Learning Experience

LEARNING  EXPERIENCE.

By George Pereira

From some of our infantile forensic determination at a very early age, my brothers and I were convinced that our departed father must have loved to hunt, otherwise, we thought, he might have been a closeted murderer.

Deep in the archives of one of our storage rooms in our house, kept out of bounds by our caring, but exhausted mother, was a large inviting cupboard.  This cupboard, like the entrance to the storage room, was sealed tight with locks so large and so impregnable that they may have been borrowed from Fort Knox. In our minds, however, we thought that the bigger the locks, the greater would be our curiosity and challenge.

However, as our curiosity grew, we were determined to break into this cupboard to determine what secrets it contained.  Using my mother’s hairpin, my brother Eustace spent hours trying to pick the lock.  Late one evening, however, when Eustace almost gave up hope of ever succeeding, the mechanism in the lock snapped, and the lock mysteriously opened.   I thought that my brother was a real hero. He had such a future in becoming a self-tutored criminal. But at this age…. who really cared!!!!  All that mattered was that we indulge ourselves in what the cupboard contained.

Making sure that mother was not anywhere around and being made aware that Tuesday was when she accompanied another woman to loyally do her Legion of Mary Work, we ventured into the storage room.  There was dust all around.  Everything was covered with a mantle of dust accumulated over years of neglect.  We headed, with great care towards the cupboard.  Eustace started picking at the lock.  After an hour or so, we crept out of the storage room and decided that we would wait until the following day to complete the job, for it was then when mother did her shopping at the local market.

Amidst some choice swearwords, Eustace continued to pick at the stubborn lock.  Shamed by the swear words, the lock finally gave up, and we were able to open the cupboard. We felt as though we were going to examine the coffin of an ancient pharaoh. What secrets did it have hidden away from us?

What a treat lay before us.  There were two shotguns and a pellet gun.  In several boxes we discovered large bullets.  The shell appeared to be brass and from the shell emerged a two-inch lead piece ending in a sharp and menacing point.  We could not help believing that these bullets were intended to kill large animals such as elephants.  We held the guns with respect and then placed them back where we had found them.

The following day, however, my mother discovered that the storage room was broken into.  She lined us up before her, and it did not take her long to get us to own up.  She was a lot smarter than we were, and with a menacing slipper in her hand, it made no sense being untruthful.

The following day, my mother turned in the shotguns and the bullets to the police through the good office of a friend who knew the Superintendent of Police. It was illegal for anyone, except the police, to carry or own firearms.

Mother let us keep the pellet gun.  Both Eustance and I took turns pointing the gun at some pigeons on the roof opposite and then pulling the trigger.  While the pellets lasted, we had shot down at least ten birds and three stray cats. Eustace did not find it fun playing around with the gun once the pellets ran out.  I, on the other hand, would cork up the gun, aim at a target, for I learned that it was important to line up the sites, and then I would pull the trigger, if only to hear the hammer activate. I felt as though I was endowed with power when I held the gun, and I loved the feeling.

Years later, I had the good fortune of attending a fair at the Old Arab Fort.  I guess that I was sixteen at the time.

The police had a stall in a local fair where, on payment of a shilling, you were allowed three shots at a target using a 22.    A shot at the target, gave you five shillings.  I walked away with fifty shillings.  Big money in those days.  Since I had done so well, the police asked me for my name and jotted it down in their records.  I was assured that I would be one of their finalists and that I should return to try my luck at becoming the champion the following day.

As it turned out, Prince Jamshed, who later became the Sultan of Zanzibar, earned his place to match his skills against mine.  This was an honour.  Each of us was allowed three shots.  I was to take the first three.  My first shot earned me a bullseye.  My second shot earned me another bullseye.  I could feel myself sweating.  My third shot missed the bullseye by a tenth of an inch.

Prince Jamshed stepped up, clutched the gun in his hands, and exuded confidence that only a Prince can demonstrate.  Without any ceremony, he took his first shot. It was a bullseye.  The second…. a bullseye.  The third…a bullseye.

Prince Jamshed smiled at me and without much ceremony, walked away and did not accept his award.

What a delightful snob!