An Ordinary Evening in Jharia

Childhood has a fragrance of its own — a blend of dust, laughter, and sunshine that never quite fades. People often say their childhood was wonderful, and so do I — because ours was painted with the simple joys of small-town life in Jharia.

I was twelve then, a student of Class 6 at Kids Garden, one of the better-known schools in town. Every day, as the clock struck three, the bell would ring, and the schoolyard would burst into life. Bags were swung over shoulders, water bottles dangled by threads, and laughter rolled across the gate like an untamed tide.

We were a small gang — Harsh, Nitesh, Rohit, and I. The world seemed complete with just us in it. Rohit and Nitesh were the entertainers — their banter so quick, so effortless, that it could give today’s stand-up comedians a run for their money.

Some days, we’d stop by the vendor near the corner to buy kala amawat or ber. Two rupees — that was enough to buy a slice of joy for all of us. My home was the farthest, so I’d be the last to reach, around half past three. After a hurried lunch, I’d sit by the window, waiting for the familiar calls of my friends or the thud of a cricket ball outside.

Soon, they would appear — Harsh most often, and sometimes others from my neighborhood: Ajay uncle, Dhillo, Arkel, and Manoj bhaiya. They were the heroes of our evening battles — the regulars of our makeshift cricket ground.

That “ground” was nothing like a field you’d see in cities. It was rough, scattered with stones and boulders. A lone tree stood guard in the middle, about thirty feet behind where the wicketkeeper crouched, beyond it, a railway line ran low and silent, about fifteen feet below the ground’s edge. On the off-side stretched a small forest, and straight ahead, an enormous coal-mine dump rose like a dark mountain — nearly two hundred feet high, ringed by trees. To the leg side was my neighborhood, from where familiar voices often drifted through the evening air.

We played till the sun sank behind the coal hills, and the sky turned molten orange. The bats cracked, the ball rolled over stones, and our laughter echoed across the rough field. There was dust in our hair, sweat on our faces, but not a care in the world.

When the game ended, I’d walk with Harsh till Koiri Bandh, where Jharia town began — a stretch that always felt longer in the fading light. From there, I’d head alone toward the quiet outskirts where my home waited, wrapped in the gentle hush of dusk.

Those evenings were ordinary, perhaps — yet, in memory, they shine brighter than gold. The joy of those days can’t be bought, nor can it be relived — only remembered, and cherished like an old photograph that never loses its warmth.