The curtains danced over my face, its threads caressing my shut eyes as the morning sun rose above my house and illuminated my room. My eyes were still shut but my ears weren’t, because someone decided to yell my name loudly in what I thought was a dream. But like every other day, it was my father yelling at the top of his voice trying to wake me up when I was busy enjoying my sleep early in the morning. All good things come to an end and so did my sleep when my father walked up to my bed that particular morning and yelled my name into my ear, “Prakash!” he yelled. My typical reaction would have been to go on a killing spree, since sleep has always been my first priority. But when your father is an ex-black-cat commando, you don’t wake up with a grumpy face or a heavy sigh; you wake up with a jump, sit up straight, and make the bed with no questions asked. My father expected me to do all this in one swift movement of my complete body, in under 10 seconds.
That particular morning though he was in quite a hurry, which I thought was normal. Till he told me to finish my coffee quickly and come down to the garage. Now that was a sign of trouble, because whenever my father did that it was either to buy some meat that he’ll make me clean or for a run which always ended with me ending kilometres behind my father. Sometimes he just called me to wash the car, which I thought was worse than torture. Keeping my fingers crossed, I went to the garage only to see my father waiting in the car for me.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Vizhinjam” he replied.
Vizhinjam is a beach very near to its famous brother Kovalam, but isn’t as huge or clean as the latter. Over the years this beach had become a place for fishermen to unload and sell their fishes to fisherwomen, who would then sell these fishes in all the fish markets scattered over the city, at exorbitant prices if I might add. My grandfather used to go directly to these market places early in the morning and buy the best fish, which were usually auctioned, and my dad continued this tradition.
“Are we going to bid?” I asked my father.
This was the first time I was attending an auction and maybe that excitement was a little too evident in my voice.
“Maybe, if we find some good fish at the right price,” he replied.
Since his reply wasn’t encouraging enough, I sat back in my seat and started thinking about the smell and muck I would have to endure on the vast beach. As if I wasn't scared by every creepy crawly living being enough, fear of half-dead fishes with sharp scales that could cut your hand was pretty reassuring. I just wished by dad would handle them and I would carry them in the sañci (carry bag) till the car to feel like a man. I didn't like touching the slimy, pointy and beach sand covered creatures.
After an endless drive, we finally reached a crowded Vizhinjam beach. So crowded, that the ocean was hardly visible from the parking spot. Both of us decided very quickly, not to take the car any farther because it was my grandfather’s car. So we left the car, with only money and car keys in my father’s hands. We proceeded towards the beach, my eyes fixed on heaps of different varieties of fish just lying on the ground being sold by fisherwomen.
“If these women see you staring at their fishes like that, they might just pull you towards their stock and sell them to you” said my father.
“Aren’t we going to buy anyways?” I asked.
“Not from here,” he replied. “We’ll buy it from those boats” he continued, pointing towards the ocean where I could see more than ten boats filled with fishes.
We walked towards the boats, which were at the shore and I looked wide-eyed at all the heaps of fish and the way people were buying them. I could hear people surrounding the boats, yelling their price for the fish and the fishermen then trying to sell the fish by shouting the bids out loud. We passed many boats; some had fishes which we weren’t interested in buying, some had good fishes where the veterans buyers would outbid us at the last moment and some didn’t have fresh fishes. This last category of boats, where the fish didn't look fresh, were the scammers. They took the unsold fishes out to the ocean and made a grand return to make the customers think that they were fresh catch.
Many boats came, many were emptied and taken away as the sun became hotter and tourists, mostly caucasian, started filling the whole market. They were bad for local customers, because they drove the prices up.
I stared at the light blue sky and its reflection in the ocean. But the site that grabbed my attention the most, was a mosque built on the rocks with its back towards the shore. The sun reflected of its top to make me squint. When I turned back, I couldn’t see my father anywhere near, so I walked to a new boat which had just reached the shore. There weren’t many people crowding it, so I went and stood there only to find my father standing across on the other side of the boat. The bidding had already started and the price had already reached Rs. 800, which was placed by my father of course. There wasn’t much competition either except for a fisherwoman who was quite determined to outbid my father. I saw the price double in a matter of seconds and the auctioneer's tongue shouting bids at the speed of light. This went on till the price became Rs. 1800 and I started losing faith in the whole idea of “buying fish at a cheaper price from the ocean”.
“1800 onnu, 1800 randu, 1800 moonu” announced the auctioneer, bringing his hand down and signalling the end of the auction.
There was a silence for a few moments as the auctioneer hesitated to put the fishes in the fisherwoman’s basket. My father gave me a signal and started walking away from the boat, but a few fishermen walked up to the boat and told my father to stay put. They started beating up the auctioneer till blood splashed all over the blackish wet sand. After a few minutes, when they were done with him, they showed his bleeding face to all the bidders at his boat.
“This woman is his wife” they declared, pointing towards the fisherwoman who was outbidding my father. Some people took the basket from the fisherwoman and gave it to my father, who took it with a smile on his face. The mob of angry buyers were surprised, many tried to stop my father when he took out Rs. 1700 from his mundu and gave it to the auctioneer before dragging me away from the shore towards the car.
“You didn’t have to give that money. Seventeen hundred is a lot for a basket of fish,” I said, after placing the basket at the back of the car.
“I agree. But getting more than five kg of sardine which is worth more than three thousand in the fish market, at a mere seventeen hundred is a very good deal” he replied with a broad smile.
I turned my head to get a last glimpse at the auctioneer, the ocean, and the mosque but nothing was visible through the crowded shores of Vizhinjam.
