SANJAY PANDITA
There are moments in life when a single line from a song or poem can open hidden windows of reflection, shaking us with a quiet, unyielding intensity. One such moment comes whenever I revisit the haunting melody from Raj Kapoor’s cinematic masterpiece Mera Naam Joker. Manna Dey’s voice—wounded, wise, and profound—delivers the unforgettable line, “Ae bhai zara dekh ke chalo,” a poetic musing on life’s unpredictable terrain. The song unfolds like a philosophical mirror, portraying the journey from childhood to old age with such lyrical grace that it transcends cinema and enters the realm of spiritual truth. It compels us to ask whether we are truly living or merely performing roles assigned to us by age, time, and society. And quietly, it suggests that only by carrying a light heart—a childlike heart—through every stage of life can we complete this earthly pilgrimage with joy, courage, and inner calm.
What we often forget as we grow older is the marvel of childhood: a time when eyes sparkle not with strategy but with wonder; when failures are not regrets but detours; when every fall is simply another reason to rise and run again. Childhood is the birthplace of purity, where emotions are genuine, laughter is uninhibited, and love is unconditional. Jealousy, anxiety, stress, and envy do not grow in the fertile soil of a child’s heart. There, only curiosity blooms. This clarity—this brightness of spirit—is what we so desperately need as adults burdened with performance, pretence, and pain.
Wordsworth, in one of the finest lyrical testaments to innocence and continuity, expressed the eternal presence of that early joy in his short but powerful poem:
My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
Here, the English Romantic genius does not merely romanticize childhood—he defines it as the root of our identity. What we are, or what we become, is often shaped by what we were as children. The joy of seeing a rainbow remains meaningful only when the eyes retain the same capacity for wonder they once had in youth. The man must carry the child in his heart, or else lose something fundamental in his being. And perhaps, that is the truest paradox—that manhood, with all its claims to maturity and experience, is but a continuation of childhood’s original purity.
This truth is no stranger to the Kashmiri cultural and spiritual landscape. Our mystical poetess Lal Ded—whose vakhs are steeped in spiritual ecstasy and metaphor, alludes to a similar idea. In one of her famous verses, she sings:
“Gav chhukh naav, gav chhukh prakaash,
Gav chhukh andar, gav chhukh baahar.”
(You are the name, you are the light,
You are within, and you are without.)
Her words remind us that the divine is both the source and substance of our being, and in childhood—uncorrupted by pride or ambition—this divine essence is most clearly visible. The child is not separate from the sacred. He lives it. He breathes it. And the adult must return to that sacredness not through ritual or religion, but by reclaiming the attitude of a child.
Yet, as we step into adolescence and adulthood, the purity of childhood often begins to fade. Curiosity is replaced by calculation, enthusiasm by exhaustion, spontaneity by schedules. The very things that made life vibrant—the capacity to marvel, to laugh for no reason, to hug someone without caution—are gradually buried beneath layers of experience, fear, and social expectation. In chasing success, recognition, and control, we risk losing the very soul of life. And then, toward the twilight of our years, we look back with a heavy heart, wishing we could relive those carefree days of innocence once again.
The celebrated Kashmiri poet Zinda Kaul, affectionately remembered as Masterji, once wrote:
“Asun chhum rang, asun chhum rooh,
Kuni manz me chu haenz khel.”
(I have colour, I have soul,
Somewhere within me the child still plays.)
Therein lies the delicate truth—while our bodies age, the child within does not die. He merely retreats, waiting for us to remember him. Even in adulthood, the echoes of early dreams and unspoiled joys linger, surfacing in a song, a smell, a memory. What would it mean to consciously embrace that inner child—to walk with him, talk with him, and allow him to soften our hardened edges?
When the burdens of adulthood weigh us down, the soul hungers for moments of release—not in escapism but in the authenticity that only childlike living can offer. The spontaneity of a child is not foolishness. It is truth. To love freely, to laugh loudly, to cry honestly—these are not weaknesses; they are signs of strength. Akhtar Mohiuddin, one of Kashmir’s most psychologically astute writers, captured this poignantly:
“Bachpan chhu waen paeth tsok modur,
Adulthood chu baalas manz gomut.”
(Childhood is a sweet wound,
Adulthood gets lost within it.)
In a world obsessed with rationality and achievement, perhaps our greatest need is not more information but more imagination. We need not become children again, but we must learn to be childlike. The difference is subtle but profound: childishness is immaturity; childlikeness is wisdom wrapped in wonder.
Modern psychology affirms this ancient truth. Studies reveal that people who retain childlike traits—curiosity, playfulness, emotional openness—tend to be happier, more creative, and more resilient. They are not spared failure or sorrow, but they engage with life more fully. They do not pretend to know everything; like children, they remain students of the world.
Rehman Rahi, whose verses carved the contemporary soul of Kashmiri poetry, penned a line that resonates deeply here:
“Nundh chum, vandai chum, raat chum rang,
Akh chhukh kanh ma vuchh na sang.”
(I have snow, I have fire, I have coloured nights,
One eye does not see what the other feels.)
Rahi’s lines suggest a paradox of perception—the need to balance intellect with intuition, reason with emotion, adulthood with the echoes of childhood. The adult may possess knowledge, but the child possesses truth. Both must coexist if life is to be meaningful.
In our present age of technological marvels and fractured relationships, the medicine of childlike hearts is needed more than ever. The world is reeling under the weight of depression, distrust, jealousy, and alienation. What’s missing is not intelligence but innocence—not resources but emotional richness. We must return to that inner space where forgiveness comes naturally, where a stranger’s smile is enough reason to feel joy, where love asks for no preconditions.
The Sufi saint of Kashmir, Sheikh ul Alam (Nund Rishi), whose sayings blend spiritual depth with rustic simplicity, beautifully observed:
“Bal chhi yan niwan, yath wanus chu vuchhan.”
(The child is not small; the forest can be seen through him.)
This imagery, layered with mysticism, tells us that a child’s vision holds the clarity to perceive what the adult eye, clouded by cynicism, cannot. There is a forest of wisdom in a child’s gaze—a vision that embraces the whole without fragmenting it.
And while we speak of the child within, we must not ignore the real children around us. Today’s child is tomorrow’s poet, doctor, teacher, or thinker. To deny them a healthy, protected, emotionally nourishing childhood is to deny society its future. A child neglected is a nation weakened. A child nurtured is a civilization secured. Children are not incomplete adults. They are complete beings—radiant with potential, vibrant with life.
Let us raise our children with empathy, not fear; with stories, not warnings; with encouragement, not judgment; with wonder, not worry. Let us teach them to play, to question, to listen to birds and trees, to care for the poor, to share their toys and their time. In doing so, we will raise not only good children but future citizens of depth and dignity.
To live with childlike passion is not to regress—it is to resurrect. It is to bring back the buried light, to walk again with joy through the lanes of existence. Life will always carry suffering, but suffering need not steal our ability to marvel at the stars or dance in the rain.
Let us not allow the child in us to fade away. Let us nourish him with art, music, nature, kindness, and curiosity. For only when the child walks beside us do we truly live. In his laughter echoes the music of life; in his questions lie the seeds of wisdom; and in his heart resides the light of the eternal.
As long as we can see a rainbow and feel our heart leap, we are not old. We are merely children who have refused to forget how to play.
The writer can be reached at sanjaypanditasp@gmail.com
