Gilli-Danda

1

Whether our Anglophile friends agree or not, I must say that gilli-danda is the king of sports.

Even now, whenever I see boys playing gilli-danda, I get so excited that I want to start playing with them. You don’t need a field, or a court, or a net, or a tamper. You happily cut a branch from some tree, and make the gilli; two more men arrive and the game begins. The biggest problem with foreign sports is that their equipment is so expensive. Until you have spent at least a hundred rupees, you can’t be included as a player.

It’s gilli-danda that offers sharp colours without fancy chemicals; but we are getting so obsessed with English goods that all of our own things have become flavourless. In our schools, an annual sports fee of three or four rupees is taken from every student. No one thinks to have them play Indian sports instead that can be played without spending a single penny. English sports are for the wealthy. Why do you fill poor boys’ heads with this addiction? Yes, there is always the fear that an eye will be poked out by the gilli. But while playing cricket isn’t there also the fear of a head being cracked, a spleen being burst, a leg being broken? So what if my forehead bears the mark of the gilli even today; don’t I also have friends who have long since exchanged the tamper for a crutch?

Well, to each his own. I still consider gilli-danda the best of all sports, and the memory of gilli-danda is the sweetest of all my sweet childhood memories. Leaving the house early in the morning, climbing a tree to cut the twigs for the gilli and the danda, the excitement, the passion, the players’ camaraderie, the fielding and striking, the fights and skirmishes, the simple character in which there was no sense at all of caste or class, in which there was no room for throwing one’s weight around, for pretension, for ego; one can forget that time only when the folks at home are getting upset, Father is sitting at the table furiously taking out his anger on his bread, and Mother, whose domain reaches only to the door, is thinking of how my obscure future is shuddering like a leaky dinghy; as for me, I’m ecstatic with striking, not a thought of bathing or eating entering my mind. The gilli is just a little thing, but it is filled with all the sweetness of candy and all the pleasure of a circus.

Among my companions was a boy named Gaya. He must have been two or three years older than I. Slim, tall, with monkey-like long thin fingers and monkey-like agility, he also had a monkey-like petulance. No matter how the gilli flew, he would catch it like a gecko catches a bug. I don’t know if his parents were alive or not, where he lived, what he ate, but he was our gilli-danda club champion. Whichever side he was on, victory was assured. When we would see him coming from afar, we would run to greet him, we would make him our teammate.

One day, only Gaya and I were playing. He was striking and I was fielding; but the odd thing was that we could while away the whole day happily in striking, but we couldn’t stand fielding for even one minute. I tried getting rid of him using every strategy even if not strictly in the rulebook, but Gaya wouldn’t get off my back without completing his turn.

Persuasion and civility were futile. I ran off towards home.

Gaya ran after me and caught me; he raised the danda and said, ‘You can’t go until you give me my full turn. You make really brave at striking, but when it’s time to field, why do you run away?’

‘You’ll strike all day, and I’ll keep on fielding all day.’

‘Yes, you’ll have to field all day.’

‘Without eating or drinking.’

‘Yes; you can’t go anywhere without giving me my full turn.’

‘I’m your slave?’

‘Yes, you’re my slave.’

‘I’m going home. Let’s see if you can do anything about it.’

‘How can you go home? Are you kidding? It’s my turn, and I’ll finish it.’

‘So, yesterday I gave you a guava to eat. Give it back.’

‘It’s already in my stomach.’

‘Take it out of your stomach. Why did you eat my guava?’

‘You gave it to me so I ate it. I didn’t ask you for it.’

‘I won’t let you finish your turn until you give me my guava back.’

I thought that I had justice on my side. Clearly, I had given him the guava out of self-interest. Who treats others completely unselfishly? People even give charity for their own benefit. When Gaya had eaten my guava, what right had he to demand his own turn? People give bribes and cover up even murder. Would Gaya be able to digest my guava so easily? They were five-rupee guavas that even Gaya’s father couldn’t dream of eating. Gaya was clearly in the wrong.

Gaya pulled me towards him and said, ‘Don’t leave without finishing my turn. I don’t know anything about any guava.’

I possessed the force of truth. He was rooted in injustice. I wanted to slip out of his clutches and run. He wasn’t letting me escape. I swore; he swore right back, and gave me a couple of slaps as well. I bit him. He whacked me on the back with the danda. I began to cry. Gaya couldn’t counter this strategy. He fled. I quickly wiped my tears, forgot about the smart of the stick, and arrived at home laughing! I, a police chief’s son, had been beaten at the hands of a lower-caste boy, and even at that time I realized it was insulting but I didn’t complain to anyone at home.

2

Around that time, Father was transferred. I was so ecstatic about discovering a new world that I didn’t feel the slightest pain at leaving my friends behind. Father was sad. This had been a very lucrative post. Mother was very unhappy; everything here was inexpensive, and she had become very attached to the neighbourhood women, but I couldn’t contain my joy. The boys were spreading the rumour that where we were going there were no houses like our old one. The houses there were so tall that they talked to the sky. In the English schools there, if a master beat a pupil, he went to jail. My friends’ wide eyes and amazed gestures revealed how much I had risen in their estimation. Children have so much power to turn myth into reality; those of us who turn reality into myth can hardly comprehend it. Those poor fellows were becoming jealous of me. It was as if they were saying, ‘You’re so lucky, brother. Go; we are destined to live and die in this dead-end village.’

Twenty years passed. I got my engineering degree, and on a tour of that same district, I arrived at that same little town and lodged at the Post Bungalow. Just the sight of that place awoke such sweet childhood memories in my heart that I picked up my walking stick and set out to tour the town. Like some thirsty wayfarer, my eyes yearned to see those childhood haunts and playgrounds; but aside from the familiar name, nothing there was familiar. Where there had been ruins, smart new buildings were standing. Where the old banyan tree once stood, there was now a beautiful garden. The place was completely transformed. If I hadn’t known its name and location, I never would have recognized it. My hoarded, undying memories longed to embrace old friends with open arms; but that world had changed. I wanted to cling to that earth and cry, and say, ‘You’ve forgotten me, but I still want to see you in your old guise.’

All of a sudden, I caught sight of a few boys playing gilli-danda in an open lot. For a moment, I completely forgot myself. I forgot that I was a highly placed official, a dignified personality, invested with influence and privilege.

I went and asked one of the boys, ‘Tell me, son, does a fellow named Gaya live here?’

One boy picked up the gilli-danda and asked in a timid voice, ‘Gaya who? Gaya the tanner?’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ I said offhandedly. ‘If he’s named Gaya, he’s probably the one.’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Can you go and get him?’

The boy ran off and in a moment, I saw him coming back with a tall, black devil of a man. I recognized him from afar. I wanted to leap towards him and hug him; but I thought better of it. I said, ‘Well, Gaya, do you recognize me?’

Gaya bowed and saluted me. ‘Yes boss, why on earth wouldn’t I recognize you? Are you doing all right?’

‘I’m doing just fine. What about yourself?’

‘I’m the deputy’s groom.’

‘Matai, Mohan, Durga, where are they all? Do you know?’

‘Matai is dead, Durga and Mohan became postmen. And you?’

‘I’m the district engineer.’

‘Boss, you were always the smart one.’

‘Do you still play gilli-danda?’

Gaya looked at me questioningly. ‘How can I play gilli-danda now, boss, now that I don’t get a break from earning my living?’

‘Come, let’s play, you and I. You strike, and I’ll field. I owe you a turn. Today you can take it.’

With great difficulty, Gaya agreed. He had remained a petty labourer, while I was a big official. What did we have in common? The poor fellow was embarrassed; but no more than I was. Not because I was going to play with Gaya, but rather because people would think our game was a spectacle and a sizeable crowd would gather to watch the show. With a crowd, the enjoyment would be lost; but there was nothing for it but to play. Finally, we decided that the two of us would go far outside the town and play in some deserted area where there would be no one sitting around to watch us. We would play with pleasure, savouring every drop of that childhood joy. I took Gaya to the Post Bungalow where we got in the car and set off for the playing field. We took an axe along. I was experiencing intense emotion, but Gaya was still thinking of it as a joke. Even so, there was no trace of curiosity or pleasure on his face. Perhaps he was caught up in thinking about the disparity that now divided us.

I asked, ‘Did you ever miss me, Gaya? Tell me the truth.’

Gaya said humbly, ‘Who am I to miss you, sir? It was my destiny to be able to play with you for a few days. But you’re out of my league.’

I said somewhat sadly, ‘But I missed you all the time. The way you used to swing the danda and hit, remember?’

Gaya said with regret, ‘That was when we were young, boss. Don’t remind me.’

‘Hey, that’s my sweetest childhood memory. The way you wielded the stick: I don’t get that thrill from all my prestige, honour and wealth. There was something about your playing that has kept my heart young until today.’

Meanwhile we had travelled about three miles outside of the town. It was uninhabited in all directions. To the west, the Bhimtal Lake extended for leagues, where at one time we used to pick lotus flowers and make them into earrings. The lake had turned orange in the summer twilight. I quickly climbed a tree and cut a branch. The gilli-danda was made in no time.

The game began. I put the gilli in a little pit and struck it to send it flying. The gilli flew by in front of Gaya. He threw out a hand like he was catching a fish. The gilli fell on the earth behind him. This was the same Gaya who used to catch like the gilli itself wanted to fly to his hands. Whether passing to his left or right, the gilli ended up in his palm, as if he had enchanted it. The gillis could be new, old, small, large, crooked, straight—he caught every one of them. It was as if he had a magnet in his hands that attracted the gilli, but today it seemed the gilli didn’t love him any more. Anyway, I started striking. I was using all sorts of deceptions, breaking all the rules. I was making up for my lack of practice with trickery. I kept striking even when I struck out, although according to the rulebook it should have been Gaya’s turn to strike. When I hit the gilli a glancing blow and it fell nearby, then I rushed over and picked it up myself and whacked it again. Gaya was watching all of this unorthodoxy, but he didn’t say anything, as if he had forgotten all the rules. His aim had once been so accurate. As soon as it left his hand, the gilli would instantly connect with the danda. It was like the gilli’s only goal was to zoom from his hand to the danda, but today that gilli refused to find the danda at all. Sometimes, it went to the right, sometimes to the left, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind.

After half an hour of striking, Gaya’s gilli finally connected with the danda. I tried to bluff: ‘The gilli didn’t touch the danda, it missed by a hair, but didn’t touch.’

Gaya didn’t reveal any sort of dissatisfaction.

‘You’re right, I’m sure it didn’t touch it.’

‘If it had touched would I try to cheat?’

‘No, brother, why in the world would you cheat!’

As a child, I would never have dared to save a victory with such a low trick. This very same Gaya would be after my neck, but today I was getting away so easily with my deception. What a jackass! He’s forgotten everything.

Suddenly his gilli hit the stick again, and with such force that it sounded like a gunshot. With this proof before me now, I didn’t have the courage to try another deception. But why not try to turn truth into a lie once more? What did I have to lose? If he agreed, then fantastic; otherwise I would only have to field for a few rounds. I’d use the excuse of nightfall to get rid of him quickly. And whoever comes back to complete a turn?

Gaya said in the excitement of victory, ‘It touched, it touched! I heard the crack!’

I tried to appear indifferent. ‘Did you see it hit? I didn’t see it.’

‘Hey boss, I heard the crack!’

‘And what if it hit a rock, then?’

I myself was shocked at that time to hear that sentence come out of my mouth. To call that truth a lie was just like calling day night. We had both seen the gilli collide forcefully with the danda, but Gaya accepted my statement.

‘Yes, it must have hit a rock. If it had hit the danda, it wouldn’t have made such a loud sound.’

I started to strike again, but after using such an obvious deception, I started to have pity on Gaya’s simplicity. That’s why, when the gilli hit the danda for the third time, I generously decided to cede Gaya his turn.

Gaya said, ‘It’s getting dark now, brother, let’s come back tomorrow.’

I thought about how much time I would have tomorrow, and who knows how long he would strike. For this reason, I thought it better to settle the matter clearly now.

‘No, no. There’s still a lot of light. You take your turn.’

‘We won’t be able to see the gilli.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’

Gaya started to strike, but he was totally out of practice. Twice he tried to strike a solid blow, but both times he missed. In less than a minute, he had struck out. The poor guy had fielded for an hour, but he lost his turn in a minute. I proffered my big-heartedness.

‘Take another turn. You struck out on the first try.’

‘No, brother, it’s too dark.’

‘You’re out of practice. Don’t you every play any more?’

‘When do I have time to play, brother!’

We both went and got into the car and reached my lodging with the lighting of the lamps. As he was leaving, Gaya said, ‘Tomorrow we’re playing gilli-danda here. All the old players will come. Will you come too? I’ll call all the players according to your schedule.’

I suggested the evening and the next day I came to watch the match. There was a team of about ten men. A few turned out to be my childhood friends, but mostly they were youngsters that I didn’t recognize. The match began. I sat on the car and watched the show. Seeing Gaya’s skill and adroitness today, I was shocked. When he struck it, the gilli would kiss the sky. There was none of yesterday’s hesitation and timidity, none of the half-heartedness. Today, he had achieved the perfection of the skill of his youth. If, God forbid, he had played like this yesterday, I would have definitely begun to cry. Whenever he hit the gilli, it would soar up two hundred yards in the air.

One of the young fielders tried a trick! He opined that he had caught the gilli in the air. Gaya said that the gilli had bounced after hitting the ground. The situation almost turned into a physical altercation. The youth gave in.

Upon seeing Gaya’s flushed face, I was frightened. If that youth hadn’t given in, there would have been violence. I wasn’t in the game, but in this match played by others, I was vicariously enjoying the same youthful pleasure that we used to feel when totally absorbed in the sport. Now I realized that yesterday Gaya hadn’t played with me, he’d just pretended to play. He considered me an object of mercy. I had tricked him, cheated him, but he hadn’t shown the slightest trace of anger. That’s why the game hadn’t been a game; he was just letting me play, letting me keep my self-respect. When striking, he could have made mincemeat out of me, but he didn’t want to. I could win his kindness, his respect, but not his fellowship. In our youth, I had been his equal. There was no disparity between us. Having played against him now, I was worthy only of his pity. He didn’t consider me a partner.

He had become the bigger man, and I the smaller.

Translated from the Hindi by Afroz Taj and John Caldwell