The summer I was 14, we swaggered about like John Wayne, with a 'catty' hanging from the neck. These were home-made catapults, with half-round carbon reinforced, vulcanized rubber.

On this blazing hot summer day which I remember so well, Johnnie and I, ever restless, wandered over to the School playing fields well before the hockey match was due to start. High on a Peepul tree overlooking the Pavilion, a solitary Bulbul, head cocked, was singing its heart out; we stopped to listen to the clear, sweet notes trilling in the summer air. Johnnie turned to me, 'Bet you cant', he said. Without a word, eyes fixed on the bird, I took up my catty, put a pebble in the leather pouch (or pidthee), aimed along the pulled back rubber and released the stone.

At a full 70 feet, the chances of hitting the bird were small. But this time the shot sped true and the bird fell. I ran down and picked up the body of the headless Bulbul. It lay warm in my palm, the breeze ruffling the soft downy feathers about its neck. And then, an awful guilt hit me almost physically in the pit of my stomach and my mouth tasted sour like a boxers when hit in the gut. Oh God, dear God, what have I done?

On a whim I had destroyed a beautiful, harmless creature which gave pleasure to all. My eyes misting over, I threw the catty away in disgust, but the pain and the shame still remain and will forever. I did not go shooting again until 5 years later, but this time it was on shikari (big game hunt) for Tiger with a professional shikar (hunter), who had a withered arm. My humble tasks were to pull/push/heave the great man onto a tree overlooking the watering hole, lug up the guns, pour the coffee (which tasted of Triple X rum), and remain ALERT. But that night Sher Khan did not oblige. Some years later I heard that the shikar had been mauled to death by a wounded tiger. He had neglected a cardinal rule of shikari: Do NOT approach a wounded tiger before putting in another shot or two, even if it spoils the trophy skin. But that is another story.

By Jason.S.