What The Fish!
(Continued
from the last story on a fish called Sol in Assam!)
Decades back I was working in my hometown on my first job assignment. My office happened to be very near to the riverside and therefore, the local fish market at the jetty that thrived in selling fresh and live fish directly caught from the river was within walking distance. My mother’s constant errand had been to buy some fresh and ‘jumping’ local fish on my way back home from office. I wanted to on many occasions, but every time felt too bored to stroll down to the market and initiate a buying that invariably involved touching and ‘feeling’ the fishes on show.
One
day I made a resolve to fulfill her long-standing wish. So, after office hours
I went to that local fish market and indulged myself fully in the pre-buying
spree of seeing around. Really! The fishes there were very fresh with some of
them alive and jumping, literally. There were many choices before me and I had
to make up my mind. Unfortunately, I didn’t carry a bag and therefore, I could
not afford to buy several varieties together. The fish traders there were
mostly fishermen from the nearby villages who could not realistically offer the
usual facilities like bags and clean-ups or cuttings—something you had to
forego for the ‘local and fresh’ tag.
After
much ado about fish-finding I finally decided upon a Sol
fish—large-sized and live. As the fisherman took it out of his container it
nearly jumped out of his hands. He gave it a few lusty hits with his wooden
hammer, and the fish seemed to be out and gone. Then he wrapped it up neatly
with a newspaper sheet. I told him I had no bag and requested him to double
wrap. He did so telling me that the fish was not likely to revive and give any
sort of trouble to me while carrying.
I
took the fish-parcel under my right arm putting my left hand too on it and
walked to the nearby city-bus stop. There was no trouble on the way except for
an occasional stirring from within the newspaper wrap. As luck would have it I
got an empty slot at the middle of the longish rearmost seat that was
officially supposed to seat four passengers, but normally six packed in. Seated
in the middle I had no handrails for support in view of the jumps the bus took
while negotiating the usual bumps on the road, and I had no other option but to
put the parcel on my lap keeping my hands loosely over it.
Before
the bus reached the next stop there was a road-bump-induced jump that lifted me
nearly two feet up in air; however, I landed back safely, my hand clinging to
the parcel more tightly now. And then, there was another bump or jump or
whatever I was not at all prepared for.
It
seemed to have emanated from within the parcel. Before I could decipher it
correctly there was one more…rather a heave! This time I knew! The fish revived
too fast and was now trying to break free of the newspaper wrap giving me no
leverage whatsoever to protect against or prevent it. I got really worried. The
bus ride would take at least half an hour to reach my destination and there
would be an additional ten-minute walk home. I looked around at the fellow
passengers; luckily nobody was paying me any attention. So far, yes!
Bumps,
jumps and heaves followed at excruciatingly regular intervals, to my worsening
predicament. Even when there were no external bumps and jumps, I had the heaves
which made me shake uncontrollably. The fellow passengers now started looking
at me, not knowing the reasons for my apparent unrest or discomfort. I just
smiled back at them, somehow conveying an ‘understanding’ nod which, to my
further embarrassment, might have indicated certain medical conditions. I had
to do those ‘smiles’ and ‘nods’ several times more while putting all my efforts
and strength in keeping the fish under control.
Like
a seemingly endless night does end to a dawn of light, the tortuous journey
finally ended as the bus came to my destination stop. I shot up from the seat
and nearly jumped out of the bus. On the street now, I walked very fast holding
the parcel in both of my hands with all my might. The tireless fish kept me extremely
busy with the furtive looks around as an add-on, and as I hit the veranda of my
house it was my turn to heave a long…long sigh of relief.
My
mother was busy in the kitchen. I entered without any announcement and dumped
the parcel on the hard cement floor with tremendous force. My mother looked up
surprised at me, and then at the parcel on the floor. Seeing the rumpled curves
of the wrap quiver unevenly, my mother immediately unwrapped the parcel and
stared at the big fish. She was soon profuse with joy and appreciation. But I
was not in a reciprocating mood at all.
“Next
time you want live fish, provide me with a strong bag in advance,’ I commanded,
“Oh God! How exasperated and tired this damned fish made me!”
“A
mere fish making a healthy guy of 25 tired, huh? Ha…ha!” my mother laughed out
preparing to do the cleaning.
I
turned back impatiently and headed towards the wash basin. As I washed my hands
and face I could not help a smile too, a bit ruefully perhaps.
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