Losing one’s marbles to Malka:

An Attagirl at Attabola!

Gaston de Rosayro

My childhood friend Malka is no ordinary person. She always hung around with the boys and was an outstanding marble player. With astounding dexterity and unerring aim she plundered our precious collection of multi-hued glass balls in similarity to a blood-thirsty Apache collecting scalps.

She was such a specialist shooter at the game that she was dubbed “The marvel with marbles’. In other words, given the license to mix the Sinhala and Anglo-Saxon idioms she was an ‘Attagirl at Atta Bola.’ She must have won so many that she could have built a Marble Arch with her arch playing. Her sunny disposition was hard to contain and in correspondence to pre-teen crushes the smitten boys lost their marbles in more ways than conceding their shiny round gee-gaws.

One’s formative years, dear reader, are a most ephemeral period which everyone inhabits only once in a lifetime. That is why one always senses a curious, almost unforgettable closeness among childhood friends and playmates. Malka was sizzling with mischief and even at that tender, impressionable age was practical and wise beyond her years. She was brimming with wit and could ad-lib one-liners with the panache of a professional comedienne.

In our twenties or so she organized a reunion party in the salubrious climes of her holiday home in the high sierra, for her old neighbourhood playgroup. I had just begun my career in journalism. In an endeavour to conjure an image of the shared past I presented her with a beautiful glass bowl filled with dozens of decorative multi-coloured marbles. I waggishly inscribed in the card that went with it the words: “To Malka, to whom we always lost our family jewels.”

I should have known better. I was talking to another old playmate, Rufus when she sashayed up to us and addressed him: “Hey Rufie, you are speaking to a high and mighty journalist. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say will be misquoted, then used against you.” The crowd within earshot snickered and then moved closer like a shoal of sharks following a lifeboat. They smelt blood and so did I. My own that is.

She had her audience and I knew she had me as well. She looked around her, clapped her hands to gain everybody’s attention and said: “Okay everyone. It’s time for guessing games. The prize will be a bottle of premium wine for the first correct answer. Here goes. What’s the difference between a professional boxer and a journalist?” There were more guffaws but no answers. Then after a pregnant pause she triumphantly quipped: “The boxer sustained brain damage AFTER taking up his vocation.”

There were hoots of loud laughter all round. In normal circumstances and had it been anyone else I would have picked up the gauntlet and shot her down with my lightning quick draw. But you must have realized by now that my adversary was no normal personage, not by a long shot. I was never one of her smitten suitors when we wore rompers and neither was I infatuated with her later.

But I admired her immensely because she was, and always has been ebullient, charming, brilliantly accomplished and as mercurial as the most spectacular supernova. So I sagaciously thought that discretion would be the better part of valour – and not ‘varaka’ as some ‘yakko’ once proclaimed. Besides I never mortally shoot down the people I like.

I knew she was a worthy and versatile opponent, but decided to pull my punches and throw her a gentle jab: “Hey, Malka You look ravishing. To what do you attribute your old age?” My riposte raised a few chortles, but she was quicker on the draw than I thought: “To the fact that I was born five years before you and was never one to smoke and drink excessively and unrepentantly.”

She was treading on perilous ground and perhaps knew it.

But I was still in a charitable mood although she was taking advantage of my kind disposition. So I gave a harder prod: “Hey Honey.

I’m amazed at how well you preserve yourself. You’re well over the hill and still don’t need glasses. You drink straight out of the bottle.” I was gratified that my remark had raised some hearty guffaws

It was cold that night and I was wearing a genuine leather jacket. Glancing in the direction of my swank jacket she said: “Did you know that a cow was murdered to make that jacket?” I answered without batting an eyelid: “Yes. I didn’t think there were any witnesses, so I guess I’ll have to kill you too.” I moved in her direction with a menacing tread, but she held her ground. I moved terrifyingly closer expecting her to make a run for it as most other women would have under the circumstances.

With quicksilver speed she grabbed my neck with both hands. Not expecting the unexpected I blurted: “Hey what the heck do you think you are doing?”

“It’s called kissing, you fool! It’s a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous!”

Now that’s what I call a delectable word stopper ‘smackeroo’ that would have constrained anyone to lose his marbles!