The last time we played together
Anshika Dixit | NM Digital | Dec 29, 2025, 20:35 IST
As we race through adulthood, the innocent games of our youth fade into the background, often overlooked until they're nothing but wisps of memory. This reflection delves into that swift transition where carefree days give way to the demands of life.
“One day we came back home after playing with our neighbourhood friends and then never went back.” I read this somewhere and it forced me to pause and think.
Yes there must have been that one day when I went downstairs to play ‘Ice and Water’ or ‘Hide and Seek’ or badminton with my friends for the last time before I stopped going forever. That one last time I must have heard someone scream “I spy!” and then the game got over and no one ever hid behind a car again. There must have been a last time when I played ‘Ghar Ghar’ with my sister, dressing up in dadi’s sarees and then suddenly it must’ve seemed very childish. Right?
And maybe what we truly miss are not the games, but it is the slowness of those evenings, the feeling of how time felt generous, how nothing was urgent, how the world moved at a gentler pace and life was simple.
Suddenly after which, we all must have grown up on one fine evening. Suddenly exams must have become more important and studies more serious, we all must have started having other important things to finish rather than running down at 6 pm sharp, we must have all found our solace in shows or books or anything at all that was more serious and more ‘grown up’ because we all indeed grew up suddenly.
And somewhere along the way, life sped up so fast that we could never stop to notice what we were leaving behind
Even you must have had such games that you suddenly stopped playing and never realised. Or those movies that we loved watching as kids, the books we enjoyed reading so much, must have become too ‘childish’ one day. Maybe it was the last time you played carrom with your brother on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Maybe the ludo board stayed open on the table for days, waiting for “one more round” that never happened. Maybe your bicycle waited for another bike race near the gate for weeks before someone quietly moved it to the storeroom.
I still remember the dusty orange glow of the evening sun, the sound of mothers calling out names and children asking for five more minutes of playtime, the aroma of dinner being cooked in distant kitchens.
This is a shared experience for all of us. Growing up is a process, yes. But it always enters our lives unannounced. We don’t really get to decide when we grow up, do we?
Even today, a part of us longs for that simplicity, for an hour of play, a moment of silliness, for a break from being so serious all the time.
Growing up is not tragic, just tender. It asks for a new version of us, and we oblige. We learn responsibility, earn wisdom and we break and rebuild ourselves. But in the middle of this constant becoming of a new self, it’s always comforting to remember that once, there was a version of us who played without inhibitions, who opened the door to the world of imagination and dreams without thinking twice about the reality. The version that would find joy in simple games, silly rules and a shared laughter.
Maybe childhood was our first taste of slow living, we just didn’t call it that then. We lived fully in the moment without realising it.
And maybe that is why nostalgia feels like a warm ache. It reminds us that those moments mattered. That the children we once were, still live inside us with patience, waiting to be remembered. Sometimes, when we pause for a moment during a sunset, or when we hear children laughing in the distance, that old version of us quietly returns, reminding us to breathe a little slower.
Have you seen grandparents? They become like children as soon as they are with their grandchild. This is because we don’t have to go back in time to honour the children we once were. We can keep them alive in the stories and tales we tell, in the memories we revisit, in the way our eyes light up when a child asks us to join their game. We can pick up an old board game, or teach a kid the rules of “Ice and Water,” or simply smile when we pass by the park where we once ran without getting tired.
Because the truth is—maybe we did grow up suddenly, but the joy of who we once were doesn’t have to disappear completely. It can stay with us, shaped into nostalgia, cherished through writing, conversations and the tiny acts of remembering.
Childhood doesn’t end with a loud announcement. It slips away silently and softly, in between school exams and tuitions, in between new friendships and the awkward changes of teenage, in the little moments where life asks you to grow up and you simply obey without noticing.
But it always stays inside us. i
Yes there must have been that one day when I went downstairs to play ‘Ice and Water’ or ‘Hide and Seek’ or badminton with my friends for the last time before I stopped going forever. That one last time I must have heard someone scream “I spy!” and then the game got over and no one ever hid behind a car again. There must have been a last time when I played ‘Ghar Ghar’ with my sister, dressing up in dadi’s sarees and then suddenly it must’ve seemed very childish. Right?
And maybe what we truly miss are not the games, but it is the slowness of those evenings, the feeling of how time felt generous, how nothing was urgent, how the world moved at a gentler pace and life was simple.
Suddenly after which, we all must have grown up on one fine evening. Suddenly exams must have become more important and studies more serious, we all must have started having other important things to finish rather than running down at 6 pm sharp, we must have all found our solace in shows or books or anything at all that was more serious and more ‘grown up’ because we all indeed grew up suddenly.
And somewhere along the way, life sped up so fast that we could never stop to notice what we were leaving behind
Even you must have had such games that you suddenly stopped playing and never realised. Or those movies that we loved watching as kids, the books we enjoyed reading so much, must have become too ‘childish’ one day. Maybe it was the last time you played carrom with your brother on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Maybe the ludo board stayed open on the table for days, waiting for “one more round” that never happened. Maybe your bicycle waited for another bike race near the gate for weeks before someone quietly moved it to the storeroom.
I still remember the dusty orange glow of the evening sun, the sound of mothers calling out names and children asking for five more minutes of playtime, the aroma of dinner being cooked in distant kitchens.
This is a shared experience for all of us. Growing up is a process, yes. But it always enters our lives unannounced. We don’t really get to decide when we grow up, do we?
Even today, a part of us longs for that simplicity, for an hour of play, a moment of silliness, for a break from being so serious all the time.
Growing up is not tragic, just tender. It asks for a new version of us, and we oblige. We learn responsibility, earn wisdom and we break and rebuild ourselves. But in the middle of this constant becoming of a new self, it’s always comforting to remember that once, there was a version of us who played without inhibitions, who opened the door to the world of imagination and dreams without thinking twice about the reality. The version that would find joy in simple games, silly rules and a shared laughter.
Maybe childhood was our first taste of slow living, we just didn’t call it that then. We lived fully in the moment without realising it.
And maybe that is why nostalgia feels like a warm ache. It reminds us that those moments mattered. That the children we once were, still live inside us with patience, waiting to be remembered. Sometimes, when we pause for a moment during a sunset, or when we hear children laughing in the distance, that old version of us quietly returns, reminding us to breathe a little slower.
Have you seen grandparents? They become like children as soon as they are with their grandchild. This is because we don’t have to go back in time to honour the children we once were. We can keep them alive in the stories and tales we tell, in the memories we revisit, in the way our eyes light up when a child asks us to join their game. We can pick up an old board game, or teach a kid the rules of “Ice and Water,” or simply smile when we pass by the park where we once ran without getting tired.
Because the truth is—maybe we did grow up suddenly, but the joy of who we once were doesn’t have to disappear completely. It can stay with us, shaped into nostalgia, cherished through writing, conversations and the tiny acts of remembering.
Childhood doesn’t end with a loud announcement. It slips away silently and softly, in between school exams and tuitions, in between new friendships and the awkward changes of teenage, in the little moments where life asks you to grow up and you simply obey without noticing.
But it always stays inside us. i