Cochin, 18th March 2018: I woke up slightly dizzy from last night’s medicine but I desperately wanted to head out for a walk along the sea. I liked the city, its panorama and the salty breeze. It reminded me of my hometown. While most of Cochin is just like any other fast-paced city in the country, areas around Fort Kochi has a charm, like a soul that has been left undisturbed over the years. Much to my disappointment, my friend refused to get out of the bed, quoting tiredness. I was not convinced entirely and I chose to explore the city by myself. That is my chosen way to start a day in any new place – a long and casual walk, especially when it is blessed with a water-based landscape.
We visited the Chinese fishing nets the day before, with the setting sun forming a backdrop of crimson, orange and peach. I dared not to climb onto one of those humongous nets, definitely wished to though. I just clicked a couple of pictures to satiate myself and returned to the hotel. After dinner, as I was scrolling through the pictures, I stopped at the picture of the fishing nets and zoomed in to study the structure of the nets. Not a simple one and it is not an easy business for an installed fishing net to become a landmark that would define a city. Enthralled, I went to bed with a single thought, which is to climb the net the next morning, come what may.
The day dawned and it was time to go up the net. As I hurriedly walked to the sea, speculations of what it would be like crossed my mind, every time with a different emotional trigger. The seafront was busy, bustling with fishermen and local folk, haggling over the freshly caught, saltwater-drenched fishes. The jewels of the sea, as popularly referred to by fisher folks, the fishes glinted in woven baskets, waiting to be auctioned. I was soon drawn into the hungama and I pretty much forgot why I was there. Such is my love for fish, not just for the sake of how they treat my palate but for the stories and the drama that accompany them. With vivid details, I can recollect how Indumathi akka would come to give us fish every morning, face gleaming, vice soaring high and narrating stories of life and death that the sea brings.
After pulling myself out of the whirlwind of voices, I walked to one of the nearby nets. The sea was quiet and there I was, standing and questioning myself. As I had decided the previous night, I went up, one step at a time, holding the rope on the side. Once up, my legs felt relaxed, the dripping sweat settled and all the speculations came to a stop. That was it.
“Cheena Vala” exclaimed a voice from the other side of the net. I smiled and nodded.
That was the beginning of a brief yet brilliant conversation with a warm-hearted, 60-year-old stranger about fishing and life by the sea. He comes every day to fish, for his wife. “She loves fish”, he chuckled. Some days, he stays until the sun is up above the horizon but returns empty-handed. She is not disappointed, but to him, these fishes are images of what the sea is like to his blind wife. “I love this sea and I wish my wife relishes it too”, he told. By the time he wrapped up his story, I was sitting on a log and leaning over a long pole in the net, legs dangling below, comforted by his voice and the waves. It felt right. We all crave to express love but have our own ways of showing it.
For a brief moment, there was me, the old man and the sea.
Square One 