After all our games are played, we gather in a corner, resting from our physical exertion, and discuss the war.
'I love this war,' I say. 'It's so exciting. And my employer Neelima Kumari has given me the week off, because of the curfew.'
'Yes,' says Putul. 'My school has also been closed for a week.'
'I wish we had a war every month,' says Dhyanesh.
'Stop this nonsense, I say!' a man thunders behind our backs.
We turn around in alarm to see an old Sikh on crutches standing behind us. He is thin and tall, with a small, whiskery moustache on a weather-beaten face. He wears an olive-green turban to match his army uniform with lots of pockets and a big belt. He looks at us sternly and raises a finger accusingly. 'How dare you trivialize a war? War is a very serious business. It takes lives.'
Only then do we notice that he has a leg missing.
We learn that he is Lance Naik (retd) Balwant Singh. That he recently moved into our chawl, that he lives alone, and that he lost his leg in combat.
Having disciplined us, Balwant Singh hobbles forward on his crutches and sits down in the chair directly in front of the TV set.
The television is broadcasting live pictures of the war. The screen is cloaked in a hazy green light. We are shown a rocket launcher with a rocket loaded in it. A soldier presses a button and the rocket shoots off in a blaze of fire. After half a minute, we see a flash of greenish-yellow light far away in the distance and the sound of an explosion. 'We have hit the target perfectly,' declares an army officer standing next to the rocket launcher. He grins. His teeth seem unnaturally green. Within ten seconds another rocket is launched. The reporter turns around and says right into the camera, 'This was our live and exclusive coverage of the war in the Rajasthan sector. I am Sunil Vyas of Star News, embedded with 5th Division, returning you back to the studio.' We are not told what the target was, whether it was hit, how many people died in the attack, and how many survived. A famous singer comes on and begins singing old patriotic songs with gusto.
Lance Naik (retd) Balwant Singh gets up from his chair. 'This is not a real war,' he says in disgust. 'It is a joke. They are showing you a soap opera.'
Mr Wagle is not amused. 'Well, what is a real war, then?' he asks.
Balwant looks at Wagle with a soldier's contempt for a civilian. 'A real war is very different from this children's film. A real war has blood and guts. A real war has dead bodies and hands chopped off by enemy bayonets and legs blown off by shrapnel.'
'Which war did you fight in?' asks Mr Wagle.
'I fought in the last real war, the one in 1971,' Balwant Singh says proudly.
'Then why don't you tell us what a real war feels like?' says Mrs Damle.
'Yes, tell us, Uncle,' we clamour.
Balwant Singh sits down. 'You really want to know what a real war feels like? OK, then I will tell you my story. Of those fourteen glorious days when we won our most famous victory over Pakistan.'
We cluster around the old soldier like wide-eyed children before their grandfather.
Balwant Singh begins speaking. His eyes acquire that dreamy, far-off look people get when speaking of things long past. 'I will now take you back to 1971. To the most fateful period in the history of the Indian nation.'
A hush falls over the audience in the bunker. Mr Wagle turns down the volume on the TV set.
No one protests. The second-hand live report on TV is no match for the first-hand account of a real soldier.
'The last real war began on the third of December, 1971. I remember the date well because on the very day that war was declared, I received a letter from Pathankot, from my beloved wife, informing me that she had given birth to a baby boy, our first child. My wife wrote in her letter, "You are not with me, but I know you are fighting for your motherland, and this fills my heart with pride and joy. I will pray for your safety and, together with your son, I will wait for your victorious return."
'I cried when I read that letter, but these were tears of happiness. I was not crying because I was far away from my family at such a time. I was happy that I was going into battle with the blessings of my wife and fortified by the arrival of my newborn son.'
'What did she name your son?' asks Mrs Damle.
'Well, we had decided long before the birth that if it was a girl we would call her Durga, and if it was a boy we would name him Sher Singh. So Sher Singh it was.'
'How did the war begin?' asks Mr Shirke.
'On the night of December the third there was a new moon. Under cover of darkness, the cowardly enemy launched pre-emptive air strikes on a number of our airfields along the western sector – Srinagar, Avantipur, Pathankot, Uttarlai, Jodhpur, Ambala, Agra – all were strafed. The air strikes were followed by a massive attack on the strategic Chhamb sector in the north.'
'And where were you posted when war broke out?' asks Mr Wagle.
