Puddles in the Park

I was excited to be able to give my children back the wonderful sensations of the park: the freedom and dizzy heights on a swing; the rush going down a slide; the hilarity of bumping on a see- saw. It was so great that Lahore’s premier park, Bagh-e-Jinnah, had a children’s area. ‘Come on kids, not far now’ I chivvied as we walked through the landscaped gardens under trees with fabulously large leaves and full of noisy bird-life. In the haze, Lahore was a dreamy place, full of memories and mysteries.

But we were headed for the children’s area, which slowly emerged out of this haze, in the form of grids of climbing frames and swing structures. The children’s pace quickened when they could see the fun ahead. In we went, then stopped. The swings had no seats. Four long chains hung down and held nothing. My son started to push a chain but I warned him it would hurt when it flicked back. We moved away, I, trying not to wonder of what the scaffold reminded me.

The slides would be more promising. They were bright and cheerful. Unfortunately, however, the ground beneath them had had been eroded and so they ended nearly a foot off the ground, where recent rain had left great puddles. ‘Not today kids,’ I said. They climbed up and down the steps a couple of times instead.

The see-saw had been removed, and there was only its stump and a small moving part which briefly captured my children’s interest, until my son hurt his foot on it. The roundabout was stuck and would have done for a sweet circular bench to have a packet of sandwiches on, if we had had any.

At the end of the park were swings that had been made for wheelchair users (those able to climb the steps to enter the children’s area): low platforms of steel with a folding down ramp, suspended by chains. Huge puddles surrounded them.

I was sad that another trip was going to end with me buying the children a packet of crisps to ward off disappointment and keep them amused while I had a cup of tea. The snack bar looked like the only functioning thing. I turned towards it, muttering an apology and telling them that there is a place in this city called Joy Land for kids. ‘We’ll go there soon; that’ll be good.’

But my son was not listening. He was swinging the platform backwards and forwards over the puddle, ‘Like a pirate ship, mum!’ Just then, another family came into the park. A boy the same age as mine ran over to the pirate ship swings and his aunty hoisted him on board without a second thought. She stretched over the puddle and began pushing him. I would have to do the same for my son. And so, the boys started sailing the seven seas, holding onto the chains as if they were rigging, while muddy puddle water sloshed onto the decks when they swung low and slid off when they raised high, as if riding a wave. They were swashbuckling heroes, laughing piratically and never going to join us landlubbers again.

Meanwhile, my little girl had found a stick and was whipping up water in the puddle at the bottom of the slide, her pot of gold at the bottom of the rainbow. She flung in dried leaves and mixed them well. She stamped in it hard and loved the splash. She did it again and loved it more. Then it was time to give it another good stir. She fell in and got soaked through and covered in mud. This was like, Best Day Ever.

Neither of them asked for crisps. Neither of them have mentioned going to Joy Land.

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We often read John Burningham's ‘The Magic Bed’ before the children sleep. Georgie says the magic word as he settles down then the bed takes him to wonderful places: over the city; to the Amazon; to the sea where he swims with dolphins. It ends by telling the listeners, ‘Now if you lie very still in your bed and find your magic word, perhaps you could travel far away like Georgie.’

I ask my children where they’d like to go. Every time, without hesitation, they answer, ‘Pakistan.’