), a battered Volkswagen clove through the mist and headed east on a freezing Friday morning. On the front seats, yours truly, and his better half. In the boot, fighting for space with spares, rags, mineral water and forgotten jerry cans, were a Beretta in a gun slip and boxes and boxes of shotshells.It all started as banter months ago, when the missus looked on suspiciously as I started zipping the shooting jacket. “So where did you say this range was?” I opened my mouth for a rejoinder, then promptly shut it. She never bought my argument that my trademark bhookha nanga Hindustani countenance has always been a guaranteed turn off for Gori Mems . So, another tack, “the range, not too far. Say, why don’t you join me? I’ll give Colin a call and he’ll bring up his spare gun?”
The seed was sown. Months of slow persuasion, and she finally relented. Crap weather. Too glum to shop, too dark for tafreehs. One friend is having a baby. Another has moved house. The third has always been a jerk. Why not try something different. Worst case scenario, she’ll not return. Best case….I could get her to pay for next month’s quota of shot shells…maybe another gun. My mouth watered. However, she’s not exactly the build for my 32” 682, and shooting trap with me would put her off. So, I booked her a starter lesson at the club.
The sun came out of the clouds as we parked at the shooting ground. The coach and the receptionist were ready for her as soon as we entered. The gun fitting began. To my relief, she was comfy with a 12b Lincoln. Since 20G was rare in India, we figured we’d prefer she learns the 12G recoil. Not wishing to appear a worried tag-along, I left them alone in their preliminary gun safety lesson and started out for the trap range.
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Twenty minutes and fifty shots later, I spied a little crowd outside the skeet range from the corner of my eye. I carried on, till I suddenly saw someone sitting on the bench behind me. Shrimatiji, all bright eyed and bushy tailed!
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She’d spent her allotted shots at the skeet range, even managing to smoke a few birds. Quite enjoying herself, apparently.
Which was my cue to say something stupid to rock the boat. “Do you want to try this?”, pointing at my gun and the trap range.
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As she excitedly started to mount the gun we realised it was too big for her (what a surprise). But she did manage to fire off one shot, and was, in fact, sporting about her miss. (Something unusual, i note
) So it was a very content family that headed home in the afternoon. The missus finally got a feel of the exhilaration when the orange dust flies as the shot hits home. For my part, I’ve done my bit in instilling safe gun handling in a novice, and hopefully sown some seeds. Next stop, Bedford auction? You listening Vicks?
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u r lucky to have a better half who is ready to indulge in this sport 
