A Sound of Its Own
Dr Rakesh Verma
rakeshforests@gmail.com
In the lanes, courtyards, and dusty open grounds of Jammu, childhood once had a sound of its own: the sharp tap of wood on wood, the clink of glass marbles colliding, the chorus of children arguing over “out” and “not out,” and the laughter that rose like sparrows from every mohalla. Games were not “downloaded.”
They were inherited. They lived in the muscle memory of older siblings, in the tips shouted by uncles leaning over balconies, and in the tiny innovations each group of children added to the rules. Today, many of those games-Gilli Dabnda, Kancha, Gatene, and several other local favorites-are fading fast, pushed to the margins by the glowing convenience of mobile gaming. The change is not simply about entertainment; it is about what kind of childhood a place remembers, and what it quietly forgets.
Traditional games in Jammu were more than time-pass. They were informal schools of coordination, negotiation, courage, and community. They trained the body without anyone calling it exercise, sharpened the mind without anyone calling it strategy, and built friendships without anyone needing a “followers” list. A child’s world expanded not through screens but through streets: learning which courtyard could host a game, which patch of ground was safe from traffic, and which elder would complain if the ball hit a window. In that ecosystem, games like Gilli Dabnda and Kancha were not just popular-they were almost inevitable. They demanded minimal equipment, relied on skill and imagination, and could be played in any spare space. That simplicity was their power.
Gilli Dabnda, often compared to gilli-danda played across North India, has its own local flavor in Jammu. Two pieces of wood-one longer stick (the “danda”) and a smaller tapered piece (the “gilli”)-were enough to create an hour of breathless competition. The gilli would be placed on the ground, flicked up with the danda, and then struck mid-air to send it flying. A good hit was a small miracle: the perfect angle, the crisp timing, the satisfying distance. Players judged each other not only by strength but by finesse-how cleanly they lifted the gilli, how accurately they aimed, how calmly they handled pressure when everyone was watching. A match was part sport, part performance. The field had no boundary rope, yet every child knew where the “line” should be. Points were counted in creative ways: by measured stick-lengths, by agreed distances, sometimes by the number of steps from the hitting point to where the gilli landed. And of course, disputes happened. They were settled through argument, persuasion, compromise, and occasionally a grudging rematch-skills that mattered long after the game ended.
Kancha-marbles-carried a different kind of magic. It was small, pocketable, and personal. A child could own a whole universe in a cloth pouch: marbles of smoky glass, marbles with colored swirls, the prized “cat’s eye,” the heavier ones that hit with authority. Kancha games varied from lane to lane, but the spirit was the same: precision, patience, and nerve. A shallow circle scratched into dust became an arena. Players crouched, thumb cocked, eyes narrowed, calculating angles like miniature engineers. Winning was not only about taking marbles; it was about earning respect. A skilled player could “read” the ground-how loose the soil was, how likely the marble was to skid, how the sunlight might confuse the eye. There was drama in every shot: the hush before the flick, the sudden cheer when a marble was knocked out, the groan when a player missed by a hair. Kancha also taught something quietly important: how to lose. Because losses were real. You could go home with an empty pouch, and the next day you had to show up anyway, ready to play, ready to rebuild.
Gatene-known in some places as a form of hopscotch-like play or a local ground-marking game depending on the community-evokes the kind of group play that filled afternoons, especially for children who thrived on rhythm, balance, and teamwork. Where Gilli Dabnda looked like a miniature sport and Kancha felt like a tactical duel, Gatene belonged to the collective: chalk lines or scratched patterns, hopping sequences, quick turns, and the constant negotiation of turns and rules. It needed very little, yet it gave a lot-balance, stamina, and a sense of belonging. In many neighborhoods, variations existed: different grids, different “safe” boxes, different penalties. And that is the point-traditional games were alive. They adapted to the space available, the number of players present, and the mood of the day. No update was needed; children were the updates.
To understand why these games are vanishing, we have to look beyond easy blame. It is tempting to point a finger at phones and end the story there, but the truth is more layered. Mobile gaming is not merely a new toy; it is a perfect product for the way modern life has reorganized childhood.
First, there is the question of space. Jammu has grown. Traffic has increased. Open grounds have shrunk or become parking areas. Streets that once belonged to children now belong to vehicles. Parents who themselves played outdoors often feel anxious letting their children roam the same lanes, because the lanes have changed. Without safe, accessible spaces, outdoor games become difficult. A game like Gilli Dabnda needs room-the gilli can fly into windows, onto roads, or into places where retrieving it becomes risky. Even Kancha, which can be played in a small patch of dirt, requires a kind of calm, a corner of the world where a child can crouch undisturbed. When neighborhoods become crowded and hurried, that calm disappears.
Second, there is the shift in schedules. Many children now carry heavier academic loads, tuitions, coaching classes, and structured extracurriculars. The free, unplanned afternoon-once the natural habitat of traditional games-has become rare. Mobile games, by contrast, fit into the cracks of time: ten minutes between classes, a quick round before dinner, a match while sitting in a car. They are designed for convenience, and modern life rewards convenience. Third, there is the transformation of social life. Traditional games were deeply social, but they required physical presence. You needed friends nearby. Mobile gaming offers instant opponents and teammates at any hour, without the effort of gathering people, finding space, or negotiating rules. It also offers a kind of achievement system that traditional games never had: levels, skins, leaderboards, daily rewards. For a child, these rewards can feel more predictable than the uncertain outcomes of outdoor play, where you might lose not only the game but also your turn, your marble, or your pride.
Fourth, there is the powerful pull of screens themselves. Mobile games are built to hold attention with bright visuals, rapid feedback, and endless novelty. Traditional games ask for something slower and more demanding: patience, repetition, practice. The joy is real, but it is earned differently. In a world that increasingly trains attention to jump quickly from one stimulus to another, the slower pleasures of mastering a gilli flick or perfecting a marble shot can be harder to sustain. Yet something essential is lost when these games disappear, and it is not just nostalgia. Traditional games carried local culture in small, everyday ways. The words used during play-nicknames, chants, playful insults, the very way rules were spoken-were part of the region’s living language. The games also carried local ethics: how you handled a dispute, how you treated a younger player, how you took responsibility when your shot broke something (and yes, sometimes it did). They were training grounds for real-life social navigation. When a group of children played Kancha, they learned turn-taking and fairness. When they played Gilli Dabnda, they learned risk and reward, courage and caution. When they played Gatene, they learned rhythm, coordination, and the art of keeping a group together.
There were physical benefits too, obvious but often ignored. Traditional games built strong legs, quick reflexes, and endurance. They gave children sunlight, fresh air, and the subtle health of movement. In a time when sedentary lifestyles are linked to rising health concerns, the disappearance of outdoor play is not a small matter. But beyond physical health, there is emotional health. Outdoor games allowed children to release energy, process frustration, and experience joy that involved the whole body. They returned home tired in a satisfying way, the kind of tiredness that helps you sleep well and grow well.
None of this means mobile gaming is entirely negative. Digital games can develop reflexes, strategic thinking, and even social connection, especially for children who may not have a neighborhood group to play with. Some games encourage teamwork and communication. Technology is not the enemy; the problem is imbalance. When mobile gaming becomes the primary form of play, it narrows experience. It replaces the unpredictable richness of the real world with the controlled rewards of a designed world. It replaces local culture with global trends. And it can replace community with consumption-where play is no longer something you create together, but something you buy, download, and follow.
The more painful truth is that the vanishing of Jammu’s traditional games is also the vanishing of a certain kind of neighborhood life. Earlier, communities were more interwoven. Children of different ages played together. Older kids taught younger ones, sometimes kindly, sometimes harshly, but always in a way that pulled them into the group. Now, families are more private, apartment living is more common, and children often socialize within narrower circles-classmates, tuition friends, online friends. The casual, everyday gathering of kids in the lane has become less common, and without that gathering, the games die naturally.
So what can be done? Revival does not require rejecting modernity. It requires creating room for tradition to breathe. Schools in Jammu can play an important role by reintroducing traditional games in physical education periods and annual sports events. Imagine a “Traditional Games Week” where children learn Gilli Dabnda, Kancha, Gatene, kho-kho, kabaddi, pitthu, and other regional favorites-not as museum pieces, but as living play. Teachers could invite local elders or community members to demonstrate rules and variations. When children hear that their parents and grandparents played the same games, they feel connected to a story larger than themselves.
Local communities can organize weekend play sessions in parks or safe open spaces. Even one hour on a Sunday can be enough to keep a game alive. Parents can help by treating outdoor play as essential, not optional. A phone can still exist, but it should not be the only companion. Setting simple boundaries-no phone during evening playtime, or phone only after an hour of outdoor activity-can gently restore balance.
Municipal planning also matters. Parks with open areas, traffic-calmed lanes, and community grounds are not luxuries; they are investments in healthy childhoods. A city that has space for children to play is a city that believes in its future. Jammu’s identity is not only in its temples, markets, and landscapes, but also in the everyday life of its neighborhoods. Preserving play spaces is preserving culture.
There is also room for creative fusion. If mobile gaming is what draws children today, why not use it to point them back to the ground? Local creators could make short videos explaining traditional games, share them on social media, and make them “cool” again. Community pages can host friendly tournaments and post photos of children playing Kancha or Gilli Dabnda. When children see their peers enjoying these games, the curiosity returns. The goal is not to shame screens, but to make outdoor play socially attractive again.
Most importantly, adults need to remember that games survive through storytelling. A child will not automatically know what Gatene is if no one shows them. The rules must be passed on like recipes. Grandparents and parents can revive these games simply by teaching them one afternoon, the way older generations were taught. It may feel awkward at first-finding sticks, buying marbles, marking a playing area-but once the game begins, the old energy returns quickly. Children do not resist joy; they resist boredom. And these games, when played well, are never boring.
When we talk about “vanishing traditional games of Jammu,” we are also talking about vanishing childhood textures: scraped knees worn like badges, dusty hands, sunlit faces, the thrill of a risky shot, the shared laughter after a silly mistake, the friendly rivalry that made you run faster and try harder. Mobile gaming offers excitement, yes, but it is often a solitary excitement, experienced in stillness. Traditional games offered excitement in motion, in company, in the open air, and in the unpredictable reality of a world that could not be paused. Perhaps the real question is not whether mobile gaming will replace traditional games completely-it already has in many places-but whether we are willing to protect a small space where the older joys can still live. Gilli Dabnda, Kancha, and Gatene are not just games. They are cultural memory made playable. They remind us that fun does not have to be purchased, that skill can be built with simple tools, and that community can be formed in the most ordinary corners of a neighborhood.
If we let these games disappear entirely, we lose more than a pastime; we lose a language of play that belonged specifically to Jammu. But if we choose, even now, to revive them-one courtyard, one park, one group of children at a time-then the sound of marbles clinking and sticks tapping can return. Not as an echo of the past, but as a living part of the present, reminding the next generation that their happiest memories do not have to fit inside a screen.
(The author is from J&K Forest Services)
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