In the Shade of Memories: Recalling a Village Childhood

To return to the simplicity of village life would mean listening again to the gentle songs of birds, sitting in the shade of age-old trees, and recounting memories of lives well-lived

Nisar Banbhan

Time is a silent traveler, leaving footprints of memories on the dusty paths of life, impressions as enduring as those carved by bullock carts on village trails. Today, I turn inward, letting nostalgia lead, and I write of the past, for I know each of us harbors a sky heavy with memories, waiting for that single drop to fall and remind us. Caught in the hum of the city, my heart retraces those far-off seasons, those moments painted by time’s gentle hand. Memories play their familiar tune, filling every corner of my being with both joy and sorrow, a symphony that transcends the years. We carry these echoes with us, for they remind us of the carefree years when we, too, belonged to our own time. Back then, life was simple. By fifth grade, we still used slate boards, erasing with our tongues, convinced it would never drain us of strength. The knowledge we sought was simple—either pass or fail. Marks were nothing more than fleeting rewards, almost irrelevant, and “percentage” was a concept we knew not. Our real treasure was the camaraderie we shared, crammed on wooden benches under the thatched roofs of ancestral meeting places. This was our schooling—no fancy desks or quiet halls, only our voices raised in tandem, reciting lessons with fierce pride. Tutoring wasn’t a commodity; it was a rarity, and any struggle we faced was met with a collective spirit. Intelligence was equated with hard work and humility, values held dear in the eyes of our teachers, our guides. Books carried in cloth bags spoke of strength, and the ink bottles and slates we guarded with such care were symbols of our grit. A new academic year brought the ritual of covering books, a small ceremony that ignited friendly bets and challenges, a competition that rewarded pencils and erasers. Our parents trusted in our ability, seldom visiting school, for they knew the teacher would update them in passing. They need not visit or inquire; their trust was implicit. Even punishment held no grudges—we accepted the scolding, the quiet discipline, and with it, a humility that bound us to one another. Today, however, the barriers of ego often blur the innocence we once knew so well.

City life reveals a strange duality—grief resides in one house, while next door, laughter rings out. In our villages, such contrasts felt unimaginable. We lived as one; if one house starved, the whole village felt the hunger.

Expressions of love were not spoken but understood, a bond that needed no adornment of words. We neither said “I love you” nor sought its assurance; the warmth of love was implicit, woven into the silence of shared understanding. Back then, there were no walls in our relationships, no divided spaces. Fate was a companion we accepted with quiet contentment. Our generation cherished the humble joys that so naturally blossomed in simple ways. Comparing it to today’s life feels like comparing daylight to the night. Now, as parents, we speak of those days to our children, explaining how simplicity connected us with mere gestures, while today, even the closest embraces often mask hidden motives. Life’s currents drift people apart, ambitions separate once inseparable paths, and memories are all that remain, haunting yet comforting in their enduring presence. Raised in a remote village, our days unfolded without paved roads, gas, or city conveniences—elements still only aspirations for most rural homes. We grew up with dreams of the city, of a future that beckoned with unknown promises. Youth led us to unfamiliar grounds, pulling us from close bonds to chase dreams in the city. Our stomachs empty, we left the gentle soil of the village for the unforgiving roads of urban life, where meals tasted different, and hard work brought us in touch with the powerful. Yet, our hearts still yearned for the warmth of the village, for we understood that the soul finds no peace in the anonymity of the city.

City life reveals a strange duality—grief resides in one house, while next door, laughter rings out. In our villages, such contrasts felt unimaginable. We lived as one; if one house starved, the whole village felt the hunger. The village was a web of connections; if someone passed away, the community gathered in unity, offering solace and support. Yet, here in the city, narrow homes close people off, making even a neighbor feel like a distant stranger. The city distances, where the village once drew close. The sheer joy and innocent laughter that accompanied life in the village, like climbing mango trees or gathering berries at dawn, seem rare here. These simple joys are a treasure we all need, and perhaps, it’s time we revisit our roots, restoring the essence of our villages. Where houses were known by fathers’ names, not numbers, we found identity in belonging.

Read: Between Bonds and Belonging: The Lost Art of Relationships

The generation that grew up after the year 2000 may never know the profound simplicity, the peace, and the love that we did. Our hearts were nourished by grandmothers’ stories, by the taste of tea simmering on wood stoves, and the aroma of food cooking in clay pots. These were the sounds and scents of our mornings as we ran to school after watching cartoons, shows like ‘Pink Panther’ and ‘Sesame Street’. Fridays meant half the books in our bags—a delight for which we waited all week. And no one escaped school without the playful act of “borrowing” chalk or picking fruits from nearby trees, even if it meant a scolding from the neighbors. Our friendships were made of little rituals—saving seats for friends, collecting change to buy balls, and enduring the occasional scolding for returning home late. We didn’t know status; wealth was measured by the simplicity of a geometry box or a water bottle slung over the shoulder. We shared food and stories alike, valued the teacher’s wisdom, and treasured even the humblest gestures. If it rained, we hoped for school closure, and when the sun rose despite our wishes, we accepted it with childlike resignation. As the years pass, the fragrance of the village soil and the first drops of rain upon our mud houses still linger, reminders of a time when people cared for each other without need for words. We knew humanity, respect, and tradition, and we found beauty in ordinary lives. We slept after the evening prayers, rising with the sun, and in those moments, felt rich as kings. To return to the simplicity of village life would mean listening again to the gentle songs of birds, sitting in the shade of age-old trees, and recounting memories of lives well-lived. In these reflections, we may just find our way back to a place we never truly left—our childhood, alive in the city’s noise yet rooted in the silence of our past.

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Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.

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