They were an intrepid lot. Overly energetic, suffused with a spirit of adventure and a life force to match. Their wont — to wander into the unknown and against the flow, literally.
It all started one stormy night. Thunder, lightning and torrential rain, we know, can act as catalysts for poets and lovers. So also for these slippery creatures, singi, magur and koi.
That tempestuous night, the denizens of a pond in Konnagar made good use of their pectoral fins, swam against the gushing waters and into the slush around. For those who don’t know, unlike their well-behaved brethren — rui, katla, mrigel, pabda — these fish are designed to be fearless. They can actually breathe in air directly and can survive in very little water. Sometimes they can “walk” on land too, especially during the monsoons when it’s breeding season. So when it pours and there’s water everywhere, with much of it flowing into ponds and canals, it’s pure romp time for them.
For this bunch though, this freedom to explore the wider world proved short-lived. Along with scores of others, they were caught by a gleeful bunch of boys adept at trawling muddy fields in the middle of the night for such bounty.
The runaways were released into their new home — large clay pots filled with water. And there they would have remained had it not been for destiny.
Their captors happen to be the sons of the dear woman who cooks for me and my family. Anjana was in Konnagar on the night of the big catch. The next day, before she left for Calcutta, she transferred some of the fish into a five-litre water bottle, which was slit strategically at the neck to slide them in.
The fiercest of the lot was a fat magur, nearly a foot long. There were also smaller singi and magur, and a couple of koi. It was not a short journey they embarked on. There was the rickshaw ride to Konnagar station, followed by the train ride to Howrah. True, a lot of fish take the train to reach the city markets, but how many get to travel in an AC Volvo bus? They did, from Howrah to home.
Once all that journeying was over, Anjana poured the lot into the largest dekchi in our house.
Finally, they were able to stretch themselves, I thought. By way of added affection for the new arrivals, I poured some more water into the dekchi and threw in a spoonful of rice.
“Do not remove the lid,” warned our wise woman. She had left a slight gap, and that was it. But I was only half listening.
Every once in a while, I was tempted to see them at play and I would pry open the lid some more. Once, one fellow jumped out. There were shrieks and screams, and “I told you not to”. The little adventurer was promptly caught and slid back into where it was supposed to be. A basket of potatoes was placed on the lid.
Come night, the household fell quiet, except for the humming of the fridge and fans, and the tap-tapping of computer keys. There were stir-rings from the dekchi, the occasional splash and that was it.
And then came that familiar sound. Rolling thunder, flashes of lightning on the window panes, followed by that most liberating gush-gush of sheets of water hitting the ground. What a lovely symphony, I thought.
I went to check on my friends one last time. They were on a dance! They ought to be able to hear more, feel more, breathe more, I thought. Looking around, I found a large mesh amidst the odd clutter in a corner.
I replaced the dekchi lid with the mesh, put a bottle and a gourd on top, flicked in a handful of muri and watched them for a while. The heavenly concert played on.
When I woke up the next morning, it was to loud shrieks and Anjana on all fours circling the living room.
The gritty dozen had jumped the dekchi and were roaming our home with gusto. Some of them were under the sofa, some under the kitchen sink. The big magur was under the shoe rack and the kois under the bookshelf.