I was about 7, when my Dad bought me a pocket diary. The tiny book, with dated pages seemed out of this world. The brown sleeve that covered the tiny book, looked like an executive notepad. It was my prized possession. Every day, I would scribble some notes, and hide it underneath the rest of my books. My safe. When I woke up, I would check if it was still there before I started my daily chores. Sometimes I would carry it to my school, and discuss and marvel at it, together with my friends. The contents though were confidential.

If a guest visited our home, I would pen down the details. If we played during lunch hour at school, it would be in the diary. If I lost my pen, it was recorded. If my friend lost my pen, there was an extra line with a payback strategy! If my request to go out and play was denied, an entry was made, promptly. My neighbor invited me over for his birthday, he was in it.

It was a lot of work. It was becoming a tiresome job for a 7-year old. Worse, it was a thankless one! What was the purpose of writing every tiny bit of my routine, and then keep it to myself!? As cute as the diary looked, it was still exhausting to keep it going. In a weeks time, I threw in the towel. The book looks good anyway, even if it were empty! It was a deadlock like no other. I made the ultimate sacrifice – giving it away to my siblings (after destroying the classified information, of course!). It was a relief like no other!

There was a new toy gun at home. I would fill it with water, sit on the terrace and spray it all over, and then some on my mates. I can hardly recollect the fate of the diary. The toy kept me interested for a little longer than the diary, at least it didn’t frustrate me! From toys to school bags, to carrom boards to bikes to cars to houses – things flew-in and things flew-out. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore!

Today, I see my boy carefully pack his prized Lego blocks, and put it back in his shelf. And all I do is smile!