Those were the times by the pond

Ours was a very big village pond; almost a lake. In the middle part it was pretty deep as well. We spent a considerable part of our growing up years both by its side as well as inside it. During the summers, we would compete with the buffaloes in swimming in the green, mossy waters. We sunbathed on the back of relaxing buffalos; dived then from the platform; played Catch Me If You Can, a sort of hydraulic version of hide and seek, as it involved a lot of dives to slip away from the catcher. We also tried speedboat and water-skating. Unruly buffaloes were chosen for this version of enjoyment. One hand held the buffalo’s tail and the other yielded a short but sturdy stick, preferably mulberry wood. The stick-yielding hand would go in quick-fire mode. The buffalo would go searing away like a speedboat dragging the driver in her wake. It was done on dual purpose: one, to enjoy the fast water ride; two, to teach the disobedient buffalo a lesson because it usually broke all rules of civility and would run away into the nearby fields.

During the winter, we gossiped sitting on our haunches by the shore when the buffaloes had their fun bath. It was never easy to get them out of the water. They would close their eyes, slowly chewing the cud. Then we would start trying our arms for long-distance throws. Stones, pebbles, clods or any throwable object would start a meteoric shower. They even displayed their disagreement. As the stones fell near them with a plop, they moved their necks in a naysaying manner. We developed good throwing arms due to this practice. It helped us a lot in our other engagement, village cricket. The balls on dusty potholed uneven pitches missed the bat usually. But we threw it around a lot. So, much of the time was spent in searching it among the bunchgrass and acacia shrubs.

Well, one particular throw of mine was too good as it hit the sleeping buffalo on its horns. It took offense and went scudding across the pond and ran away towards a neighboring village. It took a few hours to cajole her back. Another throw was also good for the opposite team as it missed the bricks, serving as wickets, but bad for the old farmer who was passing near the boundary. It hit him on the back on first bounce. He used to be an angry man. He picked up the ball and ran after us, aiming to hit any of the backs. We ran away. He left with the heavy cork ball. We knew he would seek revenge. We shifted to a still more uneven part of the land at the other end of the village. Those were forgiving times. We were back to our former ground after two weeks.