It was usually a holiday trademark event and a family tradition when all of us gathered around the Spell-o-Fun board, the board game, picked the coins and started building the words. The image of thatha in the midst of it all - dominant, vociferous, usually good-humoured swings into the frame. She is too small to make the words on her own, they usually said and I and the other children had an adult to "supervise" and "help". Sometimes I got thatha. The start of the word-building game was always good. We were all well-behaved, seated on the floor, coins and board spread out and if there was something good one of us spotted, then a separate secret exchange to ensure that the word was right, spellings correct etc. As the pressure and the points started building, the elders usually took over the 'fun game', sometimes nearly snatching the coins out of our hand, making a grab for the dictionary to strongly contest an opponent's word and sometimes stealing sly glances through other possible bonus point words while turning the pages.
Thatha, of course had to steamroller ahead - in points, in words or in the way in which he finished. As the board filled, he would get restless, usually stand up and after a point lean over the board as if an aerial view would give him some clue - some brainwave that being seated on the floor eluded. Towards the end, when it was those critical last couple of words and letters left he would pick up the unspent letter and chase around the board with his eyes, looking for that gap or that space where it could fit. I would coax quietly or make a timid suggestion if I was on his team, but more often than not he would try to shout down the "opponent's" words or moves as being illegal, muting his protest when he found that actually he hadn't much of a case, or better still, the other move had given him an advantage.
The classic finale of the family gathering, was the best . With all these vocal cord advantages, thatha was usually ahead in the game, but if anyone else dared finish their coins first while he was still struggling with those remaining letters, he had a simple but effective finishing touch. After the usual attempts at protest that he would unveil, if he did find no use in that, he would just bend over and swoop down on some two hours of labour and jumble the whole board with one sweep of his hand. Even as we watched aghast, he would pick himself up and walk off - "I have to rush for something important, I am not playing in this game" giving us a good long view of his receding back.
As it was thatha, we usually never said anything. The next time around, when we played Spell-o-Fun, he was back, boisterous and enthusiastic as ever. Of course, we just played along.
