Childhood in Two Frames

The first frame:

I’m standing outside a hospital on a clear, but impossibly dark night.

The air hums — charged, uncertain — as if it knows something momentous is about to happen.

Dadi is beside me.

I remember her vividly — her calm presence, the quiet authority in her eyes, the faint scent of gentle steel that always followed her.

She’s holding a cane basket — old, familiar, fraying at the edges.

I never knew what was inside.

Maybe fruits. Maybe prayers. Maybe just the kind of waiting that love carries in its hands.

Somewhere beyond those whitewashed walls, my sister is either arriving — or the world is rearranging itself to make room for her.

I can’t tell which came first: the cry from the maternity ward, or the sudden lightness in the air.

But I remember knowing, without knowing why, that everything had changed.

The second frame is brighter — sun-drenched and full of motion.

Lucknow. School. A courtyard echoing with laughter.

When playtime ends, we march back into the same hall — only to find the floor transformed into a soft sea of green and white.

Tiny beds, perfectly aligned.

We climb into them, giggling, pretending to sleep. Ceiling fans turn lazily above, singing the lullaby of an afternoon well spent.

When I wake, someone stands by the door to take me home.

I like to think it’s my mother — her silhouette framed by light, her presence warm and familiar even before I can see her face.

That quiet certainty of being found.

Two memories — one at night, one in daylight.

Both about arrivals.

One, of a sister stepping into the world. The other, of a child being gathered back into the arms of home.

Perhaps that’s what childhood really is — a series of small returns.

To warmth.

To waiting.

To love that stands quietly outside hospitals, and walks unhurried through school gates — holding the basket, or the hand, that makes the world feel whole again.