I must have been 7 years old when my older sister came home from school with a ''library book'.: It was a Friday, and the book was meant to be read by her over the weekend, (wedged in between homework and outdoor play), and returned on Monday. Love at first sight never happened with a person in my life, but it happened with story books. I begged her to read out loud a story from that book. She did, and I was starry eyed the whole day -- and ever after. That day started the love affair, which had no limitations. Books never tired of me, nor me of them, there was no danger of staleness, and the best part, was the mutual passion stayed alive, in spite of decades of closeness.
Going back to that first book, my sister read out only one story to me ( her good deed of the day), the rest I had to, well, sniff. I held the book in my hands, flipped the pages, thick and yellowed with use, and sensed a smell, which rose like vapor and got locked forever in the treasure chest of happy smells, in my brain. At that age, not knowing even the meaning of the word ''ecstacy," I experienced it. And the memory got stored in the cells of my being.
Books were then, one part of the story of childhood. (In the era before smartphones and online games.)
Then there was play. Endless play. Life was a vast playground in which to sport around, run, jump, hop, skip, throw ball, hide 'n'seek, climb, fall, pick yourselves up, and continue play. There were interruptions for meals, baths, and school work, but the ruling motif was always play. If not outdoors, boardgames came out, and if not that, anything could be blithely converted into a game. You got under the dining table, made it your ''house'' and draped bedsheets all around to cordon off your territory. Or you took all the dining chairs and lined them up together, and made them your ''express train''. There were always a million exciting possibilities. Picnic programs and the chasing of butterflies in the garden, looking for goblins and elves you were sure were hiding somewhere, climbing the treehouse your father lovingly built for you on the jackfruit tree, sandpits and sandcastles, coloring books, the paper boats, the paper rockets, the water pistols, pillow fights, blindman's buff, the works... an endless arena of fun.
But even as you were having all this fun, you were growing up too, and strange new attractions were edging out the old. The overpowering new thrill was a ''funny feeling'' in the stomach regarding boys, if you were a girl, and girls if you were a boy. Suddenly, all you wanted was to look nice. Clothes, cosmetics, accessories to embellish your appearance became supremely coveted and important. Gyms and body building gained ground with the boys. And face it, you couldn't think of anything else- it was just so exciting, this whole boy-girl thing.
And then, of course, the ''falling in love'' of which, nothing can be said, which can be satisfactory enough. Ah what a feeling! 'Love makes the world go around' is never truer than in those heady days when you first fall in love. And when the object of your affections reciprocates your feelings, the mooniest, most delirious days of life follow, and you think you are sorted for ever. You have found your life partner, you love each other crazily and together will walk into the sunset to live ''happily ever after."
Sigh. Of course, you may live happily together for the rest of your lives, but, but, where does that first thrilling mad attraction go? One of the perennial mysteries of life is why sexual attraction, and the feeling of being ''in love'' with a person, so overpoweringly strong at first, loses its spark and wanes with time. This reality is the primary source of the collective emotional angst of all romantic relationships. It is the source also, of a lot of good literature! But why does this happen? According to Indian wisdom, physical attractions are pegged on the external senses, which by their very nature are limited. They have a quick saturation point, and beyond that point create an effect opposite to what was originally sought. Pleasure in effect becomes pain. You overdo a pleasure and sadly a sort of disgust follows.
But the uncanny part is, this limitation does not apply to childhood pleasures. (Or pleasures, common to both children and adults, like reading books, hearing music, painting, being close to nature -all of which reach into some inner part of you). As a child, you played in the garden with your friends, screaming and shouting, till your cheeks turned red, but you never got tired, nor did the pleasure wane. Only when your mother sternly ordered you to come inside for meals did you do so-and that too only in obedience- you could have played on forever. Why is this?
Are we as children more ''spirit'' than ''body''? Are we less gross and less mired in body-consciousness? As kids we care not for getting muddied and dirty, or skipping baths.. All that appears so irrelevant. Yet fastidious adults urge us to get clean, stay clean... It matters not a whit to children, if their faces are grubby, knees scraped, clothes messy, because their pleasure and joy comes from another place. Body-concerns, be it pleasure or pain, are minimal in kids, because the hold and purity of spirit is most powerful then. Children are often called, ''free spirits," because that's exactly so- their spirit is free.
Unfortunately, this spirit-consciousness recedes as we grow older, and bodily demands assert themselves. Adults get mired in the endless cycle of satisfying desires, which are related only to the external senses- and never get satisfied. However, interestingly, reading a good book or hearing beautiful music, or communing with nature, as an adult gives great joy. This is because these joys are not ''sense- centric''-- they feed the spirit. (In fact, I wonder, is it to recapture the lost essence of childhood and ''play'' that makes gaming such a thriving industry today?)
This felicity, of less body, more spirit, is the most precious aspect of childhood. How wonderful to be able to retain that ability, as we grow, and seek those pleasures too, that come from a place deeper than our skin, from somewhere closer to soul.