Mermen of Midnapore

Summer vacation, to us, meant three noble institutions—mangoes, afternoon ludo, and standing at the street corner in Calcutta while making plans for saving civilization. There were four of us: myself, Patla; our self-appointed commander Bhonda Banerjee; the bespectacled machine of logic, Tintin; and the permanently hungry Kabul.

That year Bhonda made a declaration.

“Look here, Patla,” he said, with the air of a man addressing the United Nations, “man must return to nature. Calcutta’s phuchka, tramcars and television have weakened the race. We shall learn fishing. One day we shall hold an international fishery conference on the banks of the Ganga.”

“You first learn to catch a fish in a bucket,” I said.

Bhonda glared at me. “Silence! History always laughs at great men first and builds their statues later.”

Our destination was a village in Midnapore called Battala-Gopalpur. On hearing the name, Kabul became hopeful.

“Battala means there will be shade. Gopalpur means there will be milk. And since it is Midnapore, there must be sweets.”

Tintin wiped his spectacles and said, “Midnapore is better known for Contai, Potashpur, Digha, Khejuri, fields, rivers and coast.”

Kabul looked wounded. “So no sweets?”

“There may be sweets,” said Tintin.

Kabul sighed with relief. “Civilization survives.”

We boarded the train from Howrah. Bhonda had brought a thick notebook titled Fishery Research Diary. On the first page he had written:The Relationship Between Fish and Man: A Revolutionary Enquiry.

I added beneath it:The author is presently acquainted only with fish bones.

As the train left the city and entered the fields, Bhonda’s soul became suddenly rural. Looking out of the window, he cried, “Behold! The Green Revolution!”

“That is not paddy,” said Tintin. “That is jute.”

Bhonda paused. “Is it green?”

“Yes.”

“Then the revolution is present.”

At the station we were received by Birinchi Babu, the village schoolteacher. He was related to Bhonda through a chain so complicated that Tintin immediately began drawing a family diagram.

“Come, come,” said Birinchi Babu. “So the Calcutta boys have arrived? The heat will trouble you, but the smell of the earth is good.”

Bhonda folded his hands. “We have come to become one with rural life.”

Birinchi Babu laughed. “First wipe your sweat with a gamchha. Then become one.”

The village immediately reduced our Calcutta confidence to a fried papad. There were ponds, mango trees, mud roads, ducks, goats, hens, and, far away, a sandy stretch near the river. Kabul saw a duck and asked, “Is that a government duck?”

“Can ducks be government-owned?” I asked.

“In Calcutta everything has a union,” said Kabul. “Ducks may have one too.”

At lunch, we were served rice, dal, posto, fried potatoes, raw mango chutney and fresh fish curry from the pond. After his third helping, Kabul closed his eyes and said, “I shall remain here. You people may return to Calcutta and hold a memorial meeting for me.”

Birinchi Babu said, “Tomorrow at dawn I shall take you to Haripada the fisherman. His family will teach you fishing.”

Bhonda opened his notebook and wrote:Day One: Preliminary contact with the fishing community.

I wrote beside it:Day One: Kabul took rice three times.

The next morning we were awakened by crows, cowbells and Bhonda’s thunderous voice.

“Get up! History will be made today!”

From under his sheet, Kabul said, “Can history not be made after eight?”

“Fish wake early,” said Bhonda.

“Not all fish,” said Tintin. “Some are nocturnal.”

Bhonda turned to him. “Why do you know so much about the private lives of fish?”

Armed with gamchhas, old trousers and bamboo rods, we reached Haripada Kaka’s house by the pond. Haripada Kaka was tall, dark, thin and permanently amused. His wife, Phuleshwari Kakima, looked at us and said,“So, the Calcutta babus have come to catch fish? Will you first enter the pond, or first take photographs?”

Bhonda replied, “We are here for field-level practical experience.”

Kakima laughed. “Haripada, these boys will catch fish by talking.”

Haripada Kaka said, “Listen, babus. To catch fish, first you must learn to remain quiet.”

At once, Tintin, Kabul and I looked at Bhonda.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” Bhonda demanded.

“We are only worried about the future of the fish,” I said.

The first lesson was casting the net. Haripada Kaka lifted a round net and threw it with such skill that it opened in the air like a flower and fell upon the pond.

“Excellent!” cried Bhonda. “Now I shall do it.”

“Careful,” said Haripada Kaka. “Stand properly first.”

Bhonda stood with the net on his shoulder, looking like a commander before battle. “Fish society,” he announced, “beware!”

Then he threw the net.

The net did not fall into the pond.It landed on the mango tree.

We collapsed with laughter. The net hung from a branch, and a crow sat inside it, cawing indignantly.

From the courtyard, Phuleshwari Kakima shouted, “Babu, have the fish climbed the tree?”

Bhonda’s face reddened. “I was measuring the wind direction.”

“You measured the direction of your intelligence,” said Tintin.

Next came fishing with rods. The bait was a live earthworm. Kabul stepped back.

“Is that alive?”

“Yes,” said Haripada Kaka.

“Then should we not take its permission before feeding it to a fish?”

Bhonda snapped, “This is the result of excessive Calcutta education—democracy for earthworms!”

Finally, Kakima fixed the bait herself. We sat by the pond. Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen. No fish.

“Have the fish boycotted us?” whispered Kabul.

“Silence,” said Bhonda. “Fishing is meditation.”

Just then Bhonda’s rod shook. He shouted, “I have got one! Huge! Rohu! Catla! Possibly a crocodile!”

He pulled with both hands. We gathered around in excitement. Out of the water came—an old gamchha.

“Wonderful,” I said. “A textile fish.”

“Perhaps a sample of the pond’s cloth resources,” said Tintin.

Haripada Kaka peered at it. “No, babu. That is my gamchha. It fell in last week.”

Then Kabul’s rod trembled. He panicked and dropped it. The rod floated away.

“The fish is pulling it!” shouted Haripada Kaka.

Kabul said, with great dignity, “Then let the fish keep it. It needs the rod more than I do.”

Kakima shook her head. “The Calcutta boy has come to catch fish and is donating equipment to them.”

After this we were taken to a canal where a small boat awaited us. Bhonda immediately declared, “I shall take command of the vessel.”

“If you climb into it,” I said, “the vessel will resign command.”

Still, he climbed in. Then came I, Tintin and Kabul. The moment the boat rocked, Kabul clutched my shoulder.

“Patla, if we drown, preserve my memories of luchi.”

“Don’t fear,” said Haripada Kaka. “The canal is shallow.”

“We are Calcutta boys,” said Bhonda. “We manage trams, buses and the Metro. What is a boat?”

At that very moment the boat tilted slightly. Bhonda cried, “Ma go!” and embraced Haripada Kaka.

In the middle of the canal, Haripada Kaka cast the net. A small fish suddenly jumped near Bhonda’s foot.

“Snake!” shouted Bhonda.

He leaped.The boat lurched.I fell on Tintin, Tintin fell on Kabul, Kabul fell on the fish, and Bhonda landed directly in the mud.

From the bank an old man observed, “The Calcutta babu jumps in mud like a magur fish.”

A small boy shouted, “Dada, please fall once more!”

“Do not turn science into entertainment,” said Bhonda, rising from the mud with dignity.

By afternoon Bhonda was covered in mud, Tintin was suspicious of crabs, Kabul was hungry, and I had laughed myself weak. But the real test was still to come—entering the pond with a hand-net.

As soon as the mud swallowed my toes, I said, “Why is the mud moving?”

“The mud is not moving,” said Haripada Kaka. “Your legs are shaking.”

Tintin said, “Silty clay soil. High moisture. Low stability.”

“Say it in Bengali,” said Bhonda.

“It is mud,” said Tintin. “It is slippery. You will fall.”

Proof arrived instantly. Bhonda advanced with the hand-net, slipped, and sat down in the pond with a majestic splash. A water-lily leaf stuck to his head.

“Look, Patla,” said Kabul. “Not a water fairy. A water emperor.”

From the bank, Kakima cried, “Babu, have you become a saint with that leaf on your head?”

Then a crab nipped Tintin’s foot. Tintin, who usually reacted only to Newton’s laws, jumped so violently that his spectacles fell into the pond.

After five minutes, Kabul found them in the mud.

“Got them!” he cried.

“Thank you,” said Tintin.

“But a crab is wearing them,” said Kabul.

In the end, our hand-net produced three tiny fish, one snail, two leaves and a coconut shell.

By evening, the entire village knew that four boys from Calcutta had come to catch fish and had successfully caught a tree, a towel, mud, a crab, and almost no fish.

The next morning Haripada Kaka said, “Today we shall use a bamboo trap. The fish will enter by themselves.”

Bhonda brightened. “Ah! An intellectual method. The fish will come voluntarily. We shall provide leadership.”

An hour later, the trap was lifted. Inside were several tiny fish and one tangra.

“We have won!” cried Kabul.

Bhonda expanded his chest. “Behold! Under my leadership, the rural fishery revolution has begun.”

“The trap made the revolution,” said Haripada Kaka. “Not you.”

At that moment the tangra leaped out and landed near Bhonda’s foot. Bhonda thought it was another snake, stepped back, hit a water pot, spilled water across the courtyard, slipped, and sat directly into a vessel of washed rice.

Kakima held her head. “Oh dear! The babu has been cooked before the rice!”

That afternoon the fish curry was made from our catch. There were only eight fish, but Kakima cooked them so well that Kabul said, “These eight fish are the eight chapters of my life.”

Bhonda said while eating, “Today we have understood that fishing is not merely an occupation. It is a philosophy.”

“And mud?” I asked.

“The reality of life.”

“And the gamchha?” asked Tintin.

“A historical document.”

“And rice?” asked Kabul.

“A national asset,” said Bhonda.

On the day of our return, Haripada Kaka said, “Come again. But first learn to remain quiet.”

Phuleshwari Kakima gave us puffed-rice sweets and said, “Tell Calcutta that in Midnapore there is not only fish. There is also fun.”

The train moved. Fields slipped past the window. Bhonda opened his notebook and wrote the final line:Catching fish is difficult. Eating fish is easy. But the village people are the greatest lesson.

I wrote below it:And because of Bhonda, even the fish are now afraid of Calcutta.

Kabul munched his sweet and asked, “Shall we go again?”

Tintin said, “If we go to learn farming next time, a pumpkin may chase us.”

Bhonda looked out of the window. “We shall go. Man must return to the fields.”

“First,” I said, “it will be enough to return you safely from the pond.”

The whole railway compartment burst into laughter. Outside lay the summer afternoon, the fields, the ponds, and perhaps somewhere a meeting of fish was already in progress.

Their resolution must have been simple:

“If the four Calcutta babus return, do not stay in the water. Climb a tree.”