GIFTS OF DAWN

allan.aquarius@gmail.com

Allan D'Souza

Synopsis

Prologue

Friends in Need

Prologue

She’s ensconced in her bay window doodling, one eye on the boys playing hockey, on the concrete grounds – more like a mirror, eyeball to eyeball with the past. Looking at them, she’s reminded of something; lagori logic, they used to call it as kids. Something’s happening down below.

The boys are amusing themselves ahead of the game. It’s a ritual she never tires of; happens all the time. Has been going on and on the same way, for ages now. In a short while the game will start. They take their time getting settled; they’ve got to, sooner or later. And as the champ takes the centre for the face-off, all the windows in the lower floors quiver in excitement.

They’re off now – bang, slam, pass, crack! They probably don’t even know it, but with each whack those prodigiously slender kids are assailing, nay, actually defying gravity. They’re thoroughbreds, these little fellows, natives to the game, sticks planted firmly on the ground, staring each other, unflinchingly, in the eye, waiting for the ball to reach them, or ready to pounce on it, should it dare come their way, every swipe yielding that crucial rewarding thump! Of timber whipping cork. This is what hockey has over cricket. You don’t just stand there twiddling your thumbs; you’ve got to be on the ball. At all times. It’s like meditation. No time to go woolgathering, delight in the blue yonder. You have to sweat it out on the field. No idling around, awaiting your turn to bat.

The committee has issued an embargo on the game; but the kids have nowhere else to play, and no reps on the board either, ergo this schismatic sport between bikes, dodging, ducking, darting in and out and betwixt, signalling a player to stop whenever a vehicle’s vrooming in or out, resuming the very instant it’s gone – frisking, cavorting, jumping, in and out, this way and that – finding the passes, striking the boards!  All very, very excitedly.

All of a sudden she hears an extra loud thwack, the sound of cork shattering pane, then sees the kids scamper hurriedly for cover. A furious voice from downstairs hollers, “Won’t someone stop those bloody beasts from making such a nuisance of themselves?” Together with the window pane, the lull has been shattered, the unspoken truce has been bust. But that’s okay, they’ll soon return, and everything will get back to normal.

Almost as if nothing had happened.

As kids, they’d avail of any open space, the precarious building terrace, the strip of land bordering the main road, a garage yard or just cleared garbage dump even, sometimes the well-trimmed lawns of a rich neighbour, until the grumpy watchman chased us away. There were a host of games to play, varying with the season. The monsoons were reserved for indoor games, table tennis, dominos, carom, chess and, of course, football – nothing like running amuck in the muck, getting drenched in the rain. The long summers were for hockey. Between times they played lagori, seven tiles, ball-badminton, gilli-danda, dabba-I-spy, chor-police and a host of other kid-games – boys, girls, kids one and all – some improvised for the season, even.

From the window now, she catches sight of the kids returning, this time for a relaxing game of lagori, seven tiles. Who invented it, she sometimes wonders. And how did it get passed down the line, from generation to generation? Why, through the kachcha-neemboo, of course, raw lemon; the littlest fellow, who’d

be roughly around six or seven and who’ll grow up to be the boss of his bunch. Naturally, what with his being the eldest and all that. They’re gathered together now, the chief, his flunky the skinny fellow, little runny-nose, arsehole, moron, bonehead, bookworm, fatso, windbag, jerk, turkey, stinky and, of course, Idiot! What names don’t they have for each other these days? So what’s new? It used to be pretty much the same in our day as well.

The game takes a breather, to let a bike park. It reverses, on two wheels and two legs, careful not to upset the little tower of tiles. By the way, who’s that little feller I see standing over there by the alley? He’s been there over half an hour now, standing, watching silently. Why isn’t he playing? Must be from another building. Or a street urchin, perhaps, though, from the looks of him, he doesn’t appear to be.

The champ sets to work with effortless ease, demolishing the pile with one deft pitch. This one’s a lefthander; even better. Faces are sticking out windows, left to right, top to bottom, some even leaning precariously out, just for a glimpse of the game. The narrow compound has suddenly turned into an arena again. There, they’ve got the tiles back together. Shouts of lagori! lagori! rend the air. Another bike zooms, but this one, unmindful of the match, topples the pile over. Tensions are running high. Kachcha-neemboo rushes to restore it. No question about it, it’s his job. But before the next fellow has even had a chance to pitch, a third bike whooshes in and decks the stack again. In a jiffy, kachcha-neemboo is back in action.

The game resumes; two pitches, no strike. “Here, give it to me,” big un’ orders brusquely. Just then another bike whizzes in and capsizes the little mountain again. The kids can’t take any more; they pick up their sticks, leave the stones behind and are gone. The games have been on for over an hour now. Christ, and I didn’t even notice. Faces retreat back into windows, some slam shut, someone hollers for the brutes to clean up the mess, sourpuss sticks out her tongue, a boy returns a finger, she screams an abuse, the boys all join in, screaming and shouting until the elders tell them to cut it out before they get their ears boxed. Bloody bullies!

Her childhood, she recalls, had been one long encounter between old and young. There were no motorbikes then; they cycled, kids and grown-ups alike, ran around them in the compound – they were so much easier to manoeuvre, pick up when they toppled. But things have changed so much, bikes have come in, in most buildings, cars even.

Hey, what’s that little feller’s doing, standing over yonder, so long after the others have gone?

“Hey, chintoo!” a young voice yells from a window. No answer. “Hey, lavda, prick!” Still no reply. This one looks really adamant. But why, who says they’re yelling at him. “Hey baby-boy, no going home to mamma?” Suddenly and without warning, he picks up a stone and hurls it at the building. Crash! There goes another pane; two in one day. Windows fling themselves open, heads stick out, faces start hollering. Meanwhile, the boy has made good his escape.

They assemble slowly down below: in trickles, pairs, singles, groups, whispering. Put their heads together, to take stock, deliberate what’s to be done, how to do it. Then from the other end of the alley I see the little fellow emerging, two big boys behind him. They amble slowly towards the building, three more trailing slowly behind. God only knows how many more will follow. The building folks know it’s time to disperse. In a trice the compound’s empty. Windows slam themselves shut. Silence descends over the building; could very well be a haunted house.

Won’t things ever change? she wondered