Annya's Enchanted Realities

Last week, I was chatting with a colleague from work. I don’t even remember how the conversation drifted, but suddenly, we were knee-deep in nostalgia—laughing about childhood games, ice creams and cotton candy that cost a rupee, and Doordarshan evenings.

After that conversation, something stayed with me. I realised that Erin—and today’s generation of kids—might never know the joy of those simple things. That’s when an idea struck me. Maybe I should write it all down—for Erin, and for every child of this generation. So they can, at least for a moment, feel what it was like to grow up in a world without screens but full of stories.

I’m closing my eyes now—hoping for a little ‘Ratatouille’ moment, like the movie, where one taste or memory transports you back in time.

The 1-Rupee Magic of Panjumittai

And there it is—the first thing that pops into my mind: the bright, fluffy panjumittai (cotton candy) we’d buy for just ₹1.

The moment the vendor entered our street ringing his bell—ding, ding, ding, ding, ding…—a wave of excitement swept through every house that had children. We’d rush to our mothers, pleading breathlessly, “Ammaaa, panjumittai venum!”

Then came the mad dash. Slippers half-worn, hair flying, breath catching, we’d race towards the vendor shouting, “Anna, enakku kudunga first!” (“Give it to me first!”), like our life depended on it.

And that kind-hearted vendor—always smiling, always patient—would chuckle and say, “Porunga ma… ellarukum iruku.”, which translates to “Patience, children. There’s enough for everyone.”

Then he’d slowly open the glass dome that guarded the treasure—white, silky threads of cotton candy, gleaming like sweet clouds. With practiced hands, he’d take a generous handful, twist it just so, and roll it into a tight little nest.

He’d grab a scrap of old newspaper, fold it into a cone, and gently stuff the panjumittai into it before handing it over like a prize.

We couldn’t wait—not even for a second. Off we’d run, back to our verandas, feet dusty, hearts racing. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, we’d take that first bite… and just like that, it would melt on our tongues and vanish.

Gone in a second. But the joy? That stayed.

Snacks That Defined a 90s Childhood in India

And panjumittai was just the beginning.

There was the semiya ice cream—milky, icy popsicle, and those flimsy plastic tube ice that we bit open with our teeth. Boomer chewing gum wasn’t just for chewing—it was for those water tattoos we proudly stuck on our arms like battle scars. Cheetos were crunchy, addictive, and came with tiny puzzles inside that made snack time feel like playtime. Alpenlibe candies melted slowly in our mouths, and Little Heart biscuits were reserved for the rare treat—sweet, flaky, and gone in seconds.

Each snack was an experience. A tiny celebration in our small-town childhood.

After-School Rituals and Cartoons We Never Missed

But our joys weren’t just about food.

Some of my favorite after-school memories begin with a mad rush home by 3:30 PM—school bags flung, uniforms still on, water bottles half-drunk. There was no time to waste. Cartoons were calling!

Transformers, Captain Planet, Scooby Doo, Tom and Jerry, Swat Kats—each had its own time slot and missing even five minutes felt like a tragedy. We didn’t have the luxury of pausing or watching it later. You watched it now, or you missed it forever.

Weekend Fun and Street Games in 90s India

And then came the weekends—pure, unfiltered fun.

No mall outings. No planned playdates. Just kids showing up, one by one, on the street. No invites needed. Cricket with broken wickets, paandi (hopscotch) drawn with chalk, 7 stones that ended in laughter or bruises, and that all-time favorite: kallan police—our very own version of cops and robbers.

Erin may have curated activities and indoor games, but back then, our playtime needed no instruction. Just space, time, and friends.

When One Channel Meant One Childhood – Doordarshan Days

And unlike today, where there are endless YouTube videos and OTT platforms, we had just one channel—Doordarshan.

Fridays Were Special

At 8 PM sharp, homes in Nagercoil turned quiet—because it was time for Oliyum Oliyum. Not everyone had a TV back then, so one or two lucky houses became the community’s mini theatre. The rest of us would troop in—kids, parents, grandparents—all packed into one living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide with anticipation.

We watched Tamil film songs—some old, some new—and swayed to the beats of Ilaiyaraaja, SPB, Revathi’s smiles, and Rajini’s sunglasses flip. The atmosphere was electric. There was no pause button, no skipping ads. Just us and the screen, together.

If your family owned a TV, you were instantly popular. That house became the hub—where kids gathered, friendships bloomed, and music became memory.

And Then Came Sundays

Shaktimaan ruled the morning. We’d finish our breakfast early, settle in front of the TV well before the show started, and wait for the iconic spin that turned Pandit Gangadhar into India’s first superhero.

No one wanted to miss a second. After the episode, we’d run outside, still buzzing, reenacting scenes, arguing over who got to play Shaktimaan in our imaginary battles. It wasn’t just a show—it was a ritual.

What I Wish My Daughter Could Still Experience

These days, Erin talks about inviting friends over for sleepovers, planning camping trips, and setting up “play dates” weeks in advance. And she’s not wrong—this is how friendships work today. Carefully scheduled. Neatly planned. Often indoors.

But oh, my dear Erin—we never had any of that, and somehow, our friendships still bloomed.

We didn’t need tents or sleeping bags. We had front porches, shared umbrellas, stolen chalk, and secret hideouts behind the water tank.

No one texted to confirm if they were coming. They just showed up. Every evening. And before we knew it, we had friendships that would last a lifetime.

Kids these days, I feel, are more sensitive—maybe too used to comfort, to things being handed over, to relationships that need constant reminders. We took nothing for granted. And that made everything more precious.

I don’t want to raise you in the exact same way, Erin. But if I can give you even a little piece of that childhood magic—a bit of our wild freedom, our easy friendships, our streetlight curfews—I’ll feel like I’ve done something right.

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A Funny Little Note to Erin from Amma

For Erin, From Amma (Who Was Once Cool)

Dear Erin, you ask for sleepovers and tents,
With cupcakes, flashlights, and Pinterest events.
But back in my day? Oh, we made do—
With chalk, mud, bruises, and slippers that flew!

No tablets, no Netflix, just one channel played,
And Shaktimaan twirled while we clapped and swayed.
Our cotton candy came on a paper cone,
For one rupee flat—delivered with tone!

We played paandi, kallan police, and 7 stone,
No one needed invites—we just left home.
Friendships were messy, loud, and real,
Sealed with boomer and a lunchbox meal.

So listen, my girl, while I rant with glee—
You don’t need WiFi to make a memory!

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So Erin, while your world is filled with apps, emojis, and instant everything, I hope you never lose touch with the messy, magical, silly kind of fun we grew up with. May your life have all the comfort of today—and all the charm of yesterday.