On Children's Day

Look at us, grown men and women walking around in our pressed shirts and polished shoes.

We take ourselves so seriously. And yet, beneath these adult disguises, what do we find?

The same children who once stamped their feet over eating their vegetables now slam laptop lids and write angry emails. Only the scale of our displeasure has grown, not its nature.

When troubled, do we not still seek someone older, wiser? Perhaps a parent, a spouse, or even that friendly colleague who seems to have all the answers. The need for a comforting hand remains unchanged since those days we came home crying with skinned knees.

In my office, I know a man who fills his house with vintage shoes he never wears. His wife complains about the space, but he guards them like a boy with his marbles.

Another fellow spends his evenings arranging his watches with the same dedication my young nephew shows to his Pokemon cards.

We still hoard our treasures, only now we call it "collecting."

Most amusing are our social media accounts. Carefully curated fictions we tell about ourselves. Like children playing police-police or doctor-doctor, we now play successful-successful, happy-happy.

Kids loitering near the chuski-wala after school have become old uncles having chai and samosas in the society park after their 5PM walks.

And the monsters! They no longer hide under beds or in dark cupboards. They've grown cleverer. They now lurk in our heads, whispering doubts about regrets and disappointments, imposters and dark futures.

Even our games have simply shifted venues. From street cricket to video games, from hopscotch to dance clubs, playgrounds to bedrooms, we still crave playtime.

Indeed, watching us all today, this 14th of November most of all, I think we are like Russian dolls.

Inside each adult shell sits a child, unchanged and unchanging.

And perhaps this is exactly as it should be.