A year ago, I’d picked up a toy on a railway station; one of those cheap plastic mobiles you hang on a baby’s crib, one with ghungroos that rattle when you key the thing up and it spins. That sort of a toy is my earliest memory of a toy. The one that I picked was very similar to the one that I had as a baby. I liked it; the movement of colors still mesmerises me.
When I got it, everyone teased me; called me a baby and I gleefully played with it. I hung it on the door frame of my inner room and would twirl it from time to time. Then some while ago, I unconsciously stopped doing it. The toy collected dust. I cleaned it occasionally. Then a few weeks ago, I figured out that the mechanism had stopped working; rust, probably. So I just let it hang in all it’s colors.
Today, I realized that it was filthily covered in dust and there was no reason for it to hang there. So I took it off and asked mom to throw it; I couldn’t have done it myself and she’d been dying to do it. When she did take it away, however, I felt a tear sting my eye. I don’t know what happened but I felt like sitting right there on the ground and throwing a tantrum to get a new one or get that one repaired; anything to stop it from joining the junk pile. But I realised as I relinquished my hold on that toy that I may have a child in me forever, but I had to let go of this last toy.
I just had to grow up….. and that felt sad…..