Why did we ever grow up.
Why? Just why?
To slow down the swing from its full zenith. As it comes to a gentle halt. So devoid of any joy. To stop to Nothing worth holding on.
Why did I ever get off? I should have held on to it longer, tighter. I should have swung higher than ever before and then higher that that even.
I should have jumped off right then. So I could not have felt the drudgery of leaving the swing behind in the playground.
Why did we ever grow up?
To think of mud as something dirty rather than a world of possibilities it could be when we ploughed it with our tiny, timble hands. Mud pies, melting castles or just something to squish around.
It would somehow find its way to our clothes and hair and faces and those smiles peeking from underneath that grit and grime would be reflected in our mother’s when we would come back home with stories of our labours.
Why did we ever grow up. Why.
To not see your dear Nana miyan’s loving smile again. His booking laugh. His soft hands. To not smell his clothes that always reminded of powdered babies heads.
Why. Did we ever grow up.