a railway journey.

aditi

powapaints