Back to simpler days, if only for a day

THERE are days — more often now — when the NCR skyline overwhelms me. Tall glass buildings reflect more ambition than warmth, metros zip past, faces are locked behind devices and voices are raised in the traffic. Amid this concrete cacophony, my heart often drifts quietly — like a paper boat caught in a sudden breeze — back to a smaller, sweeter world: my hometown, Yamunanagar.

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If I could make a wish today, I wouldn’t ask for riches or recognition. I would simply whisper: Let me be little again.

Let me return to those carefree mornings — parading in my new denims like a child-prince in his kingdom. How easily joy sparkled then — innocence made even a mirror an audience. I remember tugging my sweater sleeves over my hands and pretending I’d lost my arms, just to elicit concerned gasps and laughter. It was pure theatre, without stage or script.

Let me stand once more behind that sturdy door at home, breathlessly waiting to jump out and startle an unsuspecting guest. Sometimes they frowned, but more often, they chuckled and called me a “mischief-maker.” And I wore the title like a badge of honour. Such games were the rhythm of my days, as natural as the rustle of bougainvillea outside our courtyard.

How I long to fold paper boats again and set them adrift in the overflowing monsoon drains. Or to launch paper planes across the living room with cousins, giggling as they crash-landed on unsuspecting heads. Those weren’t mere games — they were life itself: unscripted and unspoiled.

Our cycle rides — zigzagging, hands off the handle, hair streaming in the wind — felt like flying. And how we swung high in mother’s arms, shrieking with delight — a blur of cotton saris and unconditional love.

Those were the days when birthdays meant blown-out candles, not curated Instagram stories. No filters were needed — everything was already lit with real joy.

I wish to return to the world of eavesdropping behind heavy oak doors, where adult conversations were riddles and fables, and every whispered word seemed like treasure. I remember perching like a sparrow on the edge of grown-up worlds — hungry for their mysteries, yet grateful for the safety of my own.

Back then, when asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I would proudly say: teacher, writer, doctor, engineer, astronaut — depending on the day’s inspiration. But now, with life’s complexities strewn like pages from an over-read book, I know the answer. I just want to be little again.

Little — in spirit. To feel again the unedited joy of living in a small town where neighbours knew each other’s names, where laughter wasn’t gated, and where time walked rather than ran.

So here I sit, in the hush of an NCR apartment — surrounded by the comforts adulthood demands, but haunted by the simplicity it stole. And every now and then, as I sip my tea and hear the honking of hurried cars, a part of me whispers again: rewind to simpler days… if only for a day.