Hello Midnight Letters members,
As we age, I realize a strange connection forms with the past. It’s as if there’s a wireless conversation. Even five or six years ago, when both my parents were alive, this connection wasn’t so active. Occasionally, one or two incidents would come to mind, but they would slip away just as quickly. Now, though, they don’t get lost. They take root firmly in the mind.
The childhood of today’s children and our childhood are so different. On Facebook, I sometimes see posts. A picture of a fruit, a tree, a vine, a leaf, or some food comes with a caption, “Those who recognize this had a sweet childhood.” I can identify every single picture. Because our childhood was indeed sweet.
We used to collect broken glass and store it. If Mother found out, she would scold us a lot. Because that glass could cut our hands. But who would listen to whom? Those who sold pots and pans would sometimes buy that glass in exchange for k atkati. As a child, I used to wonder in amazement how someone could give such a delightful thing for broken glass. The taste of that long, stretched jaggery kat kati felt like nectar—how do I explain that now?
Has anyone ever caught a colorful dragonfly by skillfully holding its tail? That was one of our favorite games. Thinking about it now, I feel a bit bad. Oh, how we caused those dragonflies pain by catching them. But at that age, we didn’t understand that they were suffering. Are children a bit cruel too?
Another game was very dear to us. We played this one when we went to the village, at our grandfather’s house. There was no electricity at night. Even during the day, electricity would only peek in briefly to make its presence known. There was no rural electricity back then. We, the cousins, would sit in a circle in the courtyard and watch the hurricane lamp being lit. Oh, what a sight it was. A round piece of cloth, like a balloon, would be inflated with fire. Then it was put inside the lamp and pumped. As we pumped, just when it seemed like nothing would happen, a bright light would suddenly appear, dazzling our eyes.
I haven’t mentioned that other game yet. We used to catch fireflies. We’d capture them and trap them in a glass bottle. Those fireflies would glow and dim. In the dark, we would watch, enchanted, as the bright specks of light in the bottle flickered up and down. We wished we could keep those fireflies in the bottle day and night. They would entertain us at night with their game of glowing and fading, those radiant points of light. That wish was never fulfilled. As soon as an elder saw it, they would let the fireflies out of the bottle.
I could make beautiful mats from date palm leaves. I never made big ones, but I could weave three or four rows together. I don’t remember who taught me anymore. Once, an older girl from the neighborhood brought someone along to show them my mat-weaving and said, “Look, look, this little girl makes such beautiful mats.”
This little girl. Strange. It feels like someone just whispered those words in my ear. Yet, this little girl has grown so big and crossed halfway through life without even realizing it. The fireflies must be laughing their revenge now. I couldn’t hold them tightly. And those beautiful days of my life slipped through my fingers too, unnoticed.