To the park that raised me.…

There are places that shape you without you even realizing it. Some find it in a childhood home, others in a classroom, or maybe in the corner of a library. For me, it was a park, a humble little children’s park right across from my home.

It wasn’t anything extraordinary. No grand entrance, no fancy play structures. Just a simple patch of land, a few swings, a couple of slides, and two trees that stood like quiet witnesses to our growing years. And yet, this place held my entire childhood in its arms. It still does.

Every evening, without fail, I’d be there. It was a ritual, as natural as breathing. The moment I stepped out of school, I knew exactly how the next few hours would go. I’d rush home, throw my bag on the bed, grab a quick snack, and run straight to the park, my slippers barely keeping up with my feet. My mother, of course, had her own ritual, calling me back home from the balcony at the top of her lungs. No matter where I was in the park, no matter how lost I was in a game of shuttle or cricket, the moment I heard her voice, my legs moved before my brain even processed it. If I delayed, I knew what was coming, an earful, and possibly, a temporary ban from playing the next day (which, let’s be honest, never lasted).

The park wasn’t just a place to play. It was a universe of its own. The jackfruit tree in the middle stood like a guardian, watching over us. No one dared to pluck its fruits, it was almost sacred, untouchable. But the jamun tree? That was ours. The best jamuns I’ve ever had, deep purple, bursting with sweetness, leaving our tongues stained like proof of our tiny rebellions. Even now, I swear no fruit in the world tastes better.

Summer vacations meant the park became an extension of my home. Morning, noon, evening, I was always there. Sweat-drenched, hair sticking to my face, my friends and I played through the blistering Kerala heat, as if the sun itself was our co-player. Cricket, badminton, cycling around the neighborhood until we were breathless. And when exhaustion finally hit, we’d take a break, running home for a quick gulp of Tang, a handful of biscuits, and then, back at it again. There was no concept of “too tired.” The park never tired of us, and so, we never tired of it.

Evenings in the park had a rhythm of their own. The older men and women would start their slow, measured walks, their conversations drifting in the breeze. Parents brought their toddlers, their tiny hands clutching swings, squealing in delight. And somewhere in between all this, I would be on my cycle, heading to my best friend’s house, knowing that we’d soon be back in the park anyway.

But the best time? Onam. The weeks leading up to it were pure magic. Trying on costumes, practicing group songs and dances at someone’s home (usually mine), running around in last-minute chaos before the big day. And then, the moment of truth, stepping onto the stage, heart pounding, eyes scanning the crowd until they found my mother, my grandmother, my aunt, all sitting there, watching me. In that moment, I wasn’t scared anymore. This park, these people, this place, it made me brave. It made me who I am.

And then, the silence after it all. The post-Onam stillness, when the park exhaled after weeks of festivity. It felt almost strange, like a house after the guests leave, too quiet, but familiar, like it was simply waiting for the next adventure.

The park was there for all of it. My wins, my losses, my laughter, my tears. It never judged, never changed, never left. It was my escape when I was upset, my playground when I was happy, my constant when everything else felt unsure.

If I am something today, it’s because of this park. It raised me, in ways I only understand now.

And even now, when I return, I know it’s still there.

Waiting.

Like it always has.