THE WOODEN DICE

  

Snake and Ladder were bliss,

the ones at 98 or 99 waiting to gulp you through

as we laughed and moved our coins down.

Without realising, they were preparing us

for the failures, we ought to face at a time

when the game would be just another bout of nostalgia.  

 

Everyone played with dice as white as your sibling’s milk teeth

with cavities.

But we chose to play it differently, with the wooden dice.

Bigger than the usual, the one that would now deserve a shoutout as

handmade, garner praises, and trending hashtags.

Our wooden dice was one of a kind, crude, straight out of our garage,

Papa showing off his unknown carpentry skills

which now shouts, I’ve got your back

in a big woody rosewood dice.

Holding all its inherent randomness

Random as life would be years from now,

No one had warned us then.

 

Experience, the only manual for life,

never told us that nostalgia is a disease,

which has been proven or so I read.

But we still hold on to it even if its fatal,

when the light clutch is capable of piercing through

that tiny uninsulated portion of your heart.

You also think of Eskimos living in igloos,

who seemed cooler for a third grader than their cold climate;

who now they identify themselves in their native names

and not what we learned them as.

They are still cool, you accept them the way they are

and realise that nostalgia ain’t a disease but makes you more human.

It is bittersweet but never sour because

it still nurtures an innocent child in you or

an adult who is now capable of coping with loss or

a person who is ready to unlearn.

Preparing you for the life ahead unknowingly,

just like the board games you played.