A youth spent unproductively
Posted: Sun Sep 15, 2024 8:45 pm
A youth spent unproductively
It was quite a blessing to be a kid in the 70s. The term politically correct hadn’t come into usage and our parents had less to worry about from criminals, kidnappers, or racing cars near homes. Even if pushed all the way the humble ambassador could only reach 60 km per hour.
Delhi at that time was largely a babus’ town. You lived there because you either had family that had settled there or your father worked in the government. We were from the latter category and had traveled from Assam because of Dad’s vocation.
At that time the lore of the Wild West and Phantom comics occupied much of our imagination and everyday play. What was common for both was proficiency with guns and being a crack shot. As kids, we all wanted air rifles and most parents didn’t overthink about gifting one to a boy who had reached his seventh birthday.
Government accommodation in those days often featured a garden and ours had a reasonably vast one. It was quite common for my friends to come over to play on weekends albeit accompanied by their trusty air rifles. We would spend hours shooting into our watered lawn and judge the power of the air rifle by the size of the splash the pellet caused. The most common Caliber of the air rifle was .22. Why? Cause no matter who made the rifle most .22s would satisfy our power requirement of either going through one side of a mixed fruit cocktail tin or both sides, the ones that went through both walls bore the magical inscription, “Dyna”.
I was the worst shot among my friends as I didn’t have an air rifle, why? Because I had an elder brother who told my father that he would be the shikar if I had one. I had only shot him a few times with my cork shooting .303 replica, he innocently left out the part where he had ambushed me with his one after school. Anyway, I didn’t miss not having an air rifle except in the informal can-shooting matches where I consistently won the worst shot prize.
In those days we were fortunate to see a senior friend demonstrating his skill with an air rifle. He would shoot a steel rectangle that a friend tossed into the air. Most of us were in awe of this bhaiya who would also store pellets in his mouth for quick reloading. We lived near a wooded area and it was quite common to walk around the neighborhood in search of doves or wild pigeons for the pot.
Our desire to hunt wild pigeons had us walking miles to reach the parade ground forest and the so-called haunted castle within it. On this excursion, we were carrying our friend’s new GAMO rifle that had a telescopic sight and a pellet magazine. The only drawback was that it was a .177. While the ruin was filled with flocks of doves, we couldn’t even connect with one bird because they were out of range of the puny .177 pellet. I mean that was our collective though ignorant opinion.
Another factor was our total ignorance of ballistics, pellet weight, type, and how flat a .177 shot was. We were used to the heavier .22 pellets and had a better idea of how the airguns would shoot. The monsoon would provide us another opportunity to learn about the destructive power of the .22. The woods behind our house would transform into little ponds with a chorus from the bullfrogs during this season. While one regret doing it. many a singer was sent to his maker with a quick shot from an air rifle.
The .22 air rifle was an integral part of our childhood and echoed an old Louis L’Armour quote about needing the gun for snakes and such-like creatures. It also enabled a kid to earn some merit points at home by shooting an odd rat or two. And a rupee so earned would buy a lot of colorful boiled sweets from the corner shop.
I did buy myself a few air rifles over the years in .22 from a Meerut manufactured under lever to an IHP to a QB 78 and then a Precihole. But now I only own pesky .177 and stare at my old empty tins of .22 pellets. A sadness creeps over me as if I have lost an old buddy, the good old .22 rifle, a rite of boyhood passage gone forever.
It was quite a blessing to be a kid in the 70s. The term politically correct hadn’t come into usage and our parents had less to worry about from criminals, kidnappers, or racing cars near homes. Even if pushed all the way the humble ambassador could only reach 60 km per hour.
Delhi at that time was largely a babus’ town. You lived there because you either had family that had settled there or your father worked in the government. We were from the latter category and had traveled from Assam because of Dad’s vocation.
At that time the lore of the Wild West and Phantom comics occupied much of our imagination and everyday play. What was common for both was proficiency with guns and being a crack shot. As kids, we all wanted air rifles and most parents didn’t overthink about gifting one to a boy who had reached his seventh birthday.
Government accommodation in those days often featured a garden and ours had a reasonably vast one. It was quite common for my friends to come over to play on weekends albeit accompanied by their trusty air rifles. We would spend hours shooting into our watered lawn and judge the power of the air rifle by the size of the splash the pellet caused. The most common Caliber of the air rifle was .22. Why? Cause no matter who made the rifle most .22s would satisfy our power requirement of either going through one side of a mixed fruit cocktail tin or both sides, the ones that went through both walls bore the magical inscription, “Dyna”.
I was the worst shot among my friends as I didn’t have an air rifle, why? Because I had an elder brother who told my father that he would be the shikar if I had one. I had only shot him a few times with my cork shooting .303 replica, he innocently left out the part where he had ambushed me with his one after school. Anyway, I didn’t miss not having an air rifle except in the informal can-shooting matches where I consistently won the worst shot prize.
In those days we were fortunate to see a senior friend demonstrating his skill with an air rifle. He would shoot a steel rectangle that a friend tossed into the air. Most of us were in awe of this bhaiya who would also store pellets in his mouth for quick reloading. We lived near a wooded area and it was quite common to walk around the neighborhood in search of doves or wild pigeons for the pot.
Our desire to hunt wild pigeons had us walking miles to reach the parade ground forest and the so-called haunted castle within it. On this excursion, we were carrying our friend’s new GAMO rifle that had a telescopic sight and a pellet magazine. The only drawback was that it was a .177. While the ruin was filled with flocks of doves, we couldn’t even connect with one bird because they were out of range of the puny .177 pellet. I mean that was our collective though ignorant opinion.
Another factor was our total ignorance of ballistics, pellet weight, type, and how flat a .177 shot was. We were used to the heavier .22 pellets and had a better idea of how the airguns would shoot. The monsoon would provide us another opportunity to learn about the destructive power of the .22. The woods behind our house would transform into little ponds with a chorus from the bullfrogs during this season. While one regret doing it. many a singer was sent to his maker with a quick shot from an air rifle.
The .22 air rifle was an integral part of our childhood and echoed an old Louis L’Armour quote about needing the gun for snakes and such-like creatures. It also enabled a kid to earn some merit points at home by shooting an odd rat or two. And a rupee so earned would buy a lot of colorful boiled sweets from the corner shop.
I did buy myself a few air rifles over the years in .22 from a Meerut manufactured under lever to an IHP to a QB 78 and then a Precihole. But now I only own pesky .177 and stare at my old empty tins of .22 pellets. A sadness creeps over me as if I have lost an old buddy, the good old .22 rifle, a rite of boyhood passage gone forever.
