News of ‘yellow alert’ spread across the badminton court. A damp dread took hold. Coach looked on pensively, no longer scolding or heralding his young tutees who went about their smashes and gossips over the nets. The young athletes, Covid-adapted and wise, knew they would have to seize what remained of the day and played fiercely. My seven-year-old had come prepared, phone diary and fluffy pen tucked inside the racquet bag. She was hoping to meet her best friend, exchange numbers. In the stands, a motley group of parents greedily drank in the sight of flushed faces, blur of sprints, friendly blows. The last hour was upon us, and young hearts were breaking. An order instructing immediate closure of sport stadiums was on its way. Coach would hang his boots. The nets would be returned to silence. And once again I would be annointed Minister of Games.
When I was eight years old, after a humiliating defeat at the spoon and marble race, I decided to give up sports. For years I turned up my nose at anything sporty, scoffed at physicality, cultivating and exalting instead, the joys of stillness. Then came along children and smashed my long-held convictions and safe spaces with a veritable battering ram. Suddenly everything was overwhelmingly physical, and I was in charge. Bone, muscle, brain, speech — a tidal wave of bodily functions took me away to a country of corporeal. Since choice is not an option, I surrendered wholeheartedly — pledged myself to the school of cardiovascular well-being, went to the park at twilight, believed in basketball, chose swimming over reading.
Transformed, I became an avid seeker of the sporting way of life. Since racing heart beats and adrenaline rushes were my thing now, the sprawling ground of Siri Fort Sports Complex became my afternoon getaway. I take my work calls next to the golf course, the soft click of the club or the whooshing sound of balls flying overhead barely perceptible on Zoom. In the cafe overlooking cricket fields, I have celery juice and attend to emails. While other parents on sports duty run on the 1.5km track or play tennis, I sit back and cheer them on, feeling quite revived in athletic company.
For most part of the last 11 years, I have allowed my time to be infantilised. I have spent hundreds of what could have been creatively and financially productive hours, playing hopscotch and Ludo, being the whistling engine of choo-choo train, having tea with the tiger, thinking up feminist games, retelling myths. I can safely proclaim that I have played a far greater number of hours than say, my partner has played football or cycled as a child and young athlete. This play inequity may not add up mathematically but it sure does if you consider the quantum of missed opportunity.
When my children were younger, I have often been told — ‘Let them play on their own. Don’t overdo it.’ Sure thing. But let’s examine the minutiae: a Lego tower does not build itself, let alone Lego cities or a Lego insect. You may put up a tent in the living room and encourage an impromptu sandwich lunch in the woods, next to a merry stream full of crocodiles, imagined tigers prowling around. But just as you begin to retreat into your think space, the questions will begin — is boating in the stream allowed, with what will the fish be caught, how many tigers, how thick is the grass, how many light years away is freedom?
Are we overdoing it? Are our children spoilt by over attention? A binary answer is dangerous and despotic in this case. Do we have a choice? Who will play with the children if we don’t? Have the world of work and the gigantic world of profit put in place any measures that will allow us to ‘let the children play’? A privileged life does not mean that the mother’s role has been reimagined. As a friend recently pointed out, we are bone-tired and deeply deprived of the silence that allows ambition to thrive.
I was beginning to slowly return to my non-playing stillness, when Covid swept in and I, the non-player, was once again handed out the portfolio of Fun and Games Minister. In the era of pandemic, home is the playground. Home must make room for fun.
With competitors such as Valorant, Fortnite, PubG, Genshin Impact and ‘dinosaurs jumping over cacti’, I am faring poorly. In my attempts at fun, I have: produced a mildewed book on antiquated games and suggested that we try our hand at ‘Up Jenkins’; gone around town looking for elusive cycling tracks; played badminton on ballerina tip-toe; made innumerable failed attempts to learn the rules of Mysterium and Scotland Yard. And now I think I will give up. If I do, my elder daughter will gravitate to the big bad world of gaming and my younger one will not be compensated for not knowing yet a proper school life. Even if you are willing to experiment with boredom as a fantastic skill-development tool, beware! Boredom should not camouflage your child’s anxieties and withdrawal.
According to the latest estimates, globally, 81 per cent adolescents and in the South Asia region, 74 per cent adolescents do not meet WHO’s criterion of sufficient physical activity. Research has established loud and clear that insufficient physical activity is a leading risk factor for the deadly non-communicable diseases (NCDs). In South Asia region, NCDs cause 8.5 million deaths every year, a growing percentage of which is premature. In India, 65 per cent of all deaths are due to NCDs. It is written on stone — be active or be at risk. It is a different matter that none of the 20 policy recommendations that were made alongside for governments to consider have been put in place to promote an active society, active people.
A world where children can play to their hearts content ought to be the primary responsibility of the state. The Covid-adjusted world has allowed our policy makers to deep-freeze that accountability. Other than umpteen circulars on the importance of daily yoga, at a time when childhood is in crisis, none of the Covid response plans take into consideration the inalienable right to and critical need of a child to play. I have nothing against Suryanamaskar: it is wonderfully medicinal. But I wonder how it might compare with football in the rain or skating with the wind.
Game over, children lingered outside the court, playing a last game of ‘catch me if you can’. The denner screamed ‘Omicron, here I come!’ Parents on sports duty stood by patiently, putting on hold their calls, meetings, emails. I noticed, that quite unconsciously, we were standing in a circle, fencing them in. Our jaws set, nerves on edge, we were by unspoken agreement protecting a last game. The only thing missing was probably a sign — CAUTION: CHILDREN AT PLAY!
The author is a writer with a day job in global policy
