When I think about my childhood, I remember a lot of small things. The sound of pressure cookers, the smell of fresh paint during Dashain, the quiet walk to school. But the clearest sound of all was my mother’s silver anklets.
She wore them almost every day when I was younger. They were not new or shiny, just simple silver anklets that made a soft chhan chhan sound whenever she walked across the house. I never realized how comforting that sound was until the first time it disappeared.
One winter, my mom went to Dharan to visit her parents for a few days. It was the first time she had gone without us. The house felt strange. Too quiet. My father would walk around doing his usual things, but without that familiar chhan chhan, everything felt empty.
I remember waking up early the next morning and waiting at my bedroom door, half expecting the sound of her footsteps. Nothing. Just the loud crow outside and the metal water tank filling. Even my brother commented that the house felt weird, which meant it was truly noticeable.
When she finally returned, I was sitting in the living room pretending to watch TV. I heard it before I saw her. That soft chhan chhan on the stairs. I stood up so fast I nearly tripped over the carpet. My mom laughed when she saw me and said, “You missed me this much?”
Of course I did. The whole house came back to life the moment she walked in.
A few years later, the anklets loosened and broke. She kept them in a small drawer, saying she would get them fixed, but she never did. Life kept moving. Everyone got busier. The old wooden floors got replaced by tiles that did not echo footsteps the same way.
Sometimes, when she walks around the house now, I catch myself expecting that familiar sound. I know it will not come, but my mind still reaches for it.
I have those broken anklets wrapped in a soft cloth inside one of my drawers. They are a little bent and the shine has faded, but to me they hold years of mornings, evenings, festivals, and quiet moments. They remind me of a time when the house felt fuller and life felt slower.
Every Dashain or Tihar, when my mom is busy in the kitchen and the whole house smells like spices and oil, I almost hear it again. Just for a second. A soft memory of that chhan chhan floating through the air.
Maybe someday I will get them fixed. Or maybe I will leave them as they are, because sometimes memories feel more real when they stay slightly imperfect.
Either way, I know one thing. That sound will always be a part of my childhood. And I hope that one day, when life slows down again, I will hear it for real.