Going back - Battle of the Balloons

To get better at writing I did the best thing lately, I joined the writers meetup club and I was just amazed at the increase in output and quality of my writing. I guess some of the talent there is rubbing off.

So this week the theme was Memoir, I shuddered - what do I write a memoir about, didnt do much and always think I havent lived much to write about. But I was surprised the way the session was conducted. At the end of one exercise I was able to type out a pretty decent piece in 15 mins. So here is a story from my childhood.

Battle of the Balloons

 

They had messed with us again and they shall do so for the last time. It was time for retaliation. Boundaries would not be honored. Truce cannot be called now. This chance comes only once a year. Its school holiday and tomorrow I shall be barely recognizable. The colors don’t wash off so soon and knowing what my enemy is usually up to they wont wash off for weeks.

This was the usual saga of Holi. It happens each year on the last day of Holi when they burn the holy fire, when our parents aren’t minding us, we boys would unite for war with the neighboring housing complex– it was my camp Pritisangam Society versus Sidhharudha housing society. It was a healthy hearty and sometimes stupid contest which involved balloons and water guns filled with water mixed with an assortment of things I don’t wish to recollect.

Located in Borivali west locality of Mumbai, my apartment complex like many others in Mumbai were like tiny kingdoms. Each complex had its cultures and values. The camaraderie amongst the citizens of these kingdoms was truly awesome and the sense of community was very warm and conducive for a good upbringing.  If your parents didn’t correct you for doing something wrong, damn sure your neighbors will. They had the rights and it was their duty to do so

Back to the war. I was the leader of the young runts, which was a great responsibility.  My counterpart was Pratik a portly gentleman who had difficulty pronouncing the R’s. We shared one boundary wall along our compound with the enemy, interrupted by tall ashoka trees. We would take our positions along this wall and would subject any intruder with merciless dousing of the liquid which used to be plain water followed by dragging them in a mud pool and finally marching them back through the compound gates. The seniors would ignore us as they were more interested in checking out the opposite sex from the other compounds.

There would be a final attack, there has to be. It was already 10 pm and due time for Mom to come grab me by my collar. Finally the attack came. I was expecting it. Pratik should have read Sun Tzu’s works. The advantages of higher reaches in a battle. We were perched on the boundary wall hidden behind the Ashoka trees. We rained down the attackers with a barrage of water balloons and a secret weapon wielded by my lieutenant Bullya, tough plastic bags filled with water which were more like maces than bags. They were caught by surprise and capitulated immediately back to their camp.

The skirmish was ended with a sudden sirenous screech of Pratik’s Mom to call him back home or have his bottoms rapped again, who I figured out that day could also not pronounce her R’s