Fun days, and not-so-fun sermonising from the mother after those carefree hours in the outdoors, it all made for a wholesome childhood where we cherished simple gifts like walks to the nearby hill, or a school picnic to Powai and Vihar Lakes with curiosity and broad smiles
Representative image/ Atul Kamble
I was on my knees after falling to the ground in a game of kho-kho during lunch break at school. It was raining, and as I struggled to my feet, I could get a uniquely pleasing scent that distracted my seven-year-old self from the pain and blood that had begun to ooze from my right knee. I can still recall that distinct smell of the wet earth to this day, apart from the scar that I still carry on my right knee from that fall. The annual rain ritual of getting down and dirty on the playground in my housing society with friends, was a must to welcome the first showers, with several games of cricket or badminton in the downpour. Fun days, and not-so-fun sermonising from the mother after those carefree hours in the outdoors, it all made for a wholesome childhood where we cherished simple gifts like walks to the nearby hill, or a school picnic to Powai and Vihar Lakes with curiosity and broad smiles.
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A few years later, while skimming through the pages of the Oxford Dictionary perched on our family bookshelf, I was thrilled to stumble upon the term given for that pleasant whiff emanating from the first rain. It’s called petrichor. Somewhere along the way, my connection [and I am guessing for many from my generation] with that ‘ground reality’ began to move further away. The odd monsoon trek or hike during weekends as a collegian would be the closest I’d come to experiencing that whiff all over again. Once I donned the work cloak, it became a rarity; the stars had to align, the universe had to give its mighty nod to escape for a monsoon getaway to revive those happy-go-lucky monsoon moments.
Recently, thanks to my book on Mumbai’s heritage, where teens are a key reader base, I was in a room with kids from the distant western suburbs, most of whom live in townships or gated communities, as they are called these days. I discovered that they are far removed from such experiences that were once an integral part of growing up. Their interaction with nature, apart from planned field trips, was nowhere close to immersive or organic. And so, when I casually asked them about petrichor, I didn’t get a single correct answer.
Chauffeur-driven cars that ferry them back and forth from school, all the way into the canopied driveways of their apartment homes; concrete-laden jogging tracks; manicured lawns and gardens, gym sessions, ballet classes and chess tutorials—the ‘gated’ worlds and set routines of today’s children are straight out of an assembly-line existence, leaving no room to discover nature in its purest form. As a wise professor in architecture put it, “Today, we hop between concrete urban islands—home, office, school, gym, and so on.” My concerns were validated further when during a quiz about the city at another session, one of the questions was to name the tribal community that resided inside the Sanjay Gandhi National Park and Aarey forest. The kids drew a blank. In fact, it’s been a recurring observation this past year, during interactions with students where I discuss Mumbai’s heritage and history. Barring the odd school where environment is a key focus, most school kids, and this I fear might be even more widespread, are out of touch with nature in their neighbourhoods -- our mangroves, the national park, and the city’s now-threatened coastline. “Ask them about facts on Hyde Park in London or the Masai Mara in Kenya, and you’ll get a promising show of hands but with local history or heritage, it’s like climbing Mount Everest,” rued a fellow author when we exchanged notes on the challenges of getting today’s kids drawn towards nature in their home city.
Last week, I was lucky to have witnessed a stellar exhibition—A Forest in the City—that is currently on display at CSMVS’s Jehnagir Nicholson Art Foundation Gallery, till July 24. It offers a telling reminder of why it’s extremely critical for Mumbai’s young people to be more connected with nature around them. My companion and I, both city worriers, wondered if city schools had taken the initiative to bring their wards, or if parents had brought their kids to learn about this eponymous tribute to the SGNP and Aarey forest, the contribution of the Warli community, and the fight to save their homeland from increasing threats, by the two-legged variety, in particular.
From petrichor to the Warli community, nature is the common, binding thread. And, there lies the disturbing reality of how far removed most of this generation is from Mumbai’s natural habitats and its surviving fragile ecosystem. It will take a lot for parents and educators to realise this first, and then work towards drawing these impressionable young minds to glance away, even for a bit, from their screens and salsa-themed birthday parties, to discover and eventually, respect nature’s precious treasures in their own city.
mid-day’s Features Editor Fiona Fernandez relishes the city’s sights, sounds, smells and stones...wherever the ink and the inclination takes her. She tweets @bombayana
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