I remember, back in the day, in the mountains of Koh-i-Suleman, my father used to teach children, including me. However, in his absence, an old man, from the neighbouring village, with a white beard and a huge turban would come to teach the children.

In those days, due to the lack of water supply, every family had a donkey to fetch water from the nearest pond. Even today, in areas where there is no proper pipeline or water supply system, people fetch water in big barrels on donkey carts. And the best part in all those trips was when we kids, besides bringing water on donkey carts, would ride on the donkey as a sort of reward — that was pure fun.

However, one thing that I still cannot understand was when that old man came to teach us, after about half an hour of teaching, he would stand up from the charpai and announce in a loud voice, “Children, I’ve lost my donkey and I’m going to find it. You are strictly advised to keep working until I return. If I don’t come back by 12, you are allowed to leave.”

Children love to play and have fun in the absence of a teacher, and so did we. The moment the old man began walking away, we would burst into laughter, shout and have the time of our lives. As soon as he disappeared from our sight, we’d jump up with the tires in our hands and head straight to the mountains for our tire-throwing competition.

From those days until now, I don’t remember him ever returning before 12. In fact, I don’t even remember if he ever came back after 12. Every day, his donkey was missing. And we never did find out whether he ever found it.

In rural settings, there are always water ponds, watercourses and waterfalls. So was the case in our village, some of these ponds were naturally shaped in such a way that they had outgrowths along the edges. From any side, you couldn’t really see what was happening inside. People would often take a bath in them, placing their clothes on the edges to signal to any passer-by that someone was inside — a clear sign not to peep.

But when we cousins happened to be the passers-by, it was bad luck for the bathers. We would quietly snatch their clothes and run away laughing. Of course, later on, we would receive punishment from my father and our teacher.

In such situations, we always hoped to be saved by what we called the ‘three shadows of heaven’ — first, my mother; second, my five aunts; and last, my grandmother. They were our protectors, our shield from the wrath of the elders.

We were so mischievous that one of my cousins once sold his mother’s dowry jewellery just to buy biscuits! Thankfully, the shopkeeper knew my cousin and he came to the house and told that the kid had brought the jewellery to the shop.

We also used to fight a lot. One day, during a heated fight between me and one of my cousins, I accidentally broke one of his teeth. The punishment I received for that ... well, let’s just say it was beyond words.

We used to do all sorts of absurd and adventurous things: plucking out the sugarcanes, chasing stray camels and dogs, bathing in muddy water after the rain, riding donkeys, burning bushes in hopes of finding honey, climbing mountains with tires in our hands and scaling trees.

Whenever we were caught by our elders doing such mischief, we would run straight down the road to find our rescuers. Two out of the three, my mother and my aunts, would sometimes take my father’s side, but my grandmother (may Allah grant her Jannah) never let us down. With her gentle words and beautiful way of speaking, she could calm my father in just seconds and, just like that, we would be free again.

Those were the beautiful days. But the cruelty of life is that you can’t bring back the good old days. All you’re left with are memories — warm and precious memories.

Published in Dawn, Young World, Aug 2nd, 2025