When marbles ruled

 WHEN MARBLES RULED....

I remember playing marbles in St Joseph’s, Allahabad, as a schoolboy. I The Boy's High School too. Walking—or cycling—to school, pockets heavy, mind already in the game before the first bell rang.

We played at home too with neighbours and friends and entire afternoons passed by with us engrossed in one game after another. What fun......

In many Indian boys’ schools, marbles weren’t just a game. They were currency. Reputation. A pocket-sized economy that announced itself before you even entered the gate.

Mornings began with a ritual. Uniform on, hair half-combed, shoes negotiable… and then the real decision: which marbles make the cut today? Into the pocket they went.

Jingle… jingle…

That sound on the walk—or the cycle ride—to school? That was swagger.

At home, they were stored like treasure. Usually in an old biscuit tin. Open it and you didn’t just see marbles—you saw victories. Losses. Stories. Sometimes they were washed, rolled in water, wiped on a shirt, brought back to a shine.

And then came the inspection.

The special ones were held up to the light—turned slowly between fingers, examined like a jeweller studying a precious stone. The swirl had to be right. The colour deep. The clarity perfect. These weren’t just marbles. These were assets.

There were types everyone knew. The tiny ones. The normal, everyday ones. And the prized oversized ones—bunta—solid, heavy, meant to dominate. Then there were the transparent ones—sodial—clear, almost glass-pure, catching the light in a way that made them feel rare, almost magical.

And of course, there was the buying.

That little corner shop outside school. For 1 paisa you got one marble… and on a generous day, maybe two. Bought in small paper packets, opened with anticipation, judged immediately. Good day or bad day decided right there.

But more than anything, boys loved to compete.

By the time school started, the market—and the rivalry—was already alive.

Break time? War.

Free period? Extended war.

Every group had its own adda—a patch of earth claimed over time. Under a tree, by a wall, behind the cycle stand. Territory was understood. No one crossed that line.

Games were simple. Stakes were not.

A circle in the dust. Marbles placed inside. One good shot—you win. One bad shot—you lose your best piece. Aim. Flick. Silence. Impact. Cheers. Groans. Collections changed hands in seconds.

And then came the losing streaks.

Pockets empty. Confidence shaken. But the game didn’t stop.

You borrowed.

From the winner, usually. A quiet deal. “I’ll return… with extra.” A few more marbles added later as interest—or penalty. Early lessons in risk, debt, and reputation. Fail to return, and your name travelled faster than any marble ever could.

There was always that one boy. Deadly accurate. Calm. Slightly feared.

And then… the crackdowns.

Prefects. Sudden, ruthless. A shout, a scramble, hands in pockets. Confiscation. Weeks of collecting gone in under a minute.

Teachers had their own breaking point.

Nothing irritated them more than betrayal by pocket—clink… clink… clink… as marbles escaped mid-lesson and rolled across the classroom floor. Every head turned. The owner froze.

Confiscated.

No discussion.

And yet, the next morning… same ritual.

And now, years later, it’s strange what stays.

Not the lessons. Not the exams.

But the feel of a marble in your hand. The weight of a bunta. The clarity of a sodial held up to the sun. The quiet pride of a full pocket. The sting of an empty one.

Memory is like that. It doesn’t keep the big things as carefully as we expect. It holds on to small, round pieces of time… smooth, colourful, slightly imperfect.

And sometimes, if you listen closely—

you can still hear it.

jingle… jingle… all the way to school.

Herman Gomes 

John Beveridge 

Krishna Mohan Trivedi 

Manish Chopra 

Neville N Helen Baker 

Dorothy Tressler 

Vernon Gosse 

Kenneth McGowan 

Glenn N Dorothy McGowan