Our Kahani

I Catch Fish.

When I was a boy, my favourite part of getting up at dawn was hearing the birds. As the rays of the sun stretched

 to greet the sky, the seagulls would swoop across the barren beach trilling in joy of a beautiful new day. Their lovely cooing was accompanied by the sound of the call to prayer echoing peacefully from a single speaker. 

My father would wake me up in a soft voice, his face all wrinkles and brown skin as he hung over me. "Uth, beta. Suraj nikl raha hai. Humain kishti nikalni hai" (Wake up, son. The sun is coming out. We have to take out the boat). My father, Abba I called him, would then give me two bananas and last night's leftover rice for breakfast, waiting patiently as I changed into my day clothes. We would leave our small hut, with my mother and two sisters still asleep, and make our way towards the coast.

It was so empty, the big beach, as we walked across it every dawn. Empty except for us, the other fisherman and the few families of seagulls. White and smelling of the morning. The feeling of the cool sand in between my toes as I walked barefoot and the early morning wind in my hair, smelling of salt and freshness, those were the mornings I remember so fondly.

Now I don't smell that wind anymore.

I remember abba's gruff greetings to the other fishermen. He never smiled at any of them. Not because he was unfriendly, no. I think it was because old men did not smile at each other. They would show their affection for each other through shared cigarettes and complaints about the weather. Together, all the old men and their sons would make their way to the pier where the boats were tied up. we would shoo away the birds settled on the nets and use old, rusty water cans to get rid of the dirty water that had accumulated at the bottom of the boat in the night. Ours was a little wooden boat, smaller than the other fishermen. Abba made it himself. Once, I asked him how he made his own boat, and he replied, "With my two hands, and out of necessity, my son."

I didn't understand him then. I do now.

I would watch as Abba pushed the boat out to sea, straining with exertion, and relaxing as the boat meets the water. I gathered the nets, hooks and lines, and bait, and hopped up beside hime in the boat. As we set out, a small fleet of ships out into the huge, misty ocean, the sun would be coming out fully.

Abba was silent and thoughtful as we rowed out into the coast. His sun-browned skin deep was rich against his snowy white hair, and his forehead was wrinkled in concentration. He would relax as soon as the boat touched the water, gliding along calmly.

I remember how Abba used to always take the name of Allah and recite the Ayat Al Kursi* before each journey. I do the same everytime now. All the boats set out together, as determined as a fleet of ships set out for a war. The water was irridescent blue. I would sit with my chin on the edge of the boat, loking at the blue water slowly, lazily lap at the bottom of the boat. Abba used to get seasick when he was my age, the bobbing waves always made him nauseous. Not me. The constant movement of the sea always thrilled me, made me feel life I was floating.... which I was.

Looking at the deep blue water, I used to wish I knew how far it went, what lived in the depths. I felt a strong, tugging urge to leap in, at the same time I had an urgent feeling holding me back. Oh God, how I love the sea.

"time to catch fish!" Abba would say with a smile. I would never admit it to him, but I felt good when he asked for my help. It made me feel important way beyond my years. Together, we would hoist up the nets and, holding the ropes at the edges, we would throw them into the water with a groan. After all the nets were secured, Abba would work on the hooks. I watched is hands has he worked. Qiuck, nimble and deft, yet showing his years on the seas through the tanned, rope-roughened and wrinkled skin. Showing a life of hard work through the many scars and marks, due to years working with hooks and lines.

As we would wait for unwitting fish to wander into our waiting net, Abba would tell me stories. He told me of the Little Fish Lost on its Way Home, and of the Thirsty Crow. He told me of The Time When We Were A Part of India, and How We Seperated From It. He told me of the Prophets of Islam, And of Prophet Yunus (Jonah) who was swallowed by a whale. I sometimes asked him, "Will we ever catch a whale, Abba ji?" He would always laughingly reply, " When you grow up, Rashid, you might catch a whale, son"

The whole day would be spent on the sea. Sometimes we caught many fish, sometimes we caught few. An hour or two before the dusk, We would row our day's haul back to the village. Most of it was sold to a rich man who came from Karachi. The rest was kept on ice blocks in a tub in our home. In the evenings Amma, mother, would make spicy shrimp and cook fresh fish over an open fire.

My fondest memories are of my childhood.

Abba died a year before I got married, and Amma passed away two years after him. I now have two sons, a daughter and a grand daughter. I, like Abba, have spent my life on the waves. 

But it is not the same.

That fresh, cool, salty sea air that used to greet me every dawn is now dispersed with the smell of diesel and litter. The water where I fish is now murky with discharge from boats. Peaceful, quiet mornings have been replaced by machinery noise, the birds chased away by the construction on the beach.

Both my sons have gone to Karachi to train as factory workers. Neither of them wanted to pursue the seas, or to learn the artful trade of their father and grandfather. For them, I could not provide an appropriate life. I now spend my days looking to the horizon and wondering where this world is going. I wait for death to strike me soon. 

And I catch fish.

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*Ayat Al Kursi : A verse of the Quran recited for protection

Abba : Father in Urdu

Amma : Mother ^

Karachi : A city. DUH. No seriously, the major port city of Pakistan.