Little Joys of Childhood

There was a time when happiness came wrapped in simplicity. It didn’t need a smartphone, a credit card, or a weekend getaway. It only needed a few friends, a patch of open ground, and the sound of the ice cream cart’s bell in the distance. That was childhood — a time of wonder, curiosity, and the little joys that stitched our days into warm memories.

I grew up in a small town, where life was slow, yet full of color. Our street was not wide, but it echoed with laughter every evening. We didn’t have parks nearby, so the street became our cricket pitch, our race track, and sometimes even our imaginary kingdom.

Every day after school, we’d throw off our bags and rush out, still in uniform, with dust-covered shoes and uncombed hair. Our mothers shouted from behind, “Pehle kuch kha lo!” (Eat something first!) but we were already halfway out the door. We couldn’t waste a single minute of playtime. Those moments, those races under the sunset, and those little arguments over whose turn it was to bat—those were the treasures of our day.

One of my fondest memories was playing with marbles—kanche. Each of us had our own prized collection, kept in rusted biscuit tins or cotton pouches stitched by our mothers. We played for hours, crouching low, measuring distances with twigs, and showing off our best shots. Winning someone else’s best marble was a moment of pride, but the real joy was in the shared laughter, the teasing, and the thrill of aiming just right.

Summers had their own magic. The fan spun lazily in the afternoon heat while we lay on the cool floor, sipping mango juice and reading comics like Chacha Chaudhary or Tinkle. But evenings were different. They were made for adventures. As the sun dipped, we gathered for langri, pakdam pakdai, and chhupan chhupai. The neighborhood kids would all show up, barefoot and buzzing with energy. We’d hide behind trees, walls, or sometimes even inside someone’s open gate. The thrill of being caught or not being found was unmatched.

Rainy days were even better. The first rain of the season brought a smell that no perfume could ever match—the scent of wet earth. We’d run outside, arms stretched wide, letting the rain soak us completely. We built paper boats and watched them float away in the water-filled streets, cheering like we had launched real ships. Sometimes, a bigger wave would swallow our little boat, and we'd chase the current, laughing as our feet splashed in muddy puddles.

Then there were the festivals—when joy became a community celebration. On Eid, our friends brought sheer khurma, and we returned the love on Diwali with sweets and crackers. Holi was pure madness. We didn’t need expensive colors—some gulal, a few buckets of water, and sneaky balloons thrown from rooftops were enough to make it unforgettable. Our clothes were ruined, our faces unrecognizable, but our smiles were always the brightest.

One cannot forget the bond we shared with our grandparents. My nani used to tell us bedtime stories of kings, magical birds, and clever rabbits. We’d sit around her on the charpai, eyes wide open, hanging on to every word she said. Sometimes she added her own twist to the stories, and we never knew which part was real and which was made up. But we believed it all. That was the magic of childhood—the ability to believe.

There was also a special joy in collecting things—colorful wrappers, shiny stones, feathers, and even matchbox covers. They weren’t expensive, but they were priceless to us. We’d trade them like precious gems and show them off with pride. I remember creating a ‘museum’ in an old shoebox and charging my cousins one rupee for a “tour.”

Life back then wasn’t without its troubles. We got scolded for bad grades, scraped our knees often, and sometimes cried over lost toys. But we bounced back quickly. A piece of imli (tamarind) or a candy from the roadside shop was enough to lift our spirits. We didn’t need much, because we had everything—we had childhood.

Now, as I sit in front of a glowing screen, with notifications popping up and bills waiting to be paid, I often find myself drifting back to those days. I think of the smell of my old schoolbag, the feel of wet mud between my toes, the sound of my best friend’s laugh, and the warmth of my mother’s lap after a long day of play.

Those days are gone, but the little joys remain—etched in memory like a beautiful painting. They remind me that true happiness isn’t found in big achievements or possessions, but in the small, everyday moments we often overlook.

So whenever life feels overwhelming, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and revisit those lanes of my past. The lanes where I chased kites, rode bicycles with no brakes, and laughed till my stomach hurt.

And for a moment, I am a child again.