The lunch was heavy and an unusual dose of half sleep that afternoon kept me unperturbed through all that befell us that evening. I was old enough to know that the shot gun could kill at the least something and young enough to not know what they could be. We called the shot pellets ‘ravai’ and for a long time, they were just in our pockets. The trigger was oiled and covered, and without the pullet in, the aim throughout our stroll was clean and wicked . Perched on the dry tracks the feet of the grazing cattle had left behind, we made our plans. The emphasis was to make even the trials a token success. The first bullets were dislodged with mad cries and as soon as the remaining became countable, the count down began. There had to be a purpose and a target now, for the sacrifice of the bullets that lost their lives lies in the fall of the prey. Loud noises later erupted after the shot was fired, the pellet meeting the streaky wings of the white bird producing not even a faint sound. The signs on the dying bird and the dead bullet rhymed together the last songs of my childhood, lost and long forgotten.
The bird was soon dead and the game continues.
