Peer Mohammad Amir Qureshi
ehsaanamy133@gmail.com
Not all toys are made of plastic. Some are made of memories, stitched together with love, sacrifice, and the quiet magic of childhood. This is not just a story about toys—it is a story about a time when even the smallest things carried the weight of entire worlds.
There are certain days when a simple thought refuses to leave you. It revisits your mind repeatedly, not merely as an idea, but as a quiet tremor that touches the deepest chords of your heart. I believe such moments arrive in everyone’s life — subtle, unannounced, yet unforgettable. One such moment found me.
While scrolling through Facebook, I came across a birthday post shared by my teacher for his little son. The caption was brief and innocent: “To have toys of his choice.”
It appeared ordinary, almost casual. Yet something about those words lingered within me. The phrase carried more than celebration; it carried privilege — the privilege of choice, the luxury of desire fulfilled without hesitation.That very evening, as I sat at my shop absorbed in the rhythm of routine, a man entered. His appearance reflected modest means, but his eyes radiated affection. He picked up a small toy cycle — simple, delicate, priced at a mere forty rupees. To many, it was insignificant. To him, it was a source of immeasurable joy.
He looked at me and said with quiet excitement,
“My son will be so happy when he sees this.”
When he inquired about the price and I replied, “Forty,” he responded without a pause,
“Even if you had asked a hundred, I would have bought it.”
That sentence did not merely register in my ears — it settled deeply within my soul.
In that instant, the toy ceased to be plastic and wheels. It transformed into love, sacrifice, and devotion. It became a father’s silent promise that no cost is too high when it comes to his child’s happiness.Since that day, toys have never appeared ordinary to me. They are not mere objects of amusement. They are vessels of dreams for children and embodiments of sacrifice for parents. They carry stories — stories of longing, effort, and boundless affection.
And perhaps that is why my fascination with toys remains — not for their colors or shapes, but for the profound emotions they quietly hold.
I was always fascinated by toys during my childhood. Not merely attracted to them — fascinated, as though each one carried a secret universe within it.
I vividly remember one afternoon when I was playing cricket with my friends in what we called an orchard — though even today I hesitate to name it so. It was not a disciplined orchard of a single species standing in orderly rows. It was wild, generous, and beautifully confused. Tall poplar trees guarded its edges like silent sentinels. In the middle stood apple trees, plum trees, and those mysterious trees that bore fruit resembling apples — but smaller, delicate, almost miniature versions of the real ones. Those tiny fruits have long since vanished, as if they belonged only to that chapter of my life.
On one side stood a shed-like structure, not built with cement or bricks, but woven from tree branches and dried grass. Stacks of hay were piled high, and I remember a man climbing them with a long wooden pole, adjusting and arranging the bundles for the animals. It was rustic, imperfect — yet to us, it was a stadium grander than any arena in the world.We played there freely. No one complained. No one chased us away. That patch of earth belonged to our laughter.
Then, one unforgettable day, as the match was at its peak and I was lost in the thrill of batting, someone came running toward me, calling out breathlessly:
“Amira… Amir…! Dady ha che aamit!”
— Your father has arrived!
My father, who at that time used to sell shawls in Kolkata, had returned home.
Cricket, competition, friendship — everything lost its importance in that instant. I dropped the bat without a second thought and ran toward home, my friends chasing behind me, curiosity and excitement racing alongside us.
When I reached, my father looked at me with a smile that carried distance, fatigue, and affection all at once. And then he said the words that made my heart soar higher than any dream:“I have brought a toy Airbus for you from Kolkata.”
An Airbus.
Not just a toy plane — an Airbus. To my young mind, it was no less than the real aircraft that pierced the skies. In that moment, I did not see plastic wings; I saw journeys, clouds, and a world beyond our orchard.
That toy was more than a gift.
It was my father’s love crossing cities.
It was sacrifice wrapped in wonder.
It was Kolkata meeting a small boy’s sky in Kashmir.
Even today, whenever I see an airplane slicing through the heavens, a part of that little boy awakens — the one who once abandoned a cricket match for an Airbus and believed he could hold the sky in his hands.
The real enchantment, however, began when my father opened another box.
Inside lay a pair of yellow shoes — radiant, almost royal in their brightness. At the back of each shoe was a small transparent piece, something like glass. The moment I saw it, I was not merely delighted — I was puzzled.
What was that glass for?
My curious mind began weaving theories, but before I could reach any conclusion, my mother smiled and said,
“Ye chi Light Daar Booth.”
These are light shoes.
I stared at her in disbelief.
Shoes that light up? Was that even possible?
With trembling excitement, I slipped my feet into them. The moment I pressed my heel against the ground — they flashed. A burst of light. Tiny sparks beneath my steps.
I froze.
Then I stamped again.
Flash.
Again.
Flash.
It felt as though lightning had agreed to live beneath my feet.
My mother gently warned me,
“Ye lagie oarie yoarie khatrie.”
— Don’t wear them all the time at home.
But how could I not? How could a child resist carrying stars under his heels?
That afternoon stretched endlessly. Time betrayed me. The sun refused to set. Evening felt as distant as the galaxies themselves. I waited and waited, glancing at the sky repeatedly, wishing darkness would descend faster — because only in the night could their glow reveal its true magic.
When night finally arrived, I walked deliberately, slowly, pressing my heels just to watch them shimmer. Each step was a celebration. Each flash felt like applause from the universe.
From that day onward, I developed a strange habit — I became mesmerized by lights. Streetlights, fireworks, reflections on water — anything that shimmered held me captive. But nothing ever matched the wonder of those yellow shoes that once turned an ordinary courtyard into my personal constellation.
Sometimes I think, it wasn’t the shoes that glowed.
It was my childhood.
I was overwhelmed with happiness that day — the yellow light shoes, the Airbus toy — my world had expanded beyond imagination. I do not even remember when sleep claimed me that night. Perhaps I fell asleep holding my dreams too tightly.
Yet among all my childhood treasures, one toy still echoes through my memory more vividly than the rest.
It was a puzzle cube.
Not an ordinary one — this cube carried the alphabets from A to Z, each letter accompanied by a small drawing. *Z for Zebra*, *B for Ball*, *C for Cat* — a tiny universe of learning resting in a child’s palms. But strangely, the letter **A** was missing from its visible faces.
At that time, I was very young. Our shop stood beside the National Highway — a relentless river of speeding vehicles. Every day, I would carry midday meals to my father. Before leaving home, he would always warn me, “Don’t cross the road by yourself. Stand near the mulberry tree and call me.”
That mulberry tree still stands there — a silent witness to my childhood.
I would stand beneath it and shout,
“Daedaa… Daedaaa!”
And my father would come, take my small hand into his firm grasp, and guide me across that roaring highway filled with rushing cars and impatient horns. In his hand, I felt invincible.
One afternoon, I noticed that puzzle cube displayed in the shop. My heart clung to it instantly. I was certain my father would give it to me when I left. But he did not.
I consoled myself — perhaps he would bring it home at night after closing the shop.
When I reached home, I spoke of nothing else. I told my mother again and again — perhaps a thousand times — about the cube with engraved animals and letters. I described it in such detail that even she must have memorized it without seeing it. Finally, slightly irritated by my persistence, she said, “Go and bring it.”
Permission granted.
Excitement blinded caution. The shop was nearly a kilometer away, and in my eagerness, I forgot the most important rule — I forgot to call my father to help me cross the highway.
When I suddenly appeared before him, he looked astonished.
“What are you doing here?”
I replied innocently,
“Mummy chay dapan ye di yoer.”
— *Mother is asking for this cube.*
He paused and asked, “How does your mother know about it?”
But he handed it to me.
In that moment, I was over the moon. The cube in my hands felt no less than magic. I ran back home, clutching it like a sacred possession.
I proudly told my elder brother, “This is mine. It belongs to me. No one else has any right over it.”
It was not just a toy — it was ownership, discovery, identity.
I kept twisting its sides, determined to uncover the missing letter **A**. I rotated it repeatedly, fascinated by how patterns changed and images shifted. I was certain that if I tried enough times, the letter would reveal itself.
But childhood curiosity is often stronger than childhood patience.
In my repeated attempts to discover that hidden “A,” the cube slipped, strained — and finally broke.
I remember the silence that followed. The pieces in my hands felt heavier than before. The magic had fractured.
Looking back now, I realize something profound — perhaps the letter “A” was never missing from the cube. Perhaps it was teaching me something far greater:
That not everything reveals itself immediately.
That some things require time.
And that childhood, like that cube, is delicate — once broken, it never returns in the same shape again.
Yet even today, when I see a puzzle or hear the hum of a highway, a small boy stands beneath a mulberry tree, calling out for his father — believing the world can be solved, one letter at a time.
As my father was about to return home that evening, my elder brother quietly advised me to sleep early and place the broken cube on a shelf — hidden, out of sight, so that my father would not discover what had happened.
I obeyed.
But it was not sleep that came to me — it was hesitation. Even as a child, I carried a certain fear, a quiet reluctance before my father. And perhaps, truth be told, a part of that hesitation still lingers within me.
That night, I went to bed unusually early. Not out of rest, but out of pretense. I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, as though silence could conceal both the broken toy and my fragile guilt.
Then come the memories of Eid — not the Eid of today, but the Eid of childhood.
Those were nights when sleep would abandon us completely. I would lie awake, imagining how my new clothes would look, how they would fit, how I would walk among friends wearing them. Excitement would not let my eyes close.
Ah, those carefree days… how swiftly they passed.
I do not remember when that eagerness faded — when the desire to wear new clothes for Eid quietly dissolved into indifference. Today, the festival arrives, but that restless joy no longer accompanies it.
Back then, Eid was incomplete without toys.
I would rush eagerly to the market, my heart set not on sweets, but on playthings. My mother would often caution me,
“Don’t waste money on firecrackers — bring something to eat instead.”
But childhood has its own logic.
I would return with toy pistols, revolvers filled with tiny yellow bead-like bullets, or those metal guns in which a strip of firecracker would roll. The moment the trigger was pressed, it would produce that sharp crack — followed by a faint, lingering smell of burnt powder.
That sound… that scent… it was chaos, joy, and celebration woven together.
Those toys were never just objects. They were moments of rebellion, excitement, and identity — small declarations of happiness in a child’s world.
Today, when I look back, I realize — it wasn’t the toys, the clothes, or even the festival itself that made those days special.
It was the innocence with which we lived them.
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