Childhood Memories

I often think of my childhood not as a timeline, but as a collection of small, glowing fragments—moments so vivid, they rise from memory like bubbles from deep water. Some are simple, others magical, but all are stitched into the person I’ve become.

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The Mango Tree at Dadi’s House

The strongest memory begins under the wide, shady mango tree in my grandmother’s courtyard. I was seven, barefoot, and convinced that tree was enchanted. It wasn’t just its size or the way its branches cradled the sky—it was the feeling I got when I sat beneath it, as if it understood me.

Every summer, my cousins and I would gather there like pilgrims. We'd play tag around its roots, invent elaborate stories of jungle kings and hidden treasures, and wait for mangoes to fall like gifts from the heavens. When one finally hit the dusty ground with a soft thud, we’d race to it like wild creatures. The rule was simple: whoever touched it first got the first bite.

Dadi would watch from her veranda, sipping her chai and pretending not to smile.

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The Red Bicycle

I remember the day my father surprised me with a shiny red bicycle. It stood in the hallway, wrapped in a silver bow. I couldn’t believe it was mine. I didn’t know how to ride, but that didn’t stop me from climbing on and promptly crashing into the front gate.

It became a daily ritual—scraped knees, shaky starts, and my father’s calm voice saying, “Again.” He never let me quit, even when I cried out of frustration.

One evening, just as the sun turned the sky a soft orange, I rode five whole meters without help. No hands pushing. No father running beside me. Just me and the wind and the red bike that made me believe I could fly.

That was the first time I felt truly free.

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Rainy Day Adventures

There’s something magical about monsoon rains when you’re a child. We didn’t fear the wet or the mud. We welcomed it.

As soon as the first heavy drops hit the tin roof, my brother and I would dash outside, slipping into puddles, stomping barefoot in cold water that ran down the lane like a silver river. Our mother would shout from the door, “You’ll get sick!” But we never listened.

We built boats from leaves and raced them down the street. We caught raindrops in our mouths and pretended we were in a secret world where school didn’t exist and time stood still.

Later, soaked to the bone, we’d come inside shivering and laughing, wrapping ourselves in towels as Amma brought us hot pakoras and sweet chai. I didn’t know then that those were the kinds of days I'd spend years trying to relive.

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The Ice Cream Truck

There was a sound—a specific jingle—that signaled the most important decision of the afternoon. The ice cream truck would crawl down the street like a king in a slow parade, playing its song that made every kid’s heart race.

We’d press our noses to the window, begging for coins from whoever was closest—usually my uncle, who always pretended to grumble but handed over just enough. Then it was a mad dash out the door.

My favorite was the orange-and-vanilla swirl on a stick. It melted faster than I could eat it, leaving sticky trails down my arms. But oh, the taste—sweet, creamy, cold, and perfect.

Even now, when I hear an ice cream truck’s melody, I’m transported back to that sun-soaked street, with sugar on my tongue and joy in my heart.

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Bedtime Stories

Each night before bed, my mother would sit at the edge of my blanket and read. Sometimes from books, sometimes stories she made up. Her voice was soft and steady, like a lullaby. Her words painted castles in clouds, forests filled with talking animals, and brave children who saved magical worlds.

She never rushed. Even when tired, she’d finish a story, then kiss my forehead and whisper, “Sweet dreams, hero.”

Those moments made bedtime sacred. The comfort of her presence, the quiet hum of the ceiling fan, the gentle promise that everything would be okay.

Long after I grew out of storytime, I remembered the sound of her voice when I needed comfort most. In exam halls. At airports. During heartbreak.

Her stories became the voice inside me that told me to keep going.

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The Day I Learned to Keep a Secret

I was nine when my best friend, Rani, told me her biggest secret: she was moving away. Her family was shifting to another city, and she hadn’t told anyone yet—not even her parents knew she had overheard their late-night conversation.

“Promise you won’t tell?” she asked, her eyes wide with fear.

“I promise.”

Keeping it in nearly broke me. But I kept my word.

The day she left, we hugged like people much older than we were, and she whispered, “You’re the only one who knew. Thank you.”

It was the first time I learned that trust is both a gift and a responsibility.

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The Memory That Never Fades

If I had to choose one memory to carry with me forever, it wouldn’t be the mangoes or the bicycle, the rain or the ice cream. It would be the feeling.

The feeling of being safe. Of being loved without needing to earn it. Of belonging—not to a place, but to people who made the world beautiful.

That’s what childhood was: a garden of small moments that, together, made something magical.