I was around six years of age that time. Summer holidays were suffocatingly pleasurable with so much freedom and so little options to run away from home to play. A sense of unlimited options to explore my fantasies always resulted in adventures that were understood and appreciated only by me. Like walking along the railway track till I felt that I crossed the border of country within an hour and suddenly started feeling hungry pangs in my little tummy then… with a desperate look towards the horizon where the parallel tracks meet (Well…. I always tried to reach that point where the tracks met at distance infinite. But I always used to get hungry in between). And return back where I came back. By the time I reached home my legs were lead and I used to walk like a deep-sea diver on seabed.
Used to chomp up what ever mom gave with no complaints other wise was a diatribe about finding onion silvers, chopped coriander, and gawky garlic… Yikess…. Why can’t U make a curry with no vegetables in it?? I used to scream at my mom. Some times she used to answer me responsibly and patiently and other times she simply used to take away the plate before me, which I forcefully retrieved back. I used to eat al that stuff as my face getting contorted in unspeakable modern art form.
Then next day I used to hunt for places where they were constructing new homes. For they used to pour huge mountains of sand and I thought even Himalayas are not so tall. And believe me… with no harness and rope and no mountaineering gear or shoes and no rescue helicopters I used to scale the sand mountain as my stick thin legs get buried till my knees. And high from up I used to watch the head tops of my other pals who were attempting the same adventure. Then suddenly from nowhere the guard came running towards us and we jumped off the cliff (I mean sand mountain cliff) like Agent 007 of British secret services (But of course with no custom made parachute give by Mr. Q). And used to run like wind back to home.
With lungs heaving and hair disheveled we refused to wash our feet that were sprinkled with fine sand. Then dad used to reward my adventure with a high impact hand imprint on my back that radiated thermal energy greater than all of the nuclear power plants of the world put together. That’s how I was forced against my will to be clean.
Great…
Now for fishing. I used to look at awe as fishermen bring fish as big as me. I thought that fishing is the greatest adventure man could ever get involved with. But when I took a look at a breath-taking pond my heart slipped off my chest cavity and ran deeper in to my tummy. I thought it’s a bad idea to go inside the pond, as I did not even taken a few steps the water came to my chest level.
Nahh… I told my self. But my determination to fish was over powering. And my disappointment was profound. After a few days of exploration in unexplored region of my small town I discovered a small stream with pockets of ditches with static water. And wow… I saw tiny fishes swimming happy within. I screamed in joy… perhaps even Christopher Columbus, Vasco D’Gama and even the great Magellan could not have screamed the way I did. My next step was to jump in the ditch in glee…
Opps… suddenly I discovered that the clear water in the ditch has became cloudy and wall the tiny fishes ran away as if they witnessed a riot. I could not quite comprehend what happened. And I stood there for a while as swirling dust settled and water became clear again. Now I see fishes again. I tried cupping them in my tiny hands but damn it they were too fast. I spent next four hours trying to catch them and only getting my underpants wet in the process. This is madness, I decided. I came out went back home.
Night was restless for me in devising devious plans to catch tiny fish. Mom’s sari gave me an idea. Next day armed with a piece of cloth I marched towards the stream and water pockets like Alexander the great headed towards India. This time I was too careful not to jump in the water and make it cloudy. I asked my other friend who is equally keen on mastering the art of fishing… two corners of the cloth and I held the other two. And there we go… Voila… the tiny unsuspecting fish… although suspecting the sudden panoramic pattern emerged beneath them other than yesterday’s muddy background.
And here…. We pulled the cloth high up as water gushed down and tiny fishys wiggled in fear. Then we put then in a bottle filled with water. Now we had a slight altercation over sharing fish amongst us. I insisted that the idea was mine hence the intellectual property rights applied there of shall make me automatically a bigger share holder in this venture. My pal said with out him holding the other corned of the cloth I would have been dived in to the stream and be greeted by all those fish in real time.
I grumbled and shared the tiny fish we caught. I got four fish as my share. That day onwards I was too obsessed with my fish. I used to look at them as they swam either in confusion or glee all around the bottle in which they were imprisoned. I used to feed them with boiled rice I picked from my own meal day in day out.
And after six days as I rubbed my eyes out of my bed and walked toward the bottle, my heart stopped. It was a betrayal worst than Brutus inflicted on Caesar. Two my fish sprouted hind legs…
They were all tadpoles.
Damn it…
I screamed louder than Count Vlad when he discovered that his Mina killed herself.
Great… I decided that not all fish are fish. Some of them are tadpoles.
No thanks to you… Don’t laugh… OK?????
Used to chomp up what ever mom gave with no complaints other wise was a diatribe about finding onion silvers, chopped coriander, and gawky garlic… Yikess…. Why can’t U make a curry with no vegetables in it?? I used to scream at my mom. Some times she used to answer me responsibly and patiently and other times she simply used to take away the plate before me, which I forcefully retrieved back. I used to eat al that stuff as my face getting contorted in unspeakable modern art form.
Then next day I used to hunt for places where they were constructing new homes. For they used to pour huge mountains of sand and I thought even Himalayas are not so tall. And believe me… with no harness and rope and no mountaineering gear or shoes and no rescue helicopters I used to scale the sand mountain as my stick thin legs get buried till my knees. And high from up I used to watch the head tops of my other pals who were attempting the same adventure. Then suddenly from nowhere the guard came running towards us and we jumped off the cliff (I mean sand mountain cliff) like Agent 007 of British secret services (But of course with no custom made parachute give by Mr. Q). And used to run like wind back to home.
With lungs heaving and hair disheveled we refused to wash our feet that were sprinkled with fine sand. Then dad used to reward my adventure with a high impact hand imprint on my back that radiated thermal energy greater than all of the nuclear power plants of the world put together. That’s how I was forced against my will to be clean.
Great…
Now for fishing. I used to look at awe as fishermen bring fish as big as me. I thought that fishing is the greatest adventure man could ever get involved with. But when I took a look at a breath-taking pond my heart slipped off my chest cavity and ran deeper in to my tummy. I thought it’s a bad idea to go inside the pond, as I did not even taken a few steps the water came to my chest level.
Nahh… I told my self. But my determination to fish was over powering. And my disappointment was profound. After a few days of exploration in unexplored region of my small town I discovered a small stream with pockets of ditches with static water. And wow… I saw tiny fishes swimming happy within. I screamed in joy… perhaps even Christopher Columbus, Vasco D’Gama and even the great Magellan could not have screamed the way I did. My next step was to jump in the ditch in glee…
Opps… suddenly I discovered that the clear water in the ditch has became cloudy and wall the tiny fishes ran away as if they witnessed a riot. I could not quite comprehend what happened. And I stood there for a while as swirling dust settled and water became clear again. Now I see fishes again. I tried cupping them in my tiny hands but damn it they were too fast. I spent next four hours trying to catch them and only getting my underpants wet in the process. This is madness, I decided. I came out went back home.
Night was restless for me in devising devious plans to catch tiny fish. Mom’s sari gave me an idea. Next day armed with a piece of cloth I marched towards the stream and water pockets like Alexander the great headed towards India. This time I was too careful not to jump in the water and make it cloudy. I asked my other friend who is equally keen on mastering the art of fishing… two corners of the cloth and I held the other two. And there we go… Voila… the tiny unsuspecting fish… although suspecting the sudden panoramic pattern emerged beneath them other than yesterday’s muddy background.
And here…. We pulled the cloth high up as water gushed down and tiny fishys wiggled in fear. Then we put then in a bottle filled with water. Now we had a slight altercation over sharing fish amongst us. I insisted that the idea was mine hence the intellectual property rights applied there of shall make me automatically a bigger share holder in this venture. My pal said with out him holding the other corned of the cloth I would have been dived in to the stream and be greeted by all those fish in real time.
I grumbled and shared the tiny fish we caught. I got four fish as my share. That day onwards I was too obsessed with my fish. I used to look at them as they swam either in confusion or glee all around the bottle in which they were imprisoned. I used to feed them with boiled rice I picked from my own meal day in day out.
And after six days as I rubbed my eyes out of my bed and walked toward the bottle, my heart stopped. It was a betrayal worst than Brutus inflicted on Caesar. Two my fish sprouted hind legs…
They were all tadpoles.
Damn it…
I screamed louder than Count Vlad when he discovered that his Mina killed herself.
Great… I decided that not all fish are fish. Some of them are tadpoles.
No thanks to you… Don’t laugh… OK?????
1 comment:
innocently funny !
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