A Voice for Change

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, nostalgia grips me in its tight arms. Initially, I feel suffocated with the hard embrace but slowly the warmth of intimacy relaxes me. A smile meanders its way on my tight lips and for a long time it refuses to leave. It watches the stack of toys that I have bundled up in a corner of our bedroom in the 1bhk home. There is no personal bedroom. It is a space I share with my parents and younger sister. The toys occupy a colossal part of the room. Clapping joker, flabby monkey, a copper kitchen set, a pair of plastic badminton rackets, a shabby doll that is oh so dear to me and umpteen other toys jostle for space in the corner. This treasure trove is a shared property. I don't have sole ownership over it but there are no qualms about it. No quandary over it. Infact, the treasure has grown by leaps and bonds with the arrival of my partner in-crime, my sister. Yes, she is the one who makes us, US! The incredible US. Our toys now have rattling,

 Whenever I see an abandoned, tattered toy, an array of questions queue up in my mind. How precious it must be when bought? Which occasion did it brighten? How often the child played with it? Was it the comfort toy of little Riya and her bhaiyya often teased her by hiding it? The questions settle post a turbulence and my memories surface to run a picture film of my childhood. A walk in the forgotten alleys of life. A hop from the swinging swing and a bruise on the left knee. Yet, there would be a quick dusting of the muddy frock and a forced sprint in the leg to hide the naughty impulsivity. Dettol, Savolon did no good for they came with free, verbal rants of a mother who was fed up with a perennially misbehaved child. The swinging would be banned for next few days, and maternal singing would continue ringing in the girl's ears. But the girl cared damn! Home alone or not. She found her own creative ways to land herself in a soup. Sitting by the window sill, she would call out names