The Magic Hug

 I have always loved

the company of children —
for their innocence,
that rare, unguarded joy.

If you let
a little of that simplicity
flow into yourself,
life tastes sweeter,
like cool water
after a long walk in the sun.

At five,
a child’s universe
is stitched entirely
out of play.
Mornings begin
with a dash to toys,
breakfast before the TV,
and a secret wish —
that someone will feed them
mouthful by mouthful.

Homework is a restless storm,
minds wandering
like kites on a windy day.
Afternoons boil
and they still insist on playing outside.
Dreams carry them
into battles with ninjas
that they sometimes lose.

And in these years,
grandparents are missed —
the perfect bridge
between parents and the world of wishes.
Six months with my grandson
turned my colourless days
into a carnival.
We played everything —
hide and seek, snakes and ladders,
cricket with a plastic bat,
and his world of ninjas, transformers,
spider-men and block towers.
In every game
I was required to quarrel —
and always lose.

Each morning
he would run in
and wrap me
in his famous magic hug.
Our closeness became
a matter of concern for others.
They warned me —
parting will hurt.
But I told myself:
I have survived
the partings from childhood,
from youth —
six months of heaven
is still a blessing.

When his grandparents called,
he stayed deep in the game.
His mother sat beside him,
prompting lines like beads on a string —
“Hello Grandpa! How are you?
When will you come?
Did you bring me a toy?
We’ll play when you come!
Take care! Namaste!”

As the return day drew near,
his mother kept him close,
so the break would sting less.
At the airport,
two in the morning,
he hugged me silently.
Neither of us spoke.
I looked away;
he didn’t know
what one should say
in such moments.

Later, on the phone,
he repeated the same bright lines —
the script of affection
that children perform
without knowing it saves hearts.

I thought of the ducks
at the pond nearby —
once so close
they took bread from my hand,
then gone for a season,
and back again,
unchanged by absence.
Children are like that.
A few days of sadness,
then new friends,
new toys,
schoolwork swelling like a tide.

It is the empty-handed
who feel the ache of memory.
The busy are spared.

Children forget,
the busy are spared.
It’s the empty-handed
who carry memories
like stones in their pockets.

I no longer ache
for my own grandparents,
or even my late parents.
If someone posts
their photo on Facebook
with a tender caption,
I, too,
click “like” —
and move on.

Comments

  1. Prakash (प्रकाश)12 August 2025 at 06:08

    Distilled Essence of The Magic Hug
    In this quiet meditation, a grandparent’s days bloom into colour under the spell of a child’s “magic hug” — a daily ritual that wordlessly seals love and belonging. Yet as play gives way to parting, the boy’s affection slips into scripted lines, and the narrator recognises a truth as old as the seasons: children, like ducks returning to a pond, resume life unchanged by absence, while the empty-handed carry memories like stones in their pockets. In this shifting light, the hug becomes both a blessing and a reminder — that love’s weight rests not in the act itself, but in who is left holding it when the moment is gone.

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  2. Prakash (प्रकाश)19 August 2025 at 05:46

    The poem “Magic Hug” is a tender meditation on childhood innocence, intergenerational bonding, and the bittersweet nature of parting. At its heart lies the narrator’s deep affection for his grandson, with whom he spent six transformative months.
    Children are described as radiant beings, brimming with simplicity and wonder. Their lives revolve around small joys — toys, games, cartoons, and playful imagination. For them, even a dream battle with a ninja feels real. Through these images, the poem highlights the purity of childhood, a time unburdened by responsibility, where every moment is either a game or a story.
    The narrator recalls the countless games he played with his grandson — from traditional ones like hide-and-seek and snakes-and-ladders to modern fascinations with superheroes and building blocks. An endearing detail runs through all these activities: the child insists on quarrels and ensures that his elder always loses. This playful insistence reflects a child’s need for validation and power in a safe, loving space.
    One of the most moving aspects is the ritual of the “magic hug,” with which each day began. Such physical gestures of affection symbolize unconditional love and closeness, becoming anchors of memory long after words fade. However, this closeness also becomes a concern for the family, who worry that parting will bring pain.
    The separation scene at the airport captures the poignancy of the bond. At two in the morning, the child hugs silently, unable to find words, while the elder deliberately avoids speaking, knowing the weight silence carries. This unspoken farewell, charged with emotion, speaks louder than any declaration.
    Later, on the phone, the grandson repeats a set of cheerful, memorized lines — greetings, questions about toys, promises of play. These words are both endearing and a little mechanical, suggesting how children manage absence with rehearsed warmth. For the narrator, they are both a comfort and a reminder of distance.
    The imagery of ducks in a pond deepens the reflection. Just as ducks disappear for a season and return unchanged, children too move past separation quickly, their lives soon filled with new friends, new toys, and the demands of schooling. It is the adults, not the children, who are burdened with nostalgia.
    The closing lines underline this truth: the busy are spared sorrow, while the idle carry memory like a stone in the pocket. In this way, the poem becomes not only a personal recollection but also a universal statement on time, loss, and the healing rhythm of life.

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