Harjeet Singh
In the shadow of the Pir Panjal mountains, where walnut trees stood like silent sentinels and the Jhelum murmured its ancient lullaby, our childhood unfolded between 1990 and 2010. We were Kashmiri village children—barefoot on dew-soaked paths, school bags slung over shoulders patched with gunny sacks, hearts heavy with the same ritual dread every dawn. Life was simple and austere. No cable TV, no internet cafés, no glittering career dreams. There was only the school bell, the cane, willow cricket bats, and the evening call to prayer drifting across terraced fields. Parents saw education as the only escape from the village’s modest fate. Every morning, reluctant children were pushed or dragged toward school gates. We hid behind walnut trees, feigned illness, or clung to our quilts. Yet the answer was firm: school meant survival. In a land of uncertainty, discipline was protection, not cruelty.
Village schools were often the only concrete buildings amid mud-brick homes. We sat cross-legged on rough coir mats spread over cold floors. By midday, the fibres left deep red imprints on our legs. The day began before sunrise with assembly prayers. We recited “Lab pe aati hai duaa ban ke tamanna meri” not with devotion, but with the sinking awareness that another day of fear had begun. Next came the dreaded discipline inspection. Teachers examined slates (Takhti), haircuts, and hands stained by walnut orchards. Torn pherans, dusty shoes, and ink-smudged fingers invited punishment. Fear ruled the classrooms. Schools felt like places where obedience mattered more than curiosity. A late arrival brought a slap. Incomplete homework meant humiliation. Whispering could lead to ear-twisting. Learning was endurance, not discovery.
Yet within this strict world, we carved islands of joy. The real curriculum of childhood waited in the village maidan after 4 pm. As the school gate opened, we ran with wild relief. Cricket ruled the evenings. Bats carved from willow branches and brick wickets turned dusty fields into imagined stadiums. Mothers’ calls for homework were drowned by the thrill of a powerful shot. Alongside cricket flourished other timeless games: Stapoo testing balance, Kancha sharpening aim under chinar trees, seven stones demanding teamwork, blind man’s buff filling twilight with laughter, robber-police in maize fields, and guli danda requiring precision and courage. These were not mere pastimes—they were therapy for souls burdened by morning fear. Entertainment was rare and communal. Only one or two families owned a television. On special evenings, children and elders gathered on the floor, watching flickering screens in silent fascination—cricket matches or weekly serials opening windows to distant worlds.
“Modern life often feels like a tug-of-war between the structured discipline of the classroom and the carefree freedom of the village green. While modern education and its many opportunities are essential for the future, they shouldn’t come at the cost of a quiet childhood. By preserving these traditional values alongside modern progress, we ensure that children remain grounded in their roots even as they reach for new horizons.”
Parents viewed play as distraction. Homework was sacred. Lanterns swayed at doorsteps as mothers called across darkening fields. Fathers warned of punishment upon returning from orchards. This tension between duty and innocence shaped our moderate lives. Aspirations remained grounded; passing exams without embarrassment was success enough.
Looking back, this childhood mirrored deeper realities. Rural Kashmir carried unrest and hardship. Teachers, often underpaid and strictly raised, emphasised rote learning over creativity. Yet this environment forged resilience, patience, and perseverance. Effort was never separated from discomfort. Today, villages hum with smartphones, coaching centres, and competitive exams. Horizons have widened, but so has anxiety. Fear once came from the cane; now it comes from comparison. Our generation grew up without grand ambitions yet found quiet contentment in the present. Our traditional games offered pure unstructured play—building spatial awareness, cooperation, emotional strength, and community bonds. Victories were shared under walnut trees; failures softened by collective warmth. Without digital distractions, relationships grew naturally. Nostalgia must acknowledge shadows too. Fear left lasting marks. Some still flinch at raised voices. Winters without electricity were isolating. Healthcare was distant. Occasional curfews cut playtime short. Yet shared hardships strengthened solidarity.
Many from our generation now live scattered lives—some in cities, others tilling ancestral land. What endures is the memory of a childhood of moderation. The school bell signaled fear, but the maidan promised freedom. Parents pushed us toward books, yet we guarded moments of laughter. This reflection is not a call to revive harsh discipline or reject modern dreams. It is an invitation to find balance. As today’s Kashmiri parents guide children toward wider opportunities, they might still preserve space for simple games in courtyards and shared community evenings. The dusty fields and humble classrooms of our youth did not defeat us. They taught us to find joy in ordinary moments and to carry the quiet spirit of village childhood within us, even as the world changes.
(The author is Assistant Professor at the Department of Education, Akal University, Bathinda, Punjab. The views, opinions and conclusions expressed in this article are those of the author and aren’t necessarily in accord with the views of “Kashmir Horizon”)
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