Beautiful Boredom

I am sure many who grew up in the seventies, eighties and nineties will relate to this.

Summer vacations were not travel plans or resort bookings. We went to a relative’s house for a few days, and after that the long stretch of holidays was completely on us. No schedules, no outings, no classes. Just long empty days staring at us, and we had to decide how to kill our boredom.

Most homes had no tv. Even if there was one, it came on only for a fixed time. Till then the house would be silent, except for the pressure cooker whistle, someone sweeping the floor, or neighbours calling each other from window to window.

So we found our own fun.

Pulling out old magazines, tearing pictures and sticking them in a scrap book.

Using colour pencils to draw anything that came to mind.

Reading the same old book again because that was the only book at home.

And waiting for evening, because that is when the whole lane came out to play.

The sound of someone shouting, “Come down, we are starting the game,” is something you never forget.

Parents were busy in their own world.

Dad at office.

Mom with her never ending house work.

If we created a mess, she would shout, “Why does the school even give holidays!”

And one big excitement was feeding the new born street puppies, giving them bath near the garden pipe. Every puppy was Tomy for us.

Hobbies were simple.

Not to show off.

Not for marks.

Not for competitions.

Just a way to pass time. No one cared who was better. No photos, no posting, no audience. Just pure doing.

Some days we would climb the small hill near the house, sit there for hours looking at the view, feeling the breeze on our face. Mind blank. No caption. No urge to click a picture because the film roll had limited shots. You saved those ten or twelve photos for a festival or a school trip. Everything else stayed in the heart, not in a memory chip.

There was also the joy of visiting the local library. Old books with yellow pages, names scribbled on the inside cover, that smell of old paper. Sometimes the librarian scolded us for returning late. Sometimes we exchanged books secretly with friends because no one had money to buy new ones.

Evenings had their own charm.

The neighbour’s radio playing.

Smell of dinner from every house.

Mothers standing at the door shouting names.

And we hiding behind the gate pretending we did not hear.

And when power went, the whole street would come alive. No inverters. No fans. No lights. Just kids running out to play hide and seek in the dark. Sweating, laughing, shouting. Later, lamp lit dinners with shadows dancing on the wall. Simple things, but they felt magical.

And of course, climbing aunties’ guava or mango trees. Breaking one fruit, running away, thinking we were very smart. She always knew, but she still smiled and let us take them. That taste still stays in the mind. Pure childhood.

Now look at today.

Do we even know what boredom is?

A two minute wait at the clinic, phone comes out.

Waiting for the lift, phone comes out.

Even while walking, eyes on the screen.

There is no empty moment left.

We have filled every second with scrolling, but left very little space inside us.

When was the last time someone sat on a terrace doing nothing?

When was the last time a child said, “I am bored,” and created something on their own?

Boredom made us creative.

It made us patient.

It taught us to sit with ourselves.

It showed us joy in small things without needing to show it to the world.

Maybe those days were not perfect.

But they were real.

And without knowing it, boredom was the reason we saw life more clearly.