How Time Flies: Sweet Childhood Memories of Monsoon

The toy pistols, wooden motorcycles, the shiny marbles, sweet wrappers and cigarette covers, oh and the torn pants, catapults and ever flowing nose; thinking of whatever was childhood I sometime fancy myself to have lived for more than a century.

I am glad I always ran to my village to spend my holidays with my aunt and grandpa rather than stay with pa and ma, where I was compelled to stuff my brain with ABC and 123.

Summer and winter school breaks have their own seasonal stamps of importance. Summer breaks, which are concurrent to monsoon were days I mostly slept with the catapult hanging on my neck, not to showcase the world a new trend of fashion, but more out of forgetfulness and exhaustion associated with bird hunting. The kill doesn’t matter much; the real fun lies in chasing the young birds that haven’t yet learned to fly far. For animal rights activists, this would sound inhuman, but for children born so near to wild natural nature, things happen without being directed.

Getting soaked in the rain, swimming in any temporary ponds created by the rain water, dealing with leeches from time to time are some images I recall about monsoon childhood. There were no thrashings as mom and the rod don’t usually come along with me to the village. The result was that more silly fights happen with friends as there was no possible punishment.

Days were always fun filled even when forced to stay indoor. Eating away roasted fresh potatoes and corn, playing marble inside the house, acting the role of grownups and dozing off for a wink can make the sun set so easily without extra effort. By dusk the house always turns into a messy mess.

The only thing I hate about monsoon is the time when grandpa picks up the plough and summoned me to follow him. This was when I have to lead stubborn plough harnessed buffaloes while grandpa handles the plough from behind and dictates me where to go or come to make the land ready for cultivation. Grandpa's favorite trick to make me concentrate was to throw a lump of mud on my back whenever my gaze strays away from the land being ploughed. This trick must be from where children learn the game of shooting each other with clods.

Most part of the days was spent ploughing or tending the herd of buffaloes. Liberation comes very soon as ploughing last only about a week, but tending the buffaloes still was my responsibility. However, that wasn’t as boring as ploughing for I was all on myself. All I have to do was to take the buffaloes to a green pasture, leave them there and go for my own sort of adventure or just sit on the back of one of the buffaloes and listen to the cultivation songs coming from every corner. I used to wish monsoon and the school holidays last longer than a month, but wishes are granted hardly even to children. The school bell summons me back from the village only to be released again during the winter.

Winter breaks were more inventive. Winters are reserved for wooden motorcycle racing, playing shooting game with soft clod and catapult, scouting the jungles, experimenting toy guns with real gunpowder and sand, fishing and bird trapping and of course caroling on Christmas wearing new apparels.

Wheels of the wooden motorcycles were made from a very special flowering Rhododendrons tree trunks (locally called koklui thing), which also was widely used by craftsmen for making indigenous wooden plates. Children of all ages go scouting in groups to find the roundest trunks in order to build the fastest motorcycle. It must be similar to my forefathers scouting for a handsome trees to erect as totems. The dust, pants getting torn in the butt, hands getting cracked, getting thrashed by elders for owning a motorcycle were all normal.

Winter deserves a special write up... To be continued.....