Lost . . . and found

It is that time of year when this city has a pleasant ambiance with winter's cool touch, marigold's vibrant colours, bhapa peetha's sweet flavor, ideas of planning a vacation perhaps, all that gives a sense of recreation to the city dweller's mind. It's mostly school holidays, parents are not running around taking their children to schools or any tuition for that matter. Just a little break for catching their breath seems like a very well sought after time once in a year. It is also a time to pause in the madness of maneuvering, from domestic political activity to world trade matters. Even mother nature also stays calm --- flood, storm, heat --- everything puts up an untold hold as if just to invite me to embrace my long lost love. With such a gentle cool breeze in the dry seasons that brings a bit of dust which all can do without, makes very little difference in indulging in a nice livelihood. Victory Day, New Years Day celebrations and various cultural and sporting programs stretch to the preparations for the Ekushey Boi Mela, a season of festivity that includes everyone unconstrained by any chauvinism. The chants and chimes call upon me to come home. And I can't stay away but fly in to look for my long lost treasure.
I follow the fragrance in the air, wipe off the dust and a magical time appears so vividly that it makes itself self-same and timeless. But I cannot quite touch or feel it like a mirror image. There is the little alley which ends in a wall over which we would never go to the other side in those magical days when there was no need to worry about any worldly things. That broken wall stood there, protecting us from any mishap, and our parents stayed home performing idle afternoon chores with ultra assurances that we were absolutely as safe as guarded by angels, playing on the streets. So we did, played every sort of game on the street. There was not a single vehicle to spoil the fun, no intruder to frighten us, no attraction inside like electronic evils to overpower the pleasure of blissful play under the open sky with the cheerful winds. This time of the year the favourite was badminton and there weren't enough rackets, so we shared, everyone took a turn. The children who owned a couple of rackets never thought of being snooty because the real fun was playing with others. We played until we were called in late in the afternoon as if life was all about spending time with friends. The twilight tranquility reminds me that we were called in as it was time for evening refreshment and study. Baanti always had to go first, then Shompa and Shanta, when one by one everyone went inside. Shilpi, Shibli, Silvi, Annie, Pappu, Baby, then my best friend Shima would helplessly utter, “Nahid, I wish the sun would never set”, forgetting that it sets only to rise again soon.
We came home looking forward to playing again the following day. It will have to be doomsday not to play again the next day. TV only started at 6pm and the allowance for shows was very limited. Not every household had a television set, so the only choice was to sit at the desk and do the homework, quite reluctantly of course. In those days children didn't feel severely the need for perseverance, that was the parents' job. Children's task was just being children. Could I ever find those days again? Would anyone please give me those games back? Can you at least tell me where or how to look for my long lost childhood friends? I remember the names, but would I recognize the faces?
On my winter visits everywhere I go, I look for the play and the playmates. But nobody plays in the suburban alleys anymore. It's a city of very busy people, you hear, smell, feel and do the buzz like a busy bee as it's very contagious. Anyone who comes to this city catches it very quickly, the extraordinary busy syndrome. Of course, when asked I can't really account for anything but I truly have been busy. I have to take my little girl to singing lessons, disappear for four hours or so doing absolutely nothing. But I truly had been very busy. As soon as my car enters the alley, also a no-thorough road, to the teacher's house, there will be a chirping crowd, 'Please don't bring the car any further, please don't spoil our game.' A quite astounding feature of that plea is a group of boys of various ages playing badminton. My heart leans a little. I ask the driver to stop then and there. We can always walk a few yards!
It happened a few more days, with the children every day becoming a bit more possessive about their rights over the alley to play badminton. I took the surrender side but rebelled one day, said straight to one of the boys, 'Give me a racket. I want to play too'. Even more astounding was the fact that the boys began vying with each other over who would play with me. Then it was decided everyone would take turns. Of course I never had to give away my turn, they took me as a playmate instantly. From then on the afternoons have truly become very busy not for nothing but for pleasant memories. As soon as I got off the car, someone from a sixth floor roof would call out, 'Hello, aunty'. Another from a balcony, 'How are you, aunty?' One would jump down from the wall right in front of me, telling me excitedly,'Aunty, today I am playing first'. But the problem was that almost every day the shuttle cork would get lost as a result of some ambitious hit inside a neighbor's boundary walls. One would fetch a long stick and try to reach the shuttle cork from the high window sill and I would almost cry out, 'No Baanti, no, you will fall down! Come down at once'! The mother in me gets worried about the boy. Of course this Baanti is a different Baanti. That was just my made up name. I couldn't learn their names, so put all my friends' names onto those beautiful faces. The boy would come down with a grin from ear to ear, 'Look, I didn't fall down, I climb up the wall all the time'. I had a grin too and that was such a relief.
The day before I left the city, I bought them a boxful of shuttle corks to say goodbye. They had looks of disbelief and could only say, 'Will you be coming next winter, aunty? Please do'. When I returned abroad, which is now my home, one of the boys wrote to me, 'The badminton game was over when you were gone'. It brought the tears streaming down my cheeks. I really wish the game wouldn't stop. I don't want to lose what I have found again.

Nahid Khan is an academic and teaches at the University of Melbourne, Australia .