Return to a quieter beat

Photo by Pille Kirsi from Pexels

She clutched the thick, fat coir ropes tightly, the rough ragged bristles scratching her palms, and dug her feet into the cement paved ground for a forceful lift off. As though hearing her wish, the swing soared, lifting her to taste the sky, the wind whooshing past her delighted face. Again, and again, she dug into the ground, swinging high into the drooping branches of the breadfruit tree, the large dark green leaves shielding her from the sun, like gigantic fans.

Once tired of swinging, she dragged the long water hose, dry caked mud crumbling from the thick plastic tube, protesting at being unceremoniously uncoiled from around the tap, and watered her mom's garden. The plump salvias filled the border, crowned with gorgeous drooping red blooms. The tall stacks of white and lavender colored cosmos waved delicately in the gentle breeze, like lissome belles in Cinderella's ball.  The far end of the wall was lined by a row of dahlias, tall and regal, showing off their sunny orbs of colour.

At the end of the wall was the breadfruit tree, pudgy and grand. Pudgy as it spread its branches wide, creating hiding spaces for little children. Grand as she grew high, reaching for the top of the house. Huckleberry Finn, Tom Sawyer, Famous Five, Secret Seven, and Tinkle were voraciously devoured in the comfortable crooks of her generous branches.

The shade of the tree offered a perfect spot for the lemonade stand when she played badminton or shuttle cork, as we used to call it. The twang as the racquet hit the cork sent shots of happy adrenaline through the players, their tiredness quenched by the cold lemonade during happy, sweaty breaks.

Sometimes it would be the perennial favorite, snakes and ladders, or an intensely competitive round at the carrom board. Everyone had mastered their own specialist moves, positioning the red striker just so as to get that perfectly timed, sharp angled shot that sent all the coins flying or inflicted a surgical strike on one well aimed coin.

If no one was around, it had to be hop scotch, nimbly hopping from one chalk drawn square to another, landing perfectly on a piece of flat stone, cool and smooth underfoot.

Garden, exercise, play board games ... sounds like a WhatsApp forward about how to live in corona times, a near perfect description of growing up in Trivandrum in the 70s and 80s. Now,  nearly half a century and a couple of continents later, a little virus has nudged us... hey, perhaps it's time to slow down, to return to a quieter beat...