Remembering our childhood – through games, stories, and simple joys
In a small hamlet nestled between the chinars and the sparkling streams of Kashmir, lived a young girl named Dua. Her world was one of snowflakes, saffron fields, and the gentle hum of her grandmother’s folk songs. She was no different from other children in the village, except perhaps in the way she held onto every moment like a secret, storing it like the dried apricots her mother kept in old copper jars.
On sunny afternoons when the snow had not yet fallen, Dua and her friends—Ruhi, Sakina, and Meher—would gather under the large walnut tree near the old mosque to play ghar ghar khel. Each girl would pick a role: one the mother, another the father, a sibling, or sometimes the “guest.” They used broken pottery for utensils, clay for food, and bits of old fabric as rugs and baby wraps.
They’d giggle endlessly over who made the best “noon chai” or whose mud bread was the “softest”. For them, the game was not just pretend—it was a rehearsal of life, a mimicry of the world they saw around them. Insha often chose to be the “daadi” (grandmother), adorning herself with a torn scarf and walking slowly with a stick, imitating her own grandmother’s wisdom.
When the sun dipped lower behind the Pir Panjal mountains and the shadows grew longer, the girls would switch to playing kanchay (marbles). Though often considered a boys’ game, the girls in Dua’s village claimed it for themselves. They played with fierce focus, crouched on the cold ground, their fingers dusty, laughter echoing off the stone walls. A win meant pride, and sometimes the loser had to run down to the spring and bring back water for everyone.
Dua had a prized marble—a deep green one with a golden swirl. She called it Shabnum (dew). She never played it unless it was a big challenge.
Then came pangur, the Kashmiri version of hopscotch. They’d draw boxes in the soil with a stick and use smooth stones as markers. The game was simple but thrilling: balance, speed, and the occasional scuffle when someone stepped outside the line.
Dua would often leap with her eyes closed, trusting her feet to land true. “I’m flying over Wular Lake!” she’d cry out, imagining herself soaring over the vast blue waters of the Valley’s largest lake.
Winter transformed the village into a silver dream. School would often be closed, and roads would be buried under snow. The girls built sheen-manz (snow ladies), dressed them in old scarves, and gave them twig arms. They slid down slopes using broken tin sheets and dried pine bark, their laughter rising like smoke into the grey winter sky.
At home, their small cold fingers would warm inside kangris (traditional firepots), and they’d sit huddled in pherans, telling ghost stories of Rantas, the mountain witch who walked barefoot in the snow, and Brah Rukh, the haunted tree spirit. Insha’s eyes would widen, but she never looked away. She loved stories, even the scary ones.
On special occasions—weddings, Eid, or the first snowfall—the village would burst into celebration. The children would play hide and seek in the narrow alleys while the air filled with the scent of gushtaba and rogan josh. Insha’s favourite part was when they were allowed into the kitchen to help make chhoti rotis—tiny breads they shaped with small hands, then waited for their mothers to praise.
At the heart of every game, every laugh, and every bruise was the soul of Kashmir—a land that, even in times of hardship, wrapped its children in stories, snow, and saffron dreams.
Rifat Ara
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