This was an after 7 game; a game that combined the thrill of pursuit with the uncertain camouflage of darkness. No sporting equipment required, this was a hands free game. Your brush with what you thought espionage entailed. Terraces were out of bounds and meant immediate disqualification. No hiding in the water pump room. Those were the rules. But rules were meant to be broken. Especially when mother called out from the balcony saying food was ready.
Where did it end? Where did it begin? Was it the syllable or was it the sound? It was a race against time. Failing which the doomsday clock of ‘Tick-Tick-One, Tick-tick-Two...’ would begin chiming. The game was entirely about playful deadlines and shattered remnants of what was once a generation gap. Fathers, Uncles, Cousins – It didn’t matter. They were all pitted against each other and they all had an equal chance of winning. That is, of course, until an unexpected family member (usually a strict grandparent) breaks into an old Rafi classic. Antakshari made spellings fun and lyrics, weapons....