“Now is monsoon time. Too much wind. The sea is rough. Its not that I am afraid of rough sea. I am not afraid of anything. The fishes are afraid. Too much waves on surface and they sneak down to deep water. So even if we put big nest we get nothing. We run into loses, with thirty in the group and expense of diesel. We really don’t make anything to live these days. It’s the rough sea. But I am not afraid of anything….These are the time for resting. Aha”. He stretched himself in the sand. His taunt sleek black body, hand supporting the neck, gave the impression of a hooded snake. He shook his legs carelessly. There was a guarded defiance in his posture. It was not that I asked him that he volunteered this information. I had casually enquired his well being, before venturing into a routine query on his preoccupation for the day.
Those days, I spent inordinately longer -to be forthright, interminable periods on the beach. Ostensibly, to collect sea shells and stones for my ever enlarging aquarium but in reality slothful loitering. Although I had a fresh water aquarium with playful shoal of guppies, mollies and a pair of contented gold fishes, brightly lit with all modern contraptions, temptation to have a piece of blue lagoon in my bedside was too strong.
David was a neo-convert to Christianity. He belonged to a local brand of fishing caste which almost always found itself on the lower strata of caste hierarchy, even after converting to Christianity. The reason for which the community elders put, ironically as “their hardworking nature”.
“Fishing involves labour, hard work, so we are out-caste!” said one of the elder in wry sarcasm.
There was more to that, David enlightened me one day “we smell of fish. You really don’t expect me to smell of sandalwood after a night out in sea. That’s dirty for them”. He played with the imaginary thread along the shoulder to the waist, the sacred thread which distinguished a Brahmin. Then rotating his hand dramatically on his belly he said.
“Those potbellied temple squatters with constipated face can go to hell, for me this smell, this smell….” He pointed to the sea, then the sweat on his neck ”… is sacred, than anything else. I know more about ocean than any of these bald brahmins. Ignorant crab heads”.
He continued, looking loftily at the ocean.
“Life started in ocean. Early man lived in ocean. Gods lived in ocean. All life was in ocean “ He looked at me for response. I nodded suitably.
“Even the potbellies say the God first came as fish. Matsya avatara. How funny, they tell not to eat cows, but nothing against fish. Fish was avatara of vishnu! But they say nothing. Only if fish was white skinned, may be then the potbellies would scratch the ass“ He spoke so randomly that he was out of breath. After a momentary lapse he continued,
“These cross footed gas bellies are fake…” He said in an annoying and dismissing tone, abruptly ending the spasmodic monologue.
He limited his loathing against “Brahmins” only. Having ascertained my “non-Brahminical” status. Probably experience taught him, this to be safe. David I remember was a listless young fellow who talked animatedly about Hindi films, when I came here a year back. I occasionally bumped on to him in market places and bantered him on his latest crush on actresses. Madhuri dished (as he pronounced) always topped his list.
But that now seemed an aeon ago. In last few months he responded to my well meant charades with stiff blank face. Conversation if ever had a tone of belligerence and anger towards a lurking enemy.
“I heard this Brahmins are mugging good many books and running away to foreign land. To think that I never had a school to go. Suckers filled their bellies and flying away”. Or on one occasion. “Hey what this Brahminical talk of merit. Only meritorious should get the job. Huh. Tell me can a gold medalist from London be a good judge, for that matter chief justice? Tell me you have read English newspapers”. He asked, I remember murmuring some suitable adjectives.
“Pot bellied monsters licking books and vomiting it out. Colonial parasites”.
Its not that David did not go to school as he claimed. He dropped out in between. The reason ?
“They taught nothing about fish and fishing. For them A stands for Apple. From me A is always Aiyla. He said mischievously”.
Nothing however explained his vituperative, which were getting more pronounced and bellicose. True he read local newspapers in the village library, but those were filled with gossip columns. I later realised that his communal antagonism flared in my personage only. It may not be outrageous to even reason that probably he was rehearsing his lines for days and contrived these encounter. This possibility which looked rather plausible cautioned me to take the relationship in a broader perspective. After days of episodal dissection of his opprobrium, I found to my shock, something I overlooked (or was it my intellectual paucity?) David was using certain words and brought out issues of debates which were beyond the comprehension of a semi-literate, atleast to David whom I knew, never showed any inclination to these controversies, in our earlier meetings. He would lay on the moonlit beach and song the local folk lore.
God in ocean
My body the boat
Handles paddle passion
Moon O silver doll
Fishing my soul
My lover in the sky
Come down to sip
The toddy nectar in sly
But go out and burp
Burp Burp Burp
Gulping toddy and sometimes using the stumps of the tree to hammer the local beat. The effect was always magnetic and ended on hilarious note with him rolling on the sand. To think David now spoke of “American bound Brahmins”, “Colonial parasites” “London-bred judge” “Merit-reservation policy” was to me an anachronism. Again and again it flummoxed me. I decided with my years of aquarium nurturing circumspection that I need to understand David.
The dredging in the inland to expand the harbor was pushing sand into the beach. Through reefs it seeped into the ocean. This was causing problem for the local fisherman. During high monsoon, sea being rough, they avoided deep sea fishing. In high wind they even avoided shallow fishing. So they spread the net from the shore as the last mean for sustenance. Since the sand filling the coastline, the waves broke early, making the shore rough. And the fishes refuse to venture into these regions.
“Hey your high caste Engineers, puking their juvenile intelligence into our shore. We can’t live like this. These high bred urchins will go to hell”.
He surprised me. I was examining a calcinated rock with pores, this would go to the far left corner next to plastic plants, I visualised in my mind. So then is this the cause – the dredging, for his recent foul mouthing? I thought about it. Not exactly, I concluded. Dredging had been going on for last three years. Further all the fisher folk were affected. It’s another matter that they had put a formal complaint to the authorities, which was not heeded to. And not the least why all this vindictiveness towards me? I haven’t really hurt anyone knowingly till now (although predictability on this account remains rather precariously perched!) Thus I dismissed this possibility as a fragment of fiction. Another thought which strayed in my overstressed mind was the recent atrocities against the Christians in North India in particular Gujarat and Orissa. Has that something to do with David’s recent viciousness? Some macabre things were happening all around. The sudden upsurge of Hindu fundamentalism. Demolition of an old mosque, claimed as disputed structure, in Ayodhya. Communal riots in many parts of the country. Sudden spurting of mosques and temples in all open spaces. New found love for scriptures and burkahs. Pope pointing to Asia. Strains of vehemence in Sunday masses, muezzin calls and Maha artis.
I doubted that David was being sucked into this polarising whirlpool. The simple-hearted fisherman yielding to religious frenzy was baffling. What was more disconcerting was the percolation of events into this fishing hamlet, where I had to wait for one full day for my newspaper! Now it was my turn to contrive encounters. I would wait to bump into David at market places or beach. Though I gathered later that it was not really necessary, David always made an effort to locate me.
The very next day I saw him ambling out of church discussing some finer points with the new breed of Evangelists (in the name of Christ!) who were swarming the village. You could find them extolling the greater virtues of Christendom at market place, the same the local mullah with an eye on municipal election. Seeing me he fastened his pace towards me, abruptly ignoring his clique.
“You heard, they killed a christ man. Burnt alive with his two children. Holy spirits. Those Hindu scoundrels will go to Hell, enmasse, I tell you”. And added in order to placate me, I thought. “It must be the work of Brahmins in Delhi. The new rulers. Huh”. My worst fears were being confirmed. It was evident that he was referring to the murder of an Australian Christian missionary in Orissa, a place thousands of miles from this village. But he spoke of it intimately and as urgently as if it was in neighboring village. There was no use pointing out these geographical logistics. His eyes were flaming in revulsion. Anyway the repeated broadcasting in media had made it intimate. The riots and carnages around the world were shadowing the next door relations. I didn’t meet his eyes, not to intimidate and sauntered back silently with heavy heart to my home.
Next few days, I stayed in my home, clearing some pending work. Also whipping my book case, polishing the shells- to be placed in the aquarium, and other mundane occupation. Cheria, my old housemaid helped me here and here. She was a good cook. But everyday, atleast twice, she would say. “Ho ho kunju saar, you should get married. I know a girl in …” and would go on with good sprinkling of “reputed’ “nice” “settle” etc. Either I would ignore her, if I was too busy. She would babble continuously throughout the cooking, this was a habit. I hunch that this was her secret of good cooking. Other times I side-tracked her talk with rejoinders like “Cheria chi amma will you marry me?” This embarrassed her tremendously. And she spent next precious minutes trying to cover her toothless grim. Then there would be prolonged silence, she stealing few sneaks. On such occasions, I found food lacking in taste. Needless to say, I tried this subterfuge when I found her blabbering obnoxious.
I found David squatting on an upturned canoe under the canopy of a coconut tree. He apparently was in a deep thought, so didn’t see me coming. Now I could see him clearly. There was something melancholic about his expression I could be wrong, may be I am contrasting with the impressions of last encounter, which was fresh in my mind. David showed no surprise when he found me looming over him. He gave a strained smile.
“Shall we go for a walk in the beach” It was not a request. He said as if he had been expecting me.
I took off my footwear as we moved from the promenade to the bare sand. The ocean looked greenish in the overcast sky. There was pleasantness in the salty breeze, as it caressed my tired skin. I looked at David, he was again passive.
“Working barefoot on the beach sand helps the body” I said, to lighten the mood. He looked passively into the sea, ignoring me. The waves frolicked over each other. I dug my feet into the sand as I walked. Cracking the dead shells and feeling the coolness of the wet sand. Occasionally darting at the small crabs tacking through the sand, feeling his scornful eyes. But I ignored him, wet sand always sneaked out the latent child in me. However deep in me I was aware of the inner turmoil accosting David. These childish pranks, I knew was a distraction from this uncomfortable reality.
“After all my true identity is Dravid, not David”. He said wistfully which was the dominant mood this afternoon. Dravid the human race predominating South India.
I couldn’t comprehend his sufferings, but kept silent so as to let him speak his mind.
“Not even a Dravidian, my identity is that of a fisherman. First and foremost I am a fisherman. Than a Dravidian or a Christian, even an Indian. Only a fisherman can understand my life and only I can understand them. What these Evangelists know about fishing? Huh… What they know about my pain, my joy? They tell me to confess. Confess what? I want them to know and understand. They say I am a sinner. Sinner? Why may, l ask”.
He spoke passionately. I saw the approaching rain the horizon, mist was rising. Few fishermen were scampering for shade. The birds flew urgently towards the shore. The coconut trees at the far end had started swaying vigorously. He was not aware of the commotion. I knew as a man of sea he had the sixth sense of approaching rain, but he didn’t show it today.
Later at around midnight, I sat on my study, running the pointed pencil after a spider. It hid inside the gaps of “Bird watchers guide to South India”. I took a piece of paper drew some points randomly, then joined them in zig-zag lines. I did this when I had nothing else to do. Outside the world slept in silence, the rumblings of the sea was clearer. It thrashed onto the rocks in all its ancient fury. My thoughts were now fixated on David as I completed joining the points. I studied my effort (!) by moving it to and fro and squinting my eyes. It looked like fishing net, I thought. However there was a huge gap in the centre. I started drawing a fish, to fill the space. A fish with lushy lips, wide eyes and false brows. I smiled, but all the while my mind replaying the events of the day. I had always fancied myself to be a psychoanalyst of a sort. At the end of the day before snuggling into bed, I regularly wrote about people whom I found interesting and analyzing them in an amateurish zeal. Here I replicate what I wrote about David. Let me caution you on my poor language skills but I hope you will agree with my characterisation of David.
“Poor boy David. What will happen of him? I don’t now. No, I will write point wise that is easy. Yes.
1. David does not like Hindus (Muslim also, Yes)
2. David now does not like Christians
3. David does not want to be called Dravidian or Indian
4. David like Fisherman (fisherwoman too!) of all world. So he does like fishes more (stupid of me, I did erase this part later)
5. David is a nice boy”.
Offcourse these entries when I read five years hence, find not only ridiculous but thoughtless. Those daysI lived in a delusion of being a psychoanalyst and a writer. A fantastic combination, I thought. Much water has flowed since then.
As I finished entering the above in my notebook. I could not help comparing David with the fish, I recently drew. Trapped in the criss-crossing of lines, which looked to me a fishing net. I wrote “David” on the belly of the fish, along the scales. I was tired by the day’s exertion and next day had to go to town railway station. As a friend was coming from Delhi. She was my classmate and now worked in a computer firm in the metro city. She always chided me on my looney escapades in some “bygone fishing hamlet”. And coaxed me to come back to Delhi, “the heart city”. My immediate concern however as I slept was how to explain her presence to Cheria amma who would find her staying with me, nothing short of a scandal.
Few weeks later, I had just come back dropping my friend on her return journey. I stretched myself on the bed in fond memories of her presence. [About Cherichi amma? Well she found me “Shamelessly vile” and never saw her after]. There was a knock, it was David! And how he has changed, with neat shirt and clean shaved, back to old time spirit. He thumped me on the shoulders.
“What man not to be seen for long? Hibernating?” He laughed and I joined. He moved to my study table and looked at the sketch, now under the thick coat of dust. Kept staring at it for few minutes. My heart missed few beats. Since he had not really learnt English (I fervently hoped) and the fact that I had written his name quite illegibly (I was sure he wouldn’t read it). But still I waited with bated breath and an uncomfortable pan faced smile.
“Fish in the net. Not bad”. Then he looked at me and said “it reminds of you, trapped in the web of books”.
We had a hearty laugh.
Those days, I spent inordinately longer -to be forthright, interminable periods on the beach. Ostensibly, to collect sea shells and stones for my ever enlarging aquarium but in reality slothful loitering. Although I had a fresh water aquarium with playful shoal of guppies, mollies and a pair of contented gold fishes, brightly lit with all modern contraptions, temptation to have a piece of blue lagoon in my bedside was too strong.
David was a neo-convert to Christianity. He belonged to a local brand of fishing caste which almost always found itself on the lower strata of caste hierarchy, even after converting to Christianity. The reason for which the community elders put, ironically as “their hardworking nature”.
“Fishing involves labour, hard work, so we are out-caste!” said one of the elder in wry sarcasm.
There was more to that, David enlightened me one day “we smell of fish. You really don’t expect me to smell of sandalwood after a night out in sea. That’s dirty for them”. He played with the imaginary thread along the shoulder to the waist, the sacred thread which distinguished a Brahmin. Then rotating his hand dramatically on his belly he said.
“Those potbellied temple squatters with constipated face can go to hell, for me this smell, this smell….” He pointed to the sea, then the sweat on his neck ”… is sacred, than anything else. I know more about ocean than any of these bald brahmins. Ignorant crab heads”.
He continued, looking loftily at the ocean.
“Life started in ocean. Early man lived in ocean. Gods lived in ocean. All life was in ocean “ He looked at me for response. I nodded suitably.
“Even the potbellies say the God first came as fish. Matsya avatara. How funny, they tell not to eat cows, but nothing against fish. Fish was avatara of vishnu! But they say nothing. Only if fish was white skinned, may be then the potbellies would scratch the ass“ He spoke so randomly that he was out of breath. After a momentary lapse he continued,
“These cross footed gas bellies are fake…” He said in an annoying and dismissing tone, abruptly ending the spasmodic monologue.
He limited his loathing against “Brahmins” only. Having ascertained my “non-Brahminical” status. Probably experience taught him, this to be safe. David I remember was a listless young fellow who talked animatedly about Hindi films, when I came here a year back. I occasionally bumped on to him in market places and bantered him on his latest crush on actresses. Madhuri dished (as he pronounced) always topped his list.
But that now seemed an aeon ago. In last few months he responded to my well meant charades with stiff blank face. Conversation if ever had a tone of belligerence and anger towards a lurking enemy.
“I heard this Brahmins are mugging good many books and running away to foreign land. To think that I never had a school to go. Suckers filled their bellies and flying away”. Or on one occasion. “Hey what this Brahminical talk of merit. Only meritorious should get the job. Huh. Tell me can a gold medalist from London be a good judge, for that matter chief justice? Tell me you have read English newspapers”. He asked, I remember murmuring some suitable adjectives.
“Pot bellied monsters licking books and vomiting it out. Colonial parasites”.
Its not that David did not go to school as he claimed. He dropped out in between. The reason ?
“They taught nothing about fish and fishing. For them A stands for Apple. From me A is always Aiyla. He said mischievously”.
Nothing however explained his vituperative, which were getting more pronounced and bellicose. True he read local newspapers in the village library, but those were filled with gossip columns. I later realised that his communal antagonism flared in my personage only. It may not be outrageous to even reason that probably he was rehearsing his lines for days and contrived these encounter. This possibility which looked rather plausible cautioned me to take the relationship in a broader perspective. After days of episodal dissection of his opprobrium, I found to my shock, something I overlooked (or was it my intellectual paucity?) David was using certain words and brought out issues of debates which were beyond the comprehension of a semi-literate, atleast to David whom I knew, never showed any inclination to these controversies, in our earlier meetings. He would lay on the moonlit beach and song the local folk lore.
God in ocean
My body the boat
Handles paddle passion
Moon O silver doll
Fishing my soul
My lover in the sky
Come down to sip
The toddy nectar in sly
But go out and burp
Burp Burp Burp
Gulping toddy and sometimes using the stumps of the tree to hammer the local beat. The effect was always magnetic and ended on hilarious note with him rolling on the sand. To think David now spoke of “American bound Brahmins”, “Colonial parasites” “London-bred judge” “Merit-reservation policy” was to me an anachronism. Again and again it flummoxed me. I decided with my years of aquarium nurturing circumspection that I need to understand David.
The dredging in the inland to expand the harbor was pushing sand into the beach. Through reefs it seeped into the ocean. This was causing problem for the local fisherman. During high monsoon, sea being rough, they avoided deep sea fishing. In high wind they even avoided shallow fishing. So they spread the net from the shore as the last mean for sustenance. Since the sand filling the coastline, the waves broke early, making the shore rough. And the fishes refuse to venture into these regions.
“Hey your high caste Engineers, puking their juvenile intelligence into our shore. We can’t live like this. These high bred urchins will go to hell”.
He surprised me. I was examining a calcinated rock with pores, this would go to the far left corner next to plastic plants, I visualised in my mind. So then is this the cause – the dredging, for his recent foul mouthing? I thought about it. Not exactly, I concluded. Dredging had been going on for last three years. Further all the fisher folk were affected. It’s another matter that they had put a formal complaint to the authorities, which was not heeded to. And not the least why all this vindictiveness towards me? I haven’t really hurt anyone knowingly till now (although predictability on this account remains rather precariously perched!) Thus I dismissed this possibility as a fragment of fiction. Another thought which strayed in my overstressed mind was the recent atrocities against the Christians in North India in particular Gujarat and Orissa. Has that something to do with David’s recent viciousness? Some macabre things were happening all around. The sudden upsurge of Hindu fundamentalism. Demolition of an old mosque, claimed as disputed structure, in Ayodhya. Communal riots in many parts of the country. Sudden spurting of mosques and temples in all open spaces. New found love for scriptures and burkahs. Pope pointing to Asia. Strains of vehemence in Sunday masses, muezzin calls and Maha artis.
I doubted that David was being sucked into this polarising whirlpool. The simple-hearted fisherman yielding to religious frenzy was baffling. What was more disconcerting was the percolation of events into this fishing hamlet, where I had to wait for one full day for my newspaper! Now it was my turn to contrive encounters. I would wait to bump into David at market places or beach. Though I gathered later that it was not really necessary, David always made an effort to locate me.
The very next day I saw him ambling out of church discussing some finer points with the new breed of Evangelists (in the name of Christ!) who were swarming the village. You could find them extolling the greater virtues of Christendom at market place, the same the local mullah with an eye on municipal election. Seeing me he fastened his pace towards me, abruptly ignoring his clique.
“You heard, they killed a christ man. Burnt alive with his two children. Holy spirits. Those Hindu scoundrels will go to Hell, enmasse, I tell you”. And added in order to placate me, I thought. “It must be the work of Brahmins in Delhi. The new rulers. Huh”. My worst fears were being confirmed. It was evident that he was referring to the murder of an Australian Christian missionary in Orissa, a place thousands of miles from this village. But he spoke of it intimately and as urgently as if it was in neighboring village. There was no use pointing out these geographical logistics. His eyes were flaming in revulsion. Anyway the repeated broadcasting in media had made it intimate. The riots and carnages around the world were shadowing the next door relations. I didn’t meet his eyes, not to intimidate and sauntered back silently with heavy heart to my home.
Next few days, I stayed in my home, clearing some pending work. Also whipping my book case, polishing the shells- to be placed in the aquarium, and other mundane occupation. Cheria, my old housemaid helped me here and here. She was a good cook. But everyday, atleast twice, she would say. “Ho ho kunju saar, you should get married. I know a girl in …” and would go on with good sprinkling of “reputed’ “nice” “settle” etc. Either I would ignore her, if I was too busy. She would babble continuously throughout the cooking, this was a habit. I hunch that this was her secret of good cooking. Other times I side-tracked her talk with rejoinders like “Cheria chi amma will you marry me?” This embarrassed her tremendously. And she spent next precious minutes trying to cover her toothless grim. Then there would be prolonged silence, she stealing few sneaks. On such occasions, I found food lacking in taste. Needless to say, I tried this subterfuge when I found her blabbering obnoxious.
I found David squatting on an upturned canoe under the canopy of a coconut tree. He apparently was in a deep thought, so didn’t see me coming. Now I could see him clearly. There was something melancholic about his expression I could be wrong, may be I am contrasting with the impressions of last encounter, which was fresh in my mind. David showed no surprise when he found me looming over him. He gave a strained smile.
“Shall we go for a walk in the beach” It was not a request. He said as if he had been expecting me.
I took off my footwear as we moved from the promenade to the bare sand. The ocean looked greenish in the overcast sky. There was pleasantness in the salty breeze, as it caressed my tired skin. I looked at David, he was again passive.
“Working barefoot on the beach sand helps the body” I said, to lighten the mood. He looked passively into the sea, ignoring me. The waves frolicked over each other. I dug my feet into the sand as I walked. Cracking the dead shells and feeling the coolness of the wet sand. Occasionally darting at the small crabs tacking through the sand, feeling his scornful eyes. But I ignored him, wet sand always sneaked out the latent child in me. However deep in me I was aware of the inner turmoil accosting David. These childish pranks, I knew was a distraction from this uncomfortable reality.
“After all my true identity is Dravid, not David”. He said wistfully which was the dominant mood this afternoon. Dravid the human race predominating South India.
I couldn’t comprehend his sufferings, but kept silent so as to let him speak his mind.
“Not even a Dravidian, my identity is that of a fisherman. First and foremost I am a fisherman. Than a Dravidian or a Christian, even an Indian. Only a fisherman can understand my life and only I can understand them. What these Evangelists know about fishing? Huh… What they know about my pain, my joy? They tell me to confess. Confess what? I want them to know and understand. They say I am a sinner. Sinner? Why may, l ask”.
He spoke passionately. I saw the approaching rain the horizon, mist was rising. Few fishermen were scampering for shade. The birds flew urgently towards the shore. The coconut trees at the far end had started swaying vigorously. He was not aware of the commotion. I knew as a man of sea he had the sixth sense of approaching rain, but he didn’t show it today.
Later at around midnight, I sat on my study, running the pointed pencil after a spider. It hid inside the gaps of “Bird watchers guide to South India”. I took a piece of paper drew some points randomly, then joined them in zig-zag lines. I did this when I had nothing else to do. Outside the world slept in silence, the rumblings of the sea was clearer. It thrashed onto the rocks in all its ancient fury. My thoughts were now fixated on David as I completed joining the points. I studied my effort (!) by moving it to and fro and squinting my eyes. It looked like fishing net, I thought. However there was a huge gap in the centre. I started drawing a fish, to fill the space. A fish with lushy lips, wide eyes and false brows. I smiled, but all the while my mind replaying the events of the day. I had always fancied myself to be a psychoanalyst of a sort. At the end of the day before snuggling into bed, I regularly wrote about people whom I found interesting and analyzing them in an amateurish zeal. Here I replicate what I wrote about David. Let me caution you on my poor language skills but I hope you will agree with my characterisation of David.
“Poor boy David. What will happen of him? I don’t now. No, I will write point wise that is easy. Yes.
1. David does not like Hindus (Muslim also, Yes)
2. David now does not like Christians
3. David does not want to be called Dravidian or Indian
4. David like Fisherman (fisherwoman too!) of all world. So he does like fishes more (stupid of me, I did erase this part later)
5. David is a nice boy”.
Offcourse these entries when I read five years hence, find not only ridiculous but thoughtless. Those daysI lived in a delusion of being a psychoanalyst and a writer. A fantastic combination, I thought. Much water has flowed since then.
As I finished entering the above in my notebook. I could not help comparing David with the fish, I recently drew. Trapped in the criss-crossing of lines, which looked to me a fishing net. I wrote “David” on the belly of the fish, along the scales. I was tired by the day’s exertion and next day had to go to town railway station. As a friend was coming from Delhi. She was my classmate and now worked in a computer firm in the metro city. She always chided me on my looney escapades in some “bygone fishing hamlet”. And coaxed me to come back to Delhi, “the heart city”. My immediate concern however as I slept was how to explain her presence to Cheria amma who would find her staying with me, nothing short of a scandal.
Few weeks later, I had just come back dropping my friend on her return journey. I stretched myself on the bed in fond memories of her presence. [About Cherichi amma? Well she found me “Shamelessly vile” and never saw her after]. There was a knock, it was David! And how he has changed, with neat shirt and clean shaved, back to old time spirit. He thumped me on the shoulders.
“What man not to be seen for long? Hibernating?” He laughed and I joined. He moved to my study table and looked at the sketch, now under the thick coat of dust. Kept staring at it for few minutes. My heart missed few beats. Since he had not really learnt English (I fervently hoped) and the fact that I had written his name quite illegibly (I was sure he wouldn’t read it). But still I waited with bated breath and an uncomfortable pan faced smile.
“Fish in the net. Not bad”. Then he looked at me and said “it reminds of you, trapped in the web of books”.
We had a hearty laugh.
