A few months ago, I went with my cousin to her school to collect her SSC certificate for her college admission. 

As I entered the building, I looked at the school field and saw that it was completely empty. Not a single child was playing there. Maybe it was the heat. The sun was intense, the kind that turns the field into a frying pan. 

But I could not help thinking maybe that was not the only reason. Maybe children just do not play in the field anymore.

I stood there, staring at the ground, and suddenly I could see a younger version of myself. Running barefoot, braids flying, schoolbag dumped in the corner, my friends all around me. The sound of laughter and shouting echoing through the air. I could see us playing Bouchi, our faces red with excitement.

Do you know what Bouchi is? Let me tell you.

We would split into two teams. One player from our team would cross into the other team’s area holding her breath while chanting “bou bou bou bou” without stopping. 

That chant meant she had not taken a breath. That was the rule. She had to touch as many opponents as she could while still chanting and then run back to our side before getting caught. 

If she made it back, everyone she tagged would be out. If she was caught or stopped chanting for even a second, she was out. Once, I tried to show off by tagging so many people in one run that I was gasping for air. But we were successful, and it was so much fun.

And then there was Gollachhut.

Another two-team game. But I never really understood the rules of this game. Perhaps it was because the rules seemed to alter each time my friends and I played the game. 

We would draw two lines, widely separated, to mark our team’s home or base. One team would be runners; the other team would stand in the middle, ready to catch. 

As soon as someone shouted “Golla chhut” the runners would try to sprint to the other side without being tagged. We used tricks, distractions, and fake runs. Sometimes we would act like we were tired and then suddenly run at top speed. 

And then, there was another game I really believed we invented called Kumir Kumir. There was a narrow pathway in our school lined on both sides with low brick structures. Not quite fences but enough to walk on. 

My friends and I used to balance ourselves on those bricks and declare the middle “danga”. A deadly river full of crocodiles. One of us would be the kumir, pacing in the middle, ready to catch anyone who fell. 

We would tiptoe, wobble, and push each other for fun. And the kumir would wait, pretending and always ready to jump. To us, it was our game. We did not know that children in other schools were playing the same game, just in their own way.

Another one we loved was Borof Pani. It was simple but so fun. One person would chase everyone. If you got tagged, you had to freeze like ice. We would shout “borof” and stand still like statues. 

Someone had to come and tap us, saying “pani”, to unfreeze us and let us run again. The field would be full of frozen children and a few brave runners trying to rescue them. It was fast, it was loud, and it never got old. 

The more we played, the more dramatic we became. Posing frozen in whatever way we were tagged.

Looking back, we did not need screens or gadgets or anything fancy. We just needed space, a little time with each other. We made our own rules, invented our own worlds. 

I cannot remember how many times, during our tiffin breaks, we used to make our own games and spend the entirety of our tiffin break playing them. With no worries of life, those were the most peaceful times of my life. Those times of childhood! The dust did not bother us. The sun did not scare us. We just played.

Maybe the games have changed. Maybe children today do not chant “bou bou bou” or run from crocodiles made of friends. But the fun— that wild, breathless fun— is still there, waiting in the air, in the dust, and in the empty fields, waiting for us and for you to play.

All it takes is one person to start. And the playground will come alive again.