Remember When…? — A Quick Ride Back in Time
Picture this: the last school bell rings, and a chorus of squeaky polished shoes races toward the gate. You clutch a half-eaten Parle-G, trade a sly grin with your best friend, and plan the evening’s cricket match before your teacher even leaves the classroom. That tiny scene captures the energy of Indian childhood in the 1990s and early 2000s – restless, resourceful, and always a bit mischievous.
Growing up in India meant squeezing wonder out of modest things. We hacked boredom with street games, turned TV ad jingles into playground chants, and treated five-rupee coins like golden tickets. This article unpacks 21 Things Every Indian Kid Secretly Did Growing Up, from swiping Maggi masala packets to pirating songs off FM radio. Each memory reminds us how scarcity sparked creativity while community stitched fun into every corner.
Why it matters: Psychologists note that nostalgic reflection boosts mood and resilience, especially when shared in groups (American Psychological Association). Re-visiting these secret habits isn’t just sentimental; it spotlights the clever survival skills and social glue that shaped a generation. So lean in, nod along, and see which of these sneaky moves you still pull off – only this time, you won’t get caught.
Food Mischief & Kitchen Capers
Swiping the Maggi Masala Sachet
Maggi’s “2-Minute” noodles hit Indian stores in 1983, and for a quarter-century they owned about 90 percent of the instant-noodle market. Nestlé’s ad men soon discovered an extra-powerful hook: the orange “tastemaker” packet. Cooks sprinkled it on everything from popcorn to omelettes; a Mumbai chef even used it as a chicken rub.
In many middle-class kitchens, that flavour bomb became contraband. Kids would tear open the outer pack, pocket the spice sachet, and leave the noodle cake behind – perfect for livening up canteen lunches or bribing teammates during gully cricket breaks. The thrill lay in the stealth: one rustle too loud and Mom’s radar locked on. Yet when family dinners needed rescue, that same hidden packet often re-appeared like a secret weapon.
Midnight Spoonfuls of Horlicks or Bournvita
Cadbury introduced Bournvita to India in 1948, marketing it as a malt drink that “builds stamina and brain power”. Horlicks, its older rival, leaned on white-coat doctors and TV moms to promise “complete nutrition” as early as 1962. Both brands packed sugar, cocoa, and malt – irresistible on their own.
Countless Indian kids treated the powder like clandestine dessert: one spoon straight from the tin, chased with a sip of tap water. That burst of malty sweetness doubled as exam-night rocket fuel and sibling-bonding ritual. Decades later, food-safety crusaders have called out the sugar load in these “health drinks”, yet the nostalgia endures.
| Trick | Result | Risk Level |
|---|---|---|
| Mix Bournvita powder with ½ tsp water → roll into “energy balls” | Sticky cocoa truffles for midnight study | High (Mom might notice missing powder) |
| Stir Horlicks into curd | Quick malt-yoghurt pudding | Low |
| Dust Maggi masala over Bournvita | Spicy-sweet ‘chatpata’ shot | Extreme (taste buds may revolt) |
Parle-G as “Tea Biscuits” in the Play Kitchen
First baked in 1939, Parle-G became the world’s best-selling biscuit by 2011, according to Nielsen surveys. Its wax-paper wrapper, cherubic girl, and faint vanilla aroma signalled comfort at every train-station tea stall.
At home, the humble glucose rectangle moonlighted as prop food. Kids brewed imaginary tea in steel tumblers, arranged Parle-G on plastic plates, and hosted royal banquets for teddy bears. The real payoff came later – dunking the slightly soggy biscuit into Dad’s steaming chai without splintering it into the cup.
Why these capers mattered: Scarcity sharpened creativity. A lone masala sachet taught bartering; a stolen spoon of Bournvita offered guilty delight; a two-rupee biscuit packet turned playtime into a cooking show. Each small rebellion forged problem-solvers who knew how to stretch joy—one spice packet, one biscuit crumb, one malted scoop at a time.
Screen-Time Shenanigans
Saturday-Morning Cartoons on Doordarshan
Before cable carved the menu into hundreds of channels, one state-run station ruled the weekend. Doordarshan filled early Saturdays with a crunchy lineup that glued kids to vinyl-covered sofas:
08:30 AM Tom & Jerry (Hindi dub)
09:00 AM The Jungle Book – Mowgli
09:30 AM DuckTales
10:00 AM Talespin / Aladdin
10:30 AM Potli Baba Ki (folk puppetry)
Those thirty-minute blocks weren’t just shows; they were time markers. You wolfed down idli before Tom & Jerry flipped its first frying pan, and you begged Dad for the remote by the time Mowgli howled his theme. The Hindi dubs made Scrooge McDuck’s Scottish growls sound oddly desi, yet nobody cared. Even today, a single bar of the DuckTales title track pushes grown-ups into full-throated “woo-hoo” mode.
Why it hit different: With no on-demand options, you either caught the broadcast or swapped playground summaries on Monday. That scarcity forged a communal rhythm; whole apartment blocks laughed in sync when Baloo crash-landed his Sea Duck.
Hiding the Remote During Commercial Breaks
When families owned one cathode-ray TV per household, the remote became a throne. Siblings waged cold wars: whoever possessed the controller decided whether uncle wanted cricket highlights or you craved Swat Kats.
Typical tactics included stashing the remote beneath sofa cushions just before the Surf detergent jingle, or yanking out the AA batteries and sprinting to the kitchen. Parents rarely noticed; they were usually brewing chai during breaks. These mini heists honed negotiation skills long before corporate boardrooms did.
Copying Shaktimaan’s Spinning Move in the Living Room
On 13 September 1997, India met its first home-grown superhero – Shaktimaan. Every episode ended with Mukesh Khanna spinning like a tornado, arms out, until Gangadhar morphed into the caped saviour. Classrooms buzzed on Mondays with kids comparing bruises from weekend twirls. Parents blamed wobbling ceiling fans, doctors blamed carpet burns, but no warning could dim the craze.
Safety Note (then and now): Do not attempt the “Shaktimaan spin” near glass tables, antique vases, or irate mothers.
Some schools even posted handwritten notices: “Students found spinning in corridors will face detention.” The rule only increased hallway rotations.
Screen-Time Takeaway: Limited access turned television into a shared ritual rather than background noise. By fighting for cartoons, hiding remotes, and imitating superheroes, Indian kids sharpened bargaining chops, physical coordination, and collective memory – skills a Netflix autoplay button can’t teach.
Playground & Galli Games
Crafting Cricket Bats from Coconut Branches
Long before sports shops dotted every market, street cricket thrived on resourcefulness. In coastal states kids spied the perfect tool right above their heads: the stiff mid-rib of a fallen coconut frond. A swift slice at the base, a little trimming with a kitchen knife, and a serviceable “bat” emerged. Weight distribution felt quirky, yet the broad blade sent tennis balls sailing over tiled roofs.
A homemade bat also carried bragging rights – you could etch initials with a nail and challenge rivals to match your craftsmanship. Today Instagram reels still celebrate the trick, proving nostalgia travels faster than a Virat Kohli cover-drive.
| Makeshift Gear | Cost | Typical Lifespan | Modern Equivalent | Cost |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Coconut-rib bat | ₹0 | One summer holiday | Kashmir-willow junior | ₹1,200+ |
| Rubber-ball “season” ball | ₹30 | Dozens of overs | Leather practice ball | ₹450 |
| Brick pile for stumps | Free | Until neighbour complains | PVC spring stump set | ₹850 |
Swapping and “Flick-Battling” WWE Trump Cards
Cable television arrived, wrestling mania erupted, and suddenly playgrounds turned into speculative trading floors. Each pocket-sized WWE trump card showed a wrestler, power stats, and a mugshot that looked extra fierce by ’90s printing standards. Kids laid cards in a pile, shouted a stat – “Charisma, ninety-three!” – and winner took both. Losing your prized Undertaker felt worse than a chokeslam.
Evidence of the craze still pops up in nostalgic social posts; one Facebook page titled All About 90s Life calls those decks “a ritual between cousins.” Shops outside schools sold unofficial booster packs for five rupees apiece, feeding lunchtime economies that taught supply-and-demand faster than any commerce class.
Dodging the “Den” in Kho-Kho
Step outside the cricket rectangle and you met Kho-Kho, India’s high-speed tag game that dates back to ancient times and took its modern rules from Pune’s Deccan Gymkhana club in 1914.
Two teams sat knee-to-back along a central lane while chasers sprinted round poles, shouting “Kho!” to tag and swap. The opponent became the den, and your mission was simple: run, pivot, squeeze through gaps, repeat.
Why every child played it:
Zero equipment – just dusty ground and two wooden posts.
Thrill factor – the sport averages 25 km/h sprint bursts, faster than many field games.
Inclusivity – mixed-gender matches thrived at recess because agility trumped brute force.
Modern revivalists, including philanthropist Sudhanshu Mittal, now lobby to push Kho-Kho onto global courts. Whether the export succeeds or not, every Indian kid who once muddied a school uniform chasing the den already carries the sport in muscle memory.
Classroom Secrets
Passing Folded “Chits” Under the Desk
Every teacher swore they had eyes in the back of their head, yet tiny paper missiles still zig-zagged across rows of wooden benches. The art lay in the fold. A good chit creased into a slim triangle – easy to palm, hard to spot. You slipped it under the cover of a cough, or flicked it with surgical precision to your partner in crime. Messages ranged from “Period free after math?” to elaborate tic-tac-toe grids.
Step-by-Step “Stealth Fold”
- Tear notebook margin (approx. 3 cm x 7 cm)
- Fold lengthwise twice → skinny strip
- Bend in half, then half again → triangle
- Tuck the tip into the last fold → self-locked packet
Smuggling Melody & Alpenliebe Inside Geometry Boxes
A geometry box wasn’t just for protractors; it moonlighted as a portable tuck shop. You popped the lid, wedged a shiny Melody toffee between the divider and compass, and shut it with a click. The teacher heard nothing but metal.
Melody: Parle launched the iconic “Melody itni chocolaty kyun hai?” campaign in 1983, a slogan so sticky that marketers still quote it today.
Alpenliebe: Perfetti dropped this caramel candy into Indian stores in 1995, quickly turning the pillow-pack into playground currency.
Mini-economy in motion
- One Alpenliebe = two Melody
- Five Melody = front-bench math notes photocopied after class
- One empty wrapper = zero value (unless you saved 50 for a fair-day raffle)
Practising Bollywood Signatures on the Last Page
Even the most studious child kept a “back-bench autograph lab” on the final sheet of every exercise book. You traced Amitabh’s long looping B or Shah Rukh’s flamboyant squiggle until graphite dust coated your fingertips. Some dreamt of cashing that signature on notebooks at the school fair; others simply enjoyed the trance of perfecting curves while the history lecture droned on.
| Signature Style | Bollywood Inspiration | Common Tweak |
|---|---|---|
| Oversized first initial | Amitabh Bachchan | Double underline |
| Heart over the i | Kajol | Added sparkle star |
| Slanted flourishes | Hrithik Roshan | Arrow tail |
Why These Secrets Stuck: Chits sharpened stealth and social bonding; toffees taught barter and brand loyalty; signature drills sparked identity play. Each covert act turned the ordinary classroom into a laboratory of creativity – proof that curiosity thrives even when the bell rings for silence.
Family Traditions & Little White Lies
“Fake-Sleep” to Dodge the Namaste Gauntlet
You know the drill. The doorbell rings, distant aunties burst in, and every adult expects a parade of polite namastes. Many kids mastered a single defence: curl up on the sofa, eyes squeezed shut, breathing slow – instant chhota Buddha. Adults whisper, “Poor thing, so tired,” and tip-toe past.
Why it worked: elders valued rest for “growing children,” and nobody risked waking a supposed sleeper.
Hidden payoff: you kept gaming credits intact because no one pinched your cheeks or asked your marks.
Lasting lesson: sometimes strategic silence saves more energy than any debate.
Raiding Dad’s Change Jar for “Pepsi-Cola” Ice Pops
Every wallet dump created a mountain of one- and two-rupee coins. Kids spotted opportunity. You’d scoop a small handful, bolt to the corner cart, and trade it for neon ice pops called “Pepsi” – frozen sugar water sealed in plastic tubes.
Why These Sneaky Habits Matter
Small fibs taught social intelligence. Fake-sleep refined timing, unplugging phones proved planning beats panic, and coin raids drilled basic micro-economics. Above all, each act unfolded inside a web of family expectations and gentle rebellion, reminding every Indian kid that cleverness often hides in plain sight—right under a pile of loose change or a carefully closed eyelid.
Festival & Culture Hacks
Haggling for the Loudest Pichkari before Holi
Walk through any bazaar in late February and you’ll spot a rainbow of water guns stacked like plastic artillery. Seasoned kids don’t just buy one – they bargain for it. You test the piston, feign indifference, then whisper, “Bhaiya, last price?” until the shopkeeper sighs and knocks off five rupees.
Historians trace the pichkari back hundreds of years. An 18-century silver syringe in New York’s Metropolitan Museum proves royal courts once sprayed colour with gilded gear, while a Vindhyan stone inscription suggests the device may be two millennia old.
Street-smart upgrade tips
- Wrap the nozzle with a balloon band to boost pressure.
- Soak the barrel overnight in coloured water so the first blast hits full strength.
- Tie a string to the trigger; one tug from the terrace drenches cousins below.
Hoarding Diwali Crackers – and Firing “Test Shots” Early
Deepavali’s countdown began weeks ahead. You pooled pocket money, bought a mixed box, then stashed it under the bed. No one waited for the festival night; the moment Mom left the veranda, you lit a single phuljhari to “check quality.”
| Cracker Type | Average Decibels | 1995 Price (₹) | 2025 Price (₹) | Parent Complaint Index* |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| Ladi chain | 125 dB | 25 | 120 | Very high |
| Chakra spin | 95 dB | 5 | 30 | Medium |
| Anar fountain | 100 dB | 10 | 60 | High |
| Sky rocket | 140 dB | 15 | 90 | Off the charts |
*Informal measure based on volume of “Bas karo!” yelled by adults.
Lesson learned: risk-reward maths. You balanced thrill against scolding, and you discovered that delaying gratification sometimes multiplies fun – one sparkler at dawn keeps the stash safe till dusk.
Climbing Terraces to Fly Kites and Yell “Kaate!”
On Makar Sankranti, rooftops transform into launchpads. You reel out manja (glass-coated thread), angle the kite into the winter gust, and slice rivals’ strings while shouting the victory cry “Kaate!” States from Rajasthan to Madhya Pradesh treat that one word as a festival anthem.
Popular kite-fight slang
- Patang – the kite itself
- Manja – abrasive thread for cutting
- Charkhi – wooden spindle
- Dheel de – give line, let it climb
- Lapet – reel in fast after a win
Outdoor physics lessons sneak in here. You gauge wind shear, calculate tension, and practice rapid-fire hand-eye coordination long before school teaches vectors.
From Holi’s neon water cannons to Diwali’s explosive previews and Sankranti’s sky duels, festivals turned children into planners, engineers, and negotiators. Each ritual demanded creativity under constraint and every triumphant “Kaate!” or perfectly bargained pichkari reinforced one truth: fun multiplies when you earn it the hard way.
Early Tech Tricks
Blowing into Video-Game Cartridges to “Fix” Them
You jammed the grey cassette into your Micro Genius console, hit power, and nothing. Cue the ritual: pull, puff, re-insert. Every Indian kid swore those quick breaths zapped dust off the metal contacts and revived Contra on command. Nintendo later confirmed the truth: the fix was mostly placebo; moisture from breath could rust the pins.
Why we did it anyway
- It worked often enough to feel magical.
- No service centres nearby; DIY or quit.
- The “whoosh” delivered instant hope, and hope kept game night alive.
Hidden lesson: you learned to troubleshoot before you could pronounce the word.
Recording FM Hits onto T-Series Cassettes
Long before playlists lived in pockets, mixtapes ruled backpacks. You perched by the Aiwa twin-deck, index finger on “REC,” and pounced the moment Times FM spun Chaiyya Chaiyya. One side of a C90 blank could hoard 45 glorious minutes; two flips captured an entire wedding DJ set.
Verified facts that made the hustle possible
- Cassette tapes dominated 95 % of India’s music sales through the 1990s.
- Labels like T-Series sold blanks dirt-cheap, fuelling a home-dubbing boom.
Why These Sneaky Habits Still Shape Us
Scratch the surface of any millennial professional and you’ll see the resourceful kid who once bartered Alpenliebe, haggled for a pichkari, or debugged a game cassette with pure lung power. Psychologists link such childhood improvisation to higher problem-solving agility in adulthood.
We hacked boredom, engineered joy, and wrote unspoken rulebooks with friends. Those tiny rebellions proved three timeless truths:
- Limits spark creativity. A one-rupee coin, a blank tape, or a dusty cartridge became a portal to adventure.
- Community amplifies fun. Every trick gained power only when shared – whether yelling Kaate! from a terrace or swapping trump cards under a neem tree.
- Play teaches grit. Each scraped knee, missed cue, or confiscated chit toughened resolve far better than any formal lecture.
So the next time life freezes like a glitching console, remember the fix: breathe out, try again, and trust the kid who solved everything with a puff of determination.
Drop your own secret hacks in the comments because nostalgia, like Maggi masala, tastes best when everyone shares the packet.
