Amid all the drama of growing old, turning eighteen (adulthood, I soon have a date with you), getting into college, those unceasing discussions of shifting to a hostel and learning to lead an independent life (I swear, the glamour value attached to such a discussion reaches zenith) and adapting to changes, growing out of my comfort zone, I way more than often look back at those innocent, carefree and notorious days of childhood, relish them and unconsciously, and consciously too, hope to relive them and let go of the catastrophe that I am surrounded with.
Well, isn’t this how the circle of life works?
Nursery kids want to grow up so that they don’t have to stuff their mouths with the outrageous food their mother spoon feeds them with in the name of health and power. Mothers have a high level of proficiency in that, they never fail to lure you by saying that “Don’t you want to become a Superman or the recent Ra One?” (with the kind of publicity it has garnered, I had to mention it. Good or bad, it doesn’t matter).
Class four and you have this burning desire to grow old at a really fast pace defaming Muralitharan as well. The reason is that you no can longer wait to start writing with a pen, just like a prince is waiting to embrace his glistening sword. And I am serious, for a student of the fourth standard, his pen IS his sword. Mark my words, you fling one thing against this prized possession of his, and he will show you what supernatural powers his pen has got (lame I know, but for real).
Cut to class 8, the very grade where one gets the real taste of adolescence. You talk dirty, laugh like crazy at pervert conversations and gossip about all things dirty yet again, not knowing that the dirty talk you are having right now is complete nonsense (a candid confession, those dirty discussions never die, not even when you are 18, 20, 25 or so on. You do need some spice in such a monotonous life, don’t you?). Further this is the very class where each person has this uncontrollable urge to have a “girlfriend” or “boyfriend” (by each I mean majority, those who could tame this desperation, kudos to you), break up with them, and then flood the whole earth with violent tears and curses and remarking, “I have no trust in love now. He broke my heart. I can never dare to love again.”
Two years later and, class 10…
The one class that even the coyest child of the school will label as his best and most joyful class. It doesn’t matter if we had to work our butts off for the boards, and it doesn’t matter how much everyone from teachers to parents vehemently scared us off with the mention of boards, that didn’t fence us from leading a heavily funfilled rollercoaster ride.
From bunking classes, to making excuses of photocopies, to participating in every activity remotely possible, and weaving together a circle of friends wherein everyone was a piece in himself.
Yes, every group has its Archie, Veronica, Betty, Juggie, Reggie, Dilton and Moose! This is the phase in life that even our dads, grand dads and their dads never wanted to end. Never!
Life after this is more of a competition than a peaceful dwelling.
In class 11 and 12, those untiring efforts to crack the most coveted entrances and the race to the best college. It doesn’t end there. Right into college, you have a numerous students of equal caliber and you have to work harder than others to prove your worth. Pass out of college and then you have work, with work, well I will tell you about that once I am standing at that bay.
With the transition from minnie mouse to Megan Fox, mickey mouse to Ian Somerhalder, school bags to shopping bags, play-phones to iphones and signatures on notebooks to signatures on contracts, one can’t possibly rule out the increasing desire to heave a sigh of relief and the intense craving to revert to childhood.
Each day when I see little kids in my society running around, grabbing their seat at the seesaw, arguing with their elders, getting away with it with a sheepish smile, and crying their lungs out for not getting the privilege to write with their favourite pencil, I look at them, silently smiling and repeating this in my head all the time, “Lucky kids! I want that levity and pampering back.”
Shruti Maheshwari
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