Whenever I see an abandoned toy-part2

 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, banging, whistling to easily create an outstanding orchestra. The toys are hugged, licked, kissed, torn and again mended with different intensities. But it is the toys who are our entertainment, solace and surprise in times of tantrums.

Fortunately, we do not have the idiot box to divert our attention. We shower unadulterated love and care on our toys. The toys eat, drink and sleep, too, with us. Toys go with us on vacations, to market, to the neighbor's house and specifically to the doctor. When Ma has to distract us from the injection, she has to just bring the flapping joker in our sight, the howling reduced and buttock muscle relaxed. The needle finds a smooth way through! 

When settling bills with baniya uncle, Ma tells us to mock buy essentials for gudiya. Thus, a little Riya and her bubbly sister turn parents to their plastic gudiya. They hold grim discussions over baby powder and baby food, on what is safe and what is not. They tap curious cheeks with confident fingers and then in a jiffy arrive at conclusions. Sometimes, there is a squabble and Ma's duly bought lollies come to the rescue. Thus, Ma accomplises the tasks at hand and toys are her, Rescue Rangers, too.

This wave of nostalgia takes me to the forgotten islands of memoirs where toys are shared with cousins, friends and even with the watchman's son and the milkman's daughter. Toys dissolve boundaries of hierarchy. They dilute differences of caste and creed. They belong to only innocent children. They are not objects used to identify a Muslim or oust a dalit. Toys are toys. Nothing more. Nothing less. 

I feel calm and peaceful after the frothy wave of nostalgia gently drops me on the shore. The shore is quite. But the quietitude is disturbing. There are no children building sand castles with shovels and little buckets. They are all glued to the idiot box. Unswerving, transfixed to the screen. Nothing can pull them out from the curse of television. Not even a toy! Their hands no more adorn a rattle or lolly, it's the monster mobile!

They don't mock play. They watch real mockery of human life on Netflix. I flinch in this realization. 

Whenever I see an abandoned toy, disgust with remorse too grips me in its hard embrace. 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Anda Gondu Thanda pani

Image
 "Ayyo Amma, aapko rape karke du?" I'm already raped by his courtesies. My first ever interaction with a South Indian at a local book shop. I look at him ghastly, "What do you mean?" Almost shouting into his face standing in rapt attention of me. "Nahi karneka toh bolneka,humko kya hai?" Not stopping he goes muttering under his breath, "Bhalai ka zamana hi nahi rehne ka?" I applaud him that he has all the ethics of asking a woman before Raping her. Suddenly, I develop huge respect for him and look at him fondly. To which he picks up the books I have selected for a friend and with hand gestures again continues to please me, "Akka, wapas puchta isko Rape karne ka ki nahi?" I amusingly nod, at least he has been kind enough to come from Amma to Akka, and he starts wrapping the books. All the while, I admire his innocence and zest for English language but above all appreciate the passion for his work. Very neatly and meticulously he rape
Read more

I'm a chess mom

Image
 Table no. 12. Final round. Ahmedabad. Under-7 National Chess Championship, 2022.  The sky was as blue as it should have been. The wind cooled the sweat beads on anxious foreheads. The sun had chosen to go a little easy on us. The outside environment was supportive and stood by us. Nothing worked for me within. Meditation, prayers, reading, writing, talking to my husband or a friend. Nothing helped to ease the trepidation of a mother's heart whose son was playing the second most important match of his life.  Life. I paused at that. Wasn't he born just yesterday? Here, he was fighting for a win. All of seven. A mere seven-year-old who was standing for the past one hour and giving his opponent a tough fight over the chess board. Sitting was not an option. His height barely reached up to table no. 12.  Table. no.12. A position where if he won, he would escalate to the top six players of India, and if his stars favored him, he would represent India at the Asian U-7 Championship. Th
Read more

Dabbafull of memory

Image
 I have nothing to do. I want to write but find no prompt to initiate the process. I pester the husband to give me a good word or picture prompt to write. He is as usual doing stuff that interests me little. Money-making. He ignores me. Yet, I continue nudging him in the rib. Some more indifference from his end. Followed by a little more prodding from me. 'What?' He looks up from his mobile. 'Give me a prompt to write.' I blink my eyes and give him my best smile.  'Go write on those steel dabbas!' The dabbas are lying peacefully on the bed after I have finished munching their contents are now in focus. 'Who writes on steel dabbas?' I give the husband an aluminum dabba look, non-reflective and nonchalant. 'If you consider yourself a writer, then you must able to write on everything and anything. No? Or No.' He gets back to his android and me... I tramp down memory lane. Though not immediately but surely. I stare at the imbecile stainless steel dab
Read more