I have a picture of my childhood where my mom is cleaning a fish in our backyard and I’m sitting beside her, playing with the bloodied water. I was barely over a year old.
Now I’m 27 and I have lost 90% of my thrill, my wonder and my charm!
Looking back, the journey from then to now is mostly blurry. I don’t remember half the names of the girls I went to school with. I don’t remember all of my neighbours. I don’t even remember most of my teachers.
But I do remember these random glimpses of my childhood. There were these nights when my dad would bring home orange ice-lollies and me and my brother would go crazy. I remember a math project me and my friend did – it took us a whole year to understand that we had used the wrong theorem and presented it to the entire world!
I remember getting Chicken pox. An accident that put scars on my face. A couple of fights, drama and make-ups!
But the best part of childhood was during summers… I remember waking up early to cycle around with my friends, exploring what then seemed strange lands that nobody knew about! At the advent of the season my dad would take me to a bookstore or a library and we’d get about 20-25 books that I would read through the holidays.
These books, those cycle adventures and expeditions were magic. We created worlds of fantasy everyday according to our circumstances… A different Narnia, and a different Hogwarts every time.
I was once asked in Design College, who I believed was the most creative person… And while the faces of DaVinci, Michaelangelo, Einstein and Kalam floated in my head, I knew that the most creative person I knew was myself some 10-12 years ago.
I believed in magic back then, in the glitter of fairies and the luminance of water! I chose to consider the impossible and the whimsical, rather than hide behind statistics and proofs as I now do as an adult.
If I ever went back in time, I’d probably experience my childhood again and travel through the make-believe.