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I have six sisters and no brothers.
At the Fall of my Life I find my sisters have always been more resourceful than me...by tons.
I was then 7 and my sister 9.
One evening my sisters were playing whatever games girls play, while I was on the street playing a skill game with half a dozen boys. Each of us brought with him his 'monies'. These consisted of cigarette packet covers and match box covers which had their set standard values. For instance a Gold Flake Honey Dew cover was Rs 100 while a Charminar cover only Rs 10...Passing Show was Rs 50. Cheeta Fight matchbox cover was just a rupee.
The game consisted in drawing a circle of about a foot radius on the sand. Everyone contributes Rs 100 worth covers. These are then shuffled and stacked up at the center of the circle. And everyone brings his own discus which is a flat piece of granite rock of the right size to fit his hand. And they withdraw to a line on the sand about 9 feet from the golden circle and draw lots to decide the order of play allotted to each sportsman. And then each takes his turn flinging his discus at the circle trying to kick out as many of the covers as he can out of the charmed circle. The monies that he can throw out of the circle become his 'wins'. The game goes on till the last cover is dislodged and flies out of the circle. At the end of the game everyone counts the money he earned and his profits and losses...something like a mini stock market.
I had the best discus with sharp edges. As my turn came, I flung it with all my might. Unfortunately that day my discus slipped from my hand and went awry and hit a 3-year-old kid standing by the side and watching our adult games. The kid yelled and we noticed that he had a bad bruise that started bleeding, close to his right eye . I was scared out of my wits since he was my neighbor's son and that neighbor was known to be a no-nonsense guy...with an outstanding mustache.
I ran home and found that my Father hadn't yet returned from school. And my mom was squatting on the kitchen floor making dosas. I quietly sat on the other side of her chulha like a thief on the run. She asked me what went wrong and why I was back from my play so early...it was not yet dusk. I kept mum and she felt my face which was burning. She then put me to bed and was worried as my fever shot up by the time Father returned home. He took my temperature on his favorite Jintan thermometer and announced it was 102 deg F. For once he was kind to me and sat by my side on the cot.
Then there was this dreaded knock on the front door.
I shut my eyes and ears and wanted to simply vanish. My mom announced that our neighbor came calling. Minutes went past but nothing drastic happened...like my getting whipped by the mustachio or, worse, by Father. I guess Father said sorry on my behalf...boys will be boys or whatever....maybe some cash (not of the Goldflake variety) changed hands.
Neither Father nor my mom said anything to me. I slept off after mom fed me some rice with rasam and Father pushed in a pill.
My fever subsided by the morning and I was ready to go to school. My sister offered to accompany me (generally brothers and sisters refuse to be seen together outside home).
Halfway to school I saw from a distance our mustachio neighbor returning from our hospital with his son all bandaged around his eye. And I started crying.
Sister found out what was wrong and whispered into my ear:
"Hide!"
"Where?...hoon...hoonhoon..."
"In that cement pipe by the culvert!"
That saved my life...and here I am now blogging it cheerfully...
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I have six sisters and no brothers.
At the Fall of my Life I find my sisters have always been more resourceful than me...by tons.
I was then 7 and my sister 9.
One evening my sisters were playing whatever games girls play, while I was on the street playing a skill game with half a dozen boys. Each of us brought with him his 'monies'. These consisted of cigarette packet covers and match box covers which had their set standard values. For instance a Gold Flake Honey Dew cover was Rs 100 while a Charminar cover only Rs 10...Passing Show was Rs 50. Cheeta Fight matchbox cover was just a rupee.
The game consisted in drawing a circle of about a foot radius on the sand. Everyone contributes Rs 100 worth covers. These are then shuffled and stacked up at the center of the circle. And everyone brings his own discus which is a flat piece of granite rock of the right size to fit his hand. And they withdraw to a line on the sand about 9 feet from the golden circle and draw lots to decide the order of play allotted to each sportsman. And then each takes his turn flinging his discus at the circle trying to kick out as many of the covers as he can out of the charmed circle. The monies that he can throw out of the circle become his 'wins'. The game goes on till the last cover is dislodged and flies out of the circle. At the end of the game everyone counts the money he earned and his profits and losses...something like a mini stock market.
I had the best discus with sharp edges. As my turn came, I flung it with all my might. Unfortunately that day my discus slipped from my hand and went awry and hit a 3-year-old kid standing by the side and watching our adult games. The kid yelled and we noticed that he had a bad bruise that started bleeding, close to his right eye . I was scared out of my wits since he was my neighbor's son and that neighbor was known to be a no-nonsense guy...with an outstanding mustache.
I ran home and found that my Father hadn't yet returned from school. And my mom was squatting on the kitchen floor making dosas. I quietly sat on the other side of her chulha like a thief on the run. She asked me what went wrong and why I was back from my play so early...it was not yet dusk. I kept mum and she felt my face which was burning. She then put me to bed and was worried as my fever shot up by the time Father returned home. He took my temperature on his favorite Jintan thermometer and announced it was 102 deg F. For once he was kind to me and sat by my side on the cot.
Then there was this dreaded knock on the front door.
I shut my eyes and ears and wanted to simply vanish. My mom announced that our neighbor came calling. Minutes went past but nothing drastic happened...like my getting whipped by the mustachio or, worse, by Father. I guess Father said sorry on my behalf...boys will be boys or whatever....maybe some cash (not of the Goldflake variety) changed hands.
Neither Father nor my mom said anything to me. I slept off after mom fed me some rice with rasam and Father pushed in a pill.
My fever subsided by the morning and I was ready to go to school. My sister offered to accompany me (generally brothers and sisters refuse to be seen together outside home).
Halfway to school I saw from a distance our mustachio neighbor returning from our hospital with his son all bandaged around his eye. And I started crying.
Sister found out what was wrong and whispered into my ear:
"Hide!"
"Where?...hoon...hoonhoon..."
"In that cement pipe by the culvert!"
That saved my life...and here I am now blogging it cheerfully...
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