There was a small pond in front of my home in Punjab, it was a good friend. Once in a while, you would see shimmer of a kingfisher sitting silently
on it's surrounding bushes. At night, the pond sang a chorus of frog croaks and cricket chirps while the fire-flies made it glow in their magic. The moonlight gave it a beautiful luminosity while it gave the night a melodious song to hum.. Weaver birds nestled in its flora. There were tortoises and snakes in its grasses. It was abundant in sounds and colours and textures. Many years of my childhood were spent with this pond, in awe of it, exploring it and humming alongside, singing the songs it sang. Sadly, it was filled with cement and concrete buildings were built on top. The lullabies of this magic crater was hence hushed , another intricate ecosystem silenced. In my heart though, it still lives- in all it's glory and fantabulousness. It's grasses wave in the slightest of winds, bagulas (herons) dive in and out of it's murky water and fireflies shower it with magic. If I listen carefully, I can still hear it hum..
When we were growing up in Punjab, skipping rope was one of my favourite things to do. It always amazed me to see how kids would keep skipping without missing even once- sometimes to a count of hundred or more! Whenever I think of skipping ropes, it reminds me of my neighbourhood friends, of the dusty playground on which we played badminton, cricket and stapu (hopscotch) and shared many happy times, of twilight and kids standing around and counting 1, 2, 3 , 4 , 5 and so on for every skip.