There are moments in life when the heart travels faster than time, when a single memory opens a thousand doors in the mind. Today, as I stand watching my children walk to school with heavy bags and hurried schedules, my mind drifts back to a decade before, to a Kashmir where childhood had space to breathe, where school gates closed softly and nature opened its arms wide. I remember those days vividly, days when finishing the annual exam felt like stepping into a new world. The gap between exams and the start of the next class was long, calm, and filled with the purest joy. We would put away our books and step into the orchards, into the comforting laps of our elders, and into a life that taught us far more than any classroom ever could.
In those days, cousins and friends gathered with laughter echoing through the apple orchards. We took animals for grazing, not as a duty, but as the beginning of an adventure. While the sheep munched quietly, we ran through the orchards playing different games, climbing trees, and discovering tiny wonders of nature. We would go to the nearby village Paribal to collect water chestnuts, throw them into the fire, and eat them with excitement. Some friends carried small vessels to prepare tea, feeling like little scientists experimenting under the open sky. These were not just activities; they were the early lessons of life, lessons taught by nature, friendship, and joy.
Our elders would sit with us in circles, sharing their experiences in gentle voices. They discussed politics, social issues, history of Kashmir, our culture, and our proud traditions. They transmitted knowledge without books, without pressure, without fear. That one month break became a non-formal education system in itself. Playing with cousins and children from other communities made us mentally strong, broadened our vision, and deepened our social roots. Even visiting our relatives-Mamu, Chachu, Masi, Fofe- felt like stepping into new stories, new homes, and new experiences. We were living life fully, without the weight of responsibility.
After this refreshing break, we returned to school with excitement glowing in our eyes. Our beloved teachers welcomed us warmly into new classes filled with new books, new hopes, and new dreams.
We respected our teachers, enjoyed the school ground, and began reading the new syllabus until winter vacations. Those winter vacations were special; they began on the same day for every class. No divisions, no confusion. All schools shut their doors together, giving every child the same taste of winter freedom.
But change arrived, quietly yet sharply. New rules came, new calendars appeared, and slowly the breathing space of childhood began to shrink. Today, the moment exams end, the rush begins: bookshops crowded, uniform stores busy, parents anxious, and children confused. The innocent child hardly gets a day to rest. His little shoulders, already burdened with heavy bags, find no space to relax. He cannot even visit close relatives because the next class begins almost immediately.
I felt this change deeply when my six-year-old son finished his exam, and within two days, I received a WhatsApp message from his school: “New classification will start.” I was stunned. When will my child enjoy life? When will he feel the joy that shaped our childhood? I decided not to send him to school for a few days. I told my family, “Leave him alone. Let him enjoy. Let him breathe.” Soon, a humble and caring teacher called and said, “Where is Ibaad ji? I am missing him.” I respectfully told her, “Let him enjoy the post-exam days. He will come after a few days.” She gently replied, “Sir, you are a teacher, you know better.” Her words stayed with me.
But so did my worry. What Our Children Are Losing? Even after attending school until winter vacations, today’s children are not receiving what we received from life outside classrooms. They are missing: real-life experiences, natural learning, cultural bonding, social interaction, peaceful childhood moments. We must think about this. We must reflect deeply. Let Them Breathe… Let Them Live.
Children are not machines. They need space, rest, peace, and time to dream. They need empty days to fill with imagination, not schedules. They deserve freedom after exams, not immediate pressure of new books. If we truly want our children to grow in all domains: cognitive, psychomotor, and affective, then we must allow them moments of silence, joy, and childhood freedom. Childhood should be lived, not hurried. It should be felt, not forced. It should bloom, not suffocate.
Let us reopen the gates of life that once taught us more than any classroom ever could.
The author is a teacher and columnist.