Once the lifeblood of villages and city neighborhoods, native games like mulakhra wrestling in Sindh, gulli-danda, bandar killa, bantay, pittu garm, kite-flying, kabaddi, stapoo, kokla chhapaki, aankh macholi, ludo, and carrom board are now fading into memory. Urbanization, technology, and shifting aspirations have pushed them aside. Yet these simple pastimes carried within them the spirit of community, culture, and joy -a heritage now at risk of being forgotten.
Afternoons once rang with the shouts of children in the streets and open grounds. Boys, pockets full of bantay, waited eagerly for their turn, while others struck a gulli with a danda, sending it soaring. In Sindh, villagers watched mulakhra bouts-contests of pride and honor. Girls drew stapoo squares on dusty ground, hopping amidst laughter. In cities, ludo and carrom boards turned afternoons and power outages into arenas of rivalry and delight. These were the simple joys of our childhood, weaving bonds across families and friends that seem almost unimaginable now.
Each game taught us lessons. Kabaddi developed stamina, courage, and strategy; gulli-danda rewarded quick reflexes and judgment. Bantay required concentration and grace in winning or losing. Mulakhra cultivated discipline, endurance, and respect; wrestlers followed traditions blending sport and culture. Indoor games like ludo and carrom were quieter but still impactful, building patience, thinking, and turn-taking skills, while strengthening family bonds. Whether in fields or living rooms, these games were informal schools for life’s early lessons.
Open grounds shrank, consumed by concrete and population growth. Streets once safe for play became hazardous, and playgrounds disappeared. Urbanization not only took land; it restricted movement. Technology widened the gap-TV, video games, and phones offered instant gratification without dust or risk. Thus, evening chants of “kabaddi kabaddi” or siblings arguing over carrom have now disappeared.
The technology-driven globalisation has hugely transformed imaginations. Cricket, a colonial legacy, became a national obsession, while football and tennis followed through satellite TVs and advertising. Folk games had no global stage, no sponsorships, and no career paths. Parents began to see them as childish distractions, encouraging cricket bats or footballs instead of marbles, ludo, or gulli-danda. Academic pressure reinforced this view, squeezing play out of children’s lives. Unlike cricket or football, which at least carried the faint promise of fame, folk games offered nothing but fleeting joy; and so, one by one, they slipped away.
For girls, the decline was sharper still. In earlier days, village lanes and courtyards gave them freedom to play stapoo or rope skipping etc. With urban sprawl and stricter social restrictions, these societal outlets have vanished. Today, few girls know the thrill of hopping across stapoo squares drawn in chalk or laughing with friends as they stumble on a line. The loss is not just of a game but of companionship, confidence, and physical expression.
The commercialization of sports played its role too. Modern games thrive on sponsorships, televised leagues, and merchandise, while local ones, rooted in community spirit, cannot adapt. Though kabaddi has seen formal leagues and mulakhra still draws crowds during Sindh festivals, these remain rare exceptions. The ordinary sight of children crouched over marbles, chasing a gulli down a lane, or families battling over ludo has become nostalgic rather than normal.
This disappearance is not merely about entertainment. It is about losing culture, identity, and community. These games were bridges across generations. A grandfather could teach his grandson how to aim a marble, or a mother could show her daughter the rhythm of stapoo. Uncles revealed ludo tricks, while cousins fought joyfully over carrom coins. They were shared rituals, binding young and old in the same language of play. Their absence has left behind a silence that no video game or imported sport can truly replace.
Yet hope remains. In some rural areas, kabaddi and mulakhra still attract crowds, especially during harvest festivals. In some areas, a few children still clutch marbles or sketch stapoo grids on the ground. Families occasionally revive ludo and carrom at gatherings, the laughter around them echoing with the warmth of old times. These sparks suggest that revival is possible-but it requires a conscious choice. We must recognize that these games are not backward relics but cultural treasures, carrying within them the heartbeat of the land.
The story of desi sports in the subcontinent is, ultimately, a story of memory and belonging. If neglected, gulli-danda, bantay, ludo, and carrom will survive only as fading tales told by grandparents. But if cherished, they can, once again, fill our afternoons with laughter and the joyous chaos of play. In an age of digital isolation, reviving these games is not just about preserving heritage-it is about giving our children back the freedom to run, to compete, and to belong.
The writer is a Lahore-based public policy analyst and can be reached at [email protected]