Rise and fall of the marble empire

I have heard about evolved yogis getting into levitation states. But, way back in 1965, as a nine-year-old, I myself staked claim to that status, by default. And all for the ‘crime’ of playing marbles during study hours in a boarding school in Asansol (West Bengal).

I was so engrossed in the game in progress, with one eye closed and the other fixated on the designated marble target I was aiming at with a ‘bhantola’ (larger marble), I did not notice the burly figure tiptoeing behind me.  It was only when my four-foot form was yanked, by the scruff, 6.5 feet off the ground that the six-footer ‘les formidables’  came into view. If nemesis were to have a face, this towering ruddy-complexioned white-robed Irish missionary would eminently qualify. I had, in my two years in that school, regarded these missionaries as magicians adept at materialising a cane anytime to inflict corporal punishment. 

As part of the Irish Christian Brothers’ schools worldwide, the missionaries taught in higher classes besides shouldering the responsibility of maintaining school discipline. Caning was resorted to for serious offences. However, the definition of ‘serious’ varied from punisher to punisher. For the ‘transgression’ under reference, given my age, I was let off after that ‘aerial’ admonition, with my diminutive playmate and partner-in-crime, Hari Singh, scooting, leaving me in suspended animation. Today on hindsight, I recall that incident, not with embarrassment, but as a Lilliput-looking-down-on-Gulliver moment. 

My gravitation to marbles had an underlying cause. I was thrust into boarding by well-intentioned parents to inculcate values of discipline. Initially, I had adjustment issues. My misery soon found outlet in the 2.5 ft X 2.5 ft marbles corner adjoining the sports fields. The corner was a makeshift venue, with a banyan tree forming a natural backdrop and three sides demarcated alongside, completing the playing perimeter. Kids converged there for their daily ‘addiction’.

As prelude to my marbled baptism, I would watch games played by groups of two or three boys, marbs jangling in their pockets. I quickly learnt the ropes. For a skilled player, the larger iron or porcelain bhantola made a great ally in accomplishing surgical strikes. It would hit the ‘target’, splitting it in two, with each piece careening off tangentially without touching kindred marbles enroute (a disqualifier). 

Most of my limited pocket money of two rupees was spent on snacks and movies during weekend outings and I used the ‘change’ as collateral to secure a six-marble loan, as ‘seed capital’, from Hari. The rest was history. Within days, the jangle in many pockets fell silent, as their ‘assets’ were transferred to mine. It took me three months to build my empire, marble by marble, and shift the 2000+ ‘capital’ to six large tin biscuit containers. The marbles answered every description - jamooni, spotted, clear etc.- interspersed with a few bhantolas.

Returning home to Delhi for summer vacation, I felt like royalty until my discerning mother discovered the containers. After a stern audit of my ‘wealth,’ she questioned my pursuits. She confiscated the containers and gifted them to the housemaid’s seven-year-old son, bringing the curtain firmly down on my marbled ways.