The Romantic poets believed that children should not be hurried into adulthood
‘The day we fret about the future is the day we leave our childhood behind’ – Patrick Rothfuss
Every time we grown-ups have a rational discourse about life, it, unfailingly, closes with the reminiscence of childhood. I think the majority of people will agree that childhood is the prime time of our lives. We get to live a life free of bitter realisations, and painful truth. Childhood is the time when our problems are limited from “Homework not done” to “Can you forge mom’s signature on my diary please?” A time when we have not yet been introduced to the big bad world out there. We tend to live in an entirely different dimension during that time, just like a pearl has its own world inside a shell.
I still remember the song we used to sing while clapping our hands and vibing along the rhythm of these lines:
“Hi hello!
Super Cello!
Smart girls/ boys!
Duffer boys/ girls!
S T O P! Stop”
It was such comfort when we used to scream thunderously, “Duffer girls/boys”. Children among the opposite gender (no matter to which generation they belong) always have this harmless vanity within themselves. Ranging from kho kho, hopscotch to gully cricket, our games were mostly fun filled and sometimes, harmless, though most of the times our knees whacked each other, tearing ligaments, and resulting in big, painful bruises. The dirt on hands and faces, the soiled clothes are the souvenirs you get at the end of each day of your childhood.
The sugar filled straws (Tujji), the imli (Teamber) were popular candies then. I vividly remember the names of a few biscuits that we now yearn to see even once (Milk Shakti, Yummy, Britannia, etc). Only we know how we used to manage all these small luxuries from meagre pocket money. Besides all this, we had to save some money in our piggy bank to withdraw from in our hour of dire need.
The elders always made us sit down as they used to narrate stories of their times. Mostly these were horror stories of the past when Kashmir was still reeling under darkness, as there was no light or bulbs. Once my grandfather narrated a story of how a man, during midnight, was chased by Raantas. The man pedalled his cycle as fast as he could and refrained from looking back. When he reached his home he didn’t enter the house fearing that his children might get affected or they will be scared. Finally, he spent the rest of the night in the hen-coop. According to the oral tradition, the man’s eyes remained blood-red from that day till the time he died. This story (and many others like it) was enough to stop us from playing games outside after Maghrib. Though we were really enthusiastic about games but, I must say, we all children were chicken-hearted and thus our elders knew how to put a leash on our freedom.
No matter what the generation, childhood is the best time of everyone’s life. It is the age when the dove of innocence still flies and thrives in our hearts. The Romantic poets were very much influenced by the idea of the natural child, and celebrated childhood as a separate and valuable state. They believed that children should not be hurried into adulthood.
Wordsworth, in ‘Ode: Intimations of Immorality’, says:
“Heaven lies about us in our infancy!
Shades of the prison-house begin to close
Upon the growing boy.”
Wordsworth strongly believed that a child is connected to the Heavens in its early years. And as time goes on, this connection with the Higher power gets severed.
So, let each child have the best memories and worst mistakes in childhood, because the feeling that we are growing up and can’t be childish anymore is heart breaking. Let them taste the honey of innocence before you introduce them with the bitter medicine of experience. And let them see an angelic version of the world before looking at its demonic side.
I miss that unfettered me,
I miss the injured knee,
I miss the sting of honey bee,
I miss my hands untidy,
I miss those few coins of money,
I miss the games that were tacky,
I miss how we used to agree,
There is a ghost behind the tree,
I miss flaunting my fake vanity,
I miss that caged liberty,
I miss the selfless harmony,
I miss my funny, excited spree,
I miss the strict parent’s fury,
I miss, I miss the lost key,
Of the unlocked lock still unfree,
Ah! I miss the innocent me.
bi**********@***il.com