I remember so much from my childhood. I remember the childhood I did not have. I remember the childhood I did have. The one that was, for all its warts and flaws, a childhood. I can see that clearly, from the lens of adulthood, closer to thirty than ever. A new year starting is always a place of reflection and remembrance.
The baby softness of my sibling, who I always saw as the result of years of my bribing the universe (coins in the house temple, if you must know). The occasional chocolate pastries from Nirulas, the peppermint sticks, the ice cream sundaes when I scored 90% on my exams (and I usually did, I was that kid, probably the one who understood very little but could swot like no one's business), the comfort of falling into bed and sleeping, sometimes a parent pressing my aching legs. The sheer exhilaration of being allowed to sleep in (we were almost always allowed to sleep in till extremely late hours in the morning). The misery of getting shots on my bum. The cool air of the air conditioner on a hot summer night, watching television wholeheartedly, giving into the cheap thrills of romances and fights.
The pain of scraping my knees, after having taken off without fear, with complete abandon on bikes too big for me, only to crash. Skating in a narrow curve between two garages till I was dizzy. Eating mangoes. Eating oranges. Eating fruits all the time, because for me, fruits were forbidden (I lie, I was asked to save appetite for meals). Jumping into the swimming pool as soon as it opened and refusing to get out till it was absolutely time. Saying words that I wasn't supposed to know, things that were fascinating: sex, periods, scandals. Reading Jackie Collins and Ken Follett at an inappropriately early age. Telling the librarian my mother had allowed me to read Mills and Boons at age 12. Having crushes, romantic notions, like only children whose hearts have not been broken yet can. Having those notions be shattered and moving on, rather cruelly and cheerfully.
The memory of my biggest desire was to be free to read. All I wanted was to read, I wanted to be surrounded by books and no one to stop me. I will never forget the little girl named Jasmine, who owned a Enid Blyton book of Mr. Meddle that she would not lend to me. It is funny the things yo remember. I was jealous, so jealous, of children with bookshelves of books I wanted to read. I remember acting, being nicer to people who would lend me their books - it hadn't occurred to me that one day I would be the only gatekeeper between me and my books. In the chaos, complication and freedom that is being an adult I sometimes completely forget that I too, had a childhood.
The baby softness of my sibling, who I always saw as the result of years of my bribing the universe (coins in the house temple, if you must know). The occasional chocolate pastries from Nirulas, the peppermint sticks, the ice cream sundaes when I scored 90% on my exams (and I usually did, I was that kid, probably the one who understood very little but could swot like no one's business), the comfort of falling into bed and sleeping, sometimes a parent pressing my aching legs. The sheer exhilaration of being allowed to sleep in (we were almost always allowed to sleep in till extremely late hours in the morning). The misery of getting shots on my bum. The cool air of the air conditioner on a hot summer night, watching television wholeheartedly, giving into the cheap thrills of romances and fights.
The pain of scraping my knees, after having taken off without fear, with complete abandon on bikes too big for me, only to crash. Skating in a narrow curve between two garages till I was dizzy. Eating mangoes. Eating oranges. Eating fruits all the time, because for me, fruits were forbidden (I lie, I was asked to save appetite for meals). Jumping into the swimming pool as soon as it opened and refusing to get out till it was absolutely time. Saying words that I wasn't supposed to know, things that were fascinating: sex, periods, scandals. Reading Jackie Collins and Ken Follett at an inappropriately early age. Telling the librarian my mother had allowed me to read Mills and Boons at age 12. Having crushes, romantic notions, like only children whose hearts have not been broken yet can. Having those notions be shattered and moving on, rather cruelly and cheerfully.
The memory of my biggest desire was to be free to read. All I wanted was to read, I wanted to be surrounded by books and no one to stop me. I will never forget the little girl named Jasmine, who owned a Enid Blyton book of Mr. Meddle that she would not lend to me. It is funny the things yo remember. I was jealous, so jealous, of children with bookshelves of books I wanted to read. I remember acting, being nicer to people who would lend me their books - it hadn't occurred to me that one day I would be the only gatekeeper between me and my books. In the chaos, complication and freedom that is being an adult I sometimes completely forget that I too, had a childhood.
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