A short while ago, diversions due to Metro work rerouted main road traffic through my neighbourhood. Every day, as I negotiate the pell-mell on our road, I am reminded of the sleepy neighbourhood with beautiful trees where a car would pass by once every hour or so. And our joys knew no bounds when the government filled an empty ground with sand to stop water stagnation. Children learned to cycle, cricket matches were played, and once in a while, a game of badminton, too. They played made-up games on abandoned plots and searched for fake treasures under overgrown bushes. In a large clearing at the meeting point of three roads, a game of Pittu or Seven Stones was in progress. Pandi squares of every type were drawn on the road. The chalk lines that remained for days were a testament to the unfettered spaces.
We celebrate roads, bridges, and buildings. But what about the informal infrastructure that were pillars of childhood? A shady tree. A compound wall. A broad pavement. A temple mandapam. A vacant plot. None were built as play spaces, yet all became important civic assets.
I am often asked why children don’t play anymore; why they are glued to their devices. As spaces disappear, play disappears too. Traffic makes streets unsafe and impractical for a sustained game. Vacant plots have become dumping grounds for apartments watched over by guards, rarely allowing neighbourhood children to gather and play. So where do children play?
One might argue that most neighbourhoods have a playground or park, which is true. However, most playgrounds are taken over by older children and parks have become the sanctum of the elderly who object to noise and running around or a flying ball. Even those available may not be always easily accessible for young children. It simply is not as easy as stepping out of your home. Children who gather to play often, have little else in common — different ages, different schools, different social backgrounds. The game becomes the reason to build communities.
Play needs not only playgrounds, but places where children are allowed to linger. A corner where they can pause after school. A street that is not immediately hostile. A bit of shade where one can sit and talk. A courtyard where the adults do not have to constantly say, “Don’t run”. These are not spectacular spaces, but ordinary and almost invisible ones. And childhood has always made use of the ordinary.
These spaces do not require expensive equipments. It can limit play. Unlike a swing or a slide, an open ground or a spreading tree invites invention. It can be a house, a fort, a shop, a battlefield, a cricket ground, a kingdom. Children just need space, time, and company.
Perhaps what we have lost is not only land, but tolerance. The tolerance for noise, chalk marks, dust, quarrels that are forgotten in five minutes, balls that stray into verandas, and children who take up space without a defined purpose. We have become very good at assigning use. But play slips through all neat categories. It thrives where a place is allowed to be a little undefined.
When children are allowed to gather without a purpose, something gentle happens — someone watches, someone joins, someone teaches the rules, someone invents a new one. A game begins without announcement and dissolves just as easily. No one may think of this as community building, but that is exactly what it is. The city, for a little while, becomes less private and more shared.
If we want children to play again, we may need to do more than build playgrounds. We may need to make room for the unplanned, the informal, and the wonderfully purposeless. So, I ask again, where have the Pandi squares gone?