Had there been a catapult-aiming competition in the Olympics, my dad would have won a gold medal for India long ago in the individual category. India wouldn’t have had to wait until 2008 to win its first Olympic gold medal in an individual event (Shooting). But alas, this catapult-aiming competition was never a part of the Olympics, and my dad’s talent went unnoticed along with him. Still, I would like the world to know about his skill and expertise in catapult aiming.
No, it was not restricted to merely knocking down mangoes, guavas, or jamuns from the trees for us children—it was much more. He was passionate about his catapult. He always carried it in his pant pocket along with some mud pellets (you could call them eco-friendly ammunition for the catapult). We children always helped him make these mud pellets, as it was an interesting task. Let me explain how they were made.
Making the Mud Pellets
The mud pellets were made from clayey soil. We usually collected this clayey soil from our school campus during the holidays when no students were around. The school watchman didn’t mind allowing us to take some clay. The best clay in the school was found under the Odiyan tree, opposite the volleyball court. We would dig up the clay, fill it in a bag with our bare hands, and take it home.
I don’t know whether others also collected clay from that spot, but after a few years, the roots of the tree were exposed to such an extent that they became ideal seating spots for the boys in the school to chit-chat and pass time looking at the girls. The tree was later christened as the “Bird Watching Tree,” the birds being—yes, you guessed it—the girls!
Oh no, we were discussing how we made ammunition for the catapult, so let’s not deviate from the topic. Yes, we took home the clay, added some water, and removed all the clumps. The clay was mashed with our hands until it became soft and supple, just like flour while kneading dough for making chapatis. Then we rolled the clay in our palms and made small round pellets, placing them on a tin sheet to dry.
It was a really fun activity—hands smeared in clay, with some on our clothes, faces, and bodies as well. We didn’t know that things like aprons and gloves existed for such tasks, allowing people to work neatly without soiling their hands and clothes. But who cared? We simply enjoyed these activities in a carefree manner back then.
Chennai (then called Madras), where we lived, had scorching summers. The pellets usually dried within a day. We ensured that they were placed in a spot where they would receive direct sunlight all day long.
My dad would check the pellets in the evening before approving them for storage in a bag inside the house. If they weren’t up to his satisfaction, he wouldn’t allow us to store them. The whole process would be repeated on another holiday, and he would sit with us again, guiding us on:
- How much water to add
- What the soil consistency should be
- How big the pellets should be
- How smooth and crack-free they needed to be—just like gulab jamuns!
He liked perfection in all his work.
My Grandmother’s Strange Demands
In addition to us children, who relied on his expertise and skill to bring down the best mangoes, guavas, and jamuns from the trees around our house, there was also the villainous grandmother of mine, who took advantage of his skill to hunt certain innocent birds—claiming it was the only cure for her so-called asthma!
Though she wasn’t particularly fond of her son-in-law (my dad) and would even call him a “Kurvikaran” (a term referring to a tribal nomadic community in Tamil Nadu known for using catapults to hunt birds and small prey for survival) behind his back, she would magically change her tone whenever she needed something from him.
She would put on a pitiful look and lament how my grandfather was least bothered about her asthma and how someone had told her that eating a particular species of bird could cure her attacks. In the sweetest tone possible, she would tell him that he was the only one in the world who could help her!
Trust me, women of any age and era have always known how to get what they want from men. My innocent and gullible dad would fall for the tricks of this cunning woman and spend days in the scorching summer heat, trying to hunt down the bird she desired.
Any era, any age—men will be men, you see!
The family grapevine even tells of my grandmother getting a wild cat hunted through my dad and eating it, claiming it would cure her never-ending asthma! But how true this is, God only knows!!
The Catapult Champion Moment
Anyway, we were talking about my dad’s catapult prowess. So let me tell you about one very important incident that proves he was a true Catapult Champion.
My mother has many younger sisters. On that fateful day, one of her younger sisters had come to visit us. She was pregnant at the time and suffering from morning sickness—severe bouts of vomiting and nausea.
Early that morning, she felt the urge to vomit, so she went to the backyard, sat under the drumstick tree, and took her time spitting out the saliva and bile juices accumulating in her mouth. (Only pregnant women who have experienced this kind of morning sickness can relate to this feeling).
So there sat my aunt under the drumstick tree—a weak and frail figure due to pregnancy-related issues—completely oblivious to her surroundings.
My mom went to check on her sister from the bathroom window, which overlooked the backyard. But the sight before her left her shocked, terrified, and frozen to the spot. No words came out of her mouth. She was almost shivering.
There sat my aunt, lost in her agony, and a long snake was dangling down right above her head from a branch parallel to the ground—just waiting to pounce!
Somehow, my mom collected her wits and exhibited presence of mind. She knew that if she screamed, her sister would look up in terror, try to stand up and escape, and the snake would surely land on her. Her life was at stake!
It was early morning. My dad was outside, sipping his black tea from his favorite white enamel mug with a blue rim (a typical possession of Force personnel back then) and reading his newspaper.
She rushed to him and described the situation. He assessed everything in a split second. Without a word, he grabbed his catapult, carefully selected a mud pellet, took a deep breath, and took his aim.
Thank God the window had no bars or mesh—nothing to obstruct his shot.
My mom stood frozen, silently praying to the Almighty that he wouldn’t miss the shot. There was no scope for a second chance here.
And he didn’t!
The perfect shot hit the snake straight in the midsection, sending it flying away in a boomerang motion. It crashed to the ground, injured and unable to move.
My parents rushed to the backyard—my mom to comfort her completely unaware sister, and my dad to ensure the snake was killed properly.
Such was my dad’s aim under pressure, in a real-life crisis.
Now, tell me, am I wrong in believing that he would have won India a gold medal in catapult aiming at the Olympics if such an event had existed?