Were you the kinds who stood away watching the other kids build sandcastles, wondering how they could want to dirty their hands or were you the one who loved the feel of the wet sand in your hand; mixing pails of water from sea with the mud so it looked like gooey chocolate or were you the cynical kid who wondered what the point was in taking the trouble to build a sandcastle that would anyway get washed away? If you didn’t realize that says a lot about you. No, I don’t have any research based studies backing what I just said. But I’m sure it does. If you don’t believe me, just go to the beach and watch the parents’ faces as their children make their sand-castles. If the child succeeds, he is definitely a hands-on kid. He is going to be a builder, an architect, a designer, a winner! If the child doesn’t make it through, you can see it on the parents’ faces, “Oh! I’m sure the sand wasn’t right,” or “The water came in too quickly.” “He is just not a builder. Maybe better still, the kid’s a thinker!” And the list goes on and on. This happened for those born in the eighties or nineties even. For those born later, its great if they get a chance to dirty their hands, scrape their knees and build real sandcastles ; not the virtual ones sitting on the couch.
Now for the poem
I ran along the beach full of sand,
Carrying my yellow bucket and spade,
My parents look on, my lil’ sis in their hand-
The wind in my bloomers, I raised my arm and waved…
The sky a soft blue, fluffy blooming buds,
The winter sun warm, playing peek-a-boo,
The waves rushed in leaving white soapy suds,
And I took my first call, in my years of existence, few …
Not too close to the galloping waves, waiting to wash all away,
And not where the grains slipped and slid, making the feet sink in,
The perfect spot! Not too dry, not too wet; where the sand was clay,
Where there weren’t other kids looking to trample and sin…
Lay the foundation, level the ground,
Pat, pat, pat goes the spade, no troughs, no bumps,
The boundary marked, for towers six, and gardens beyond,
Buckets filled with mud; there must be no stones, no lumps…
The north tower’s made, the south caves in, I try again,
My fingers busy, sweat trickling down; the castle first and then the wall,
Shape, mould- deft and steady; hard labor not in vain,
My creation, my sandcastle: stands strong, bold and tall.
I turn around waving; victorious, beaming-
My dream in real before me; alive,
My parents are smiling, my lil’ sister’s clapping,
‘Essence of patience and hard-work’ – a lesson I learnt at five!
Copyright@Smitha Vishwanath
P.C. From the Net
Eúnoia 
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