Dirty Fish
H
e came to Kalpeni, our island, as a tourist from the city. For some time, that’s all I saw in him—a worldview, an inspiration. When he spoke of city life as a wanderer, a dweller, even an achiever, I sensed his power. While I lived on my serene island, I had many encounters with people from urban spaces that felt like distant kingdoms, offering much to savour and cherish. But he was the one who shared everyday stories. I called him the tourist. He wanted to travel across Lakshadweep and see our world, a part of our country, yet so distant.
I made him my teacher. I made him my monster.
My life had fallen into a routine. I worked, caught and gutted fish, went to the fisher mandi, cooked and cleaned the house. My child often called out, “Amma, look what I learned today.”
My husband would reply, “Amma is busy, wait.” Then he complained, “Mal, go and see what Iqbal wants. Running around all day like his father can catch up to him. Mūḍhamāya!1 Why are we sending him to the madrassah?2 To be a hooligan?”
They all called me Mal. It was sweet, but the tourist was the only one who called me by my given name. My documented name: Kemal. In my 33 years, I rarely celebrated my birthday, but I counted each year as it passed. As a child, my Amma and Appa estimated my age, but as I grew, I decided to add or subtract a few years to settle on a solid number that I had everyone accept. This year was number 33.
My husband, Ismail, my child, Iqbal and I lived in an old cottage. Iqbal usually lived at the madrassah, a few lanes away from our home. He needed to study there, even if it meant paying a hefty sum at certain intervals. His parents never had any money growing up, but he had enough to satisfy his needs and enjoy some comfort. We had recently begun to do well at the mandi. Besides, who else did we earn for?
Our little cottage was built many years ago. I kept it tidy and it reciprocated the favour. It was a good home, and even though the kitchen was the smallest area, it was where I spent most of my day. Frying fish was one of my favourite activities; I made it a celebration that day in honour of me, the "estimated" date of my birth.
That day, on my birthday, I saw the tourist for the first time. Tall, fair, and amusing—those were three attributes I noted instantly. When he entered my home to ask for a glass of water, he said in Hindi, “Water for a lost soul.” He laughed before anyone else could. It was a substantial laugh that made the listener want to laugh too, as if one had no choice. I laughed, offered him some water, and greeted him with a namaskaram.3 Wanting to make conversation, I smiled and said, “I am a fisherwoman. Ismail and I both catch fish. Would you like to try some, babu?”
He was in a hurry, but soon, as he relished the fish, rice and spicy coconut curry I had prepared, he joined all fingers of his right hand together and kissed them, gesturing to my cooking skills. I had been a stupid woman. “I love to cook,” I said, and then mentioned something as a statement or perhaps a question while I ate my food. “The women who work as cooks in cities must earn a lot of money.” If I had known then, I would have paid to see the expression on his face, but I didn’t. I was busy stuffing my face with fish, while Ismail smoked a beedi,4 a new habit he had formed after recovering from bronchitis. He only smoked when Iqbal wasn’t home to lecture him about health according to Islamiyat.5
Later that evening, I offered tea and snacks to the tourist. I liked how the community of fishermen gathered around our cottage to glimpse him, a man entirely different from us but still our own. He raised the question as soon as he noticed me enjoying the attention of the passers-by.
“Can I stay here for a few days?” he asked. “I would love to explore the island, and what better way to do it than staying with the locals?”
He looked at me as though it should have been our idea, an invitation. I jumped at the chance to welcome him into our home. I told him he could stay as long as he wanted, and when he offered to pay, it felt like I had won a tiny lottery. I didn’t understand then why he wanted to live with us in our small, old cottage when our neighbours had newer, cemented homes, but it was an opportunity I embraced, seeing it as a fortune. I wasn’t one to question the rise of opportunity, but I also didn’t truly understand the difference between chance and convenience.
The following few days appeared like new beginnings.
“Kemal, look at this, man.” He said "man" a lot. I later assumed it was his way of making conversation comfortable. It was nice of him to say, Kemal, I like your saree; it’s so different, or Kemal, you look good today, man, and Kemal, you are so good at catching fish; it’s almost cruel.
I took him to the fisher mandi, set up along the coast for people to buy all kinds of produce and seafood. Shrimp, oysters, clams, crabs, lobsters and a choice of sea snails, and of course, fish—pomfret, kingfish, sardines, tuna. Salted. Smoked. Dried. Scaled. It was a carnival, a place I knew as home, delightfully precious, where people came to find ingredients to nourish themselves. Ismail and I set up two separate spaces to sell our produce. We were smart that way. We kept different fish, eliminating competition and bringing in extra cash. Ismail did not smoke at the mandi but often exchanged fish for beedis.
Kemal, you are so good at catching fish; it’s almost cruel.
As I set up my space to present the catch of the day, the tourist moved carefully through the market. It became a ritual with us. He had the time, and I liked to boast about my reputation. Locals habitually bargained at the fisher mandi, and while fights broke out, they were easily resolved. The tourist never bargained with anyone, even when he bought things with his own money, which didn’t happen often.
“Mal, you take every customer; how we will work?” Talking in English with foreigners and tour guides taught us fishers bits of the language. The other fisherwomen often told me, “Everyone wants to buy from you. Learn to share!”
“It’s magic; they all know it,” I said proudly. I was arrogant that way. I wanted to show the tourist what I could do. I wanted him to see how skilled I was. I spent about five to seven hours a day at the mandi. Some vegetarians entered from a side usually seen as an exit. They walked to the vegetable and fruit market with their noses and mouths covered with hankies or torn pieces of cloth. I didn’t like this kind of energy at the mandi, especially since I had nothing for them.
Every Wednesday, we could walk around and buy new fishing nets, mats, mops, and special handicrafts made of coconut shells and ceramics. The tourist paid for the two items I had bought for Iqbal one day. Typically engrossed in my work, I didn’t have time to roam every Wednesday, but I often saw those products when the tourist came on his rented bike or walked me home or took photographs of the market, where I posed for him with my business friends. I liked the gesture. They were all happy to have a new babu talking to them sweetly, almost flirtatiously, though I was convinced they didn’t know what that meant.
“What would you like to eat today, babu?” My eyes gleamed every time I asked him that.
One day, when we were home alone, I asked him, “Where do you live?”
“Mumbai. That’s why I like fish … know a bit about it,” he laughed. “But not nearly as much as you, Kemal. You are a pro!”
“Pro?” I asked. I hadn’t heard that word before. I imagined I looked so innocent as he peered at me and explained, “You are a professional. Working at it every day, every hour. You know more about fish, I mean, much more.”
“What is city like, babu?” I asked.
“Cities are big. Fast. Smart.” He nodded his head, reciting each syllable with precision. “Cities are very giving, too. It’s much easier to live in a city. You don’t have to make everything from scratch, from zero, and you can just do what you want to do, man.”
“But you need money for that, yes?” My eyes were fixed on him as I grated coconut and chopped tomatoes.
“Yes, but in Mumbai, you don’t need a lot of money for everything. You can survive there. Luxury, however, is a different thing.”
“Because someone else always does your extra chores for you, right?” I proposed. He repeated the word: luxury. It was a new word I had cultivated. It was delicious. It sounded like a word I could eat, like pomfret—whole, and beautiful, and fragrant.
“Cities are also full of culture, you know. But they are divided,” he said.
“Divided? With roads?” I asked.
“No,” he laughed heartily. “Divided means … it has many forms. You can get a village experience in a city, but not a city experience in a village or on an island. Cities have many meanings. Many experiences.”
“Kalpeni has many experiences,” I stated.
“Let me explain, man,” he said. “Kalpeni is like a water body. You see it, find fish and marine life … or the marine dead, whatever. But cities are like roads. You can see everything there: people, vehicles, animals, birds, fruit—even fish sometimes. But no one sees it all together, you understand?”
“So, like roads, like I said.” I laughed and he did too.
“When you go to the city, you’ll see it.” My eyes twinkled as I poured some curry for him into a tiny bowl. He closed his eyes and swirled as if his entire body had tasted the deliciousness I had prepared for him. He never demanded anything fancy or made any special requests for meals, which I liked. I took it as a chance to try new recipes, inventing dishes that I hoped he would talk about back in the city where he lived. Maybe he would offer me a job or a platform for a new venture. You never know where opportunity knocks, and I have always believed you should be there to open the door when it does. I guess it was difficult for me to gauge the difference between a knock and a thud; a thud usually means you should run away from that door. But I did not do that.
I was cooking in the kitchen again when I saw the tourist roaming around inside and outside the house frantically. That day, I was acquainted with a different version of him. I liked him a little less, maybe because I saw more of myself in him now—like a mirror, only hazed and a bit contorted. He had already fought with someone on the phone, but I didn’t understand the mix of languages or the hush-hush of his tone. I didn’t want to meddle in his business until the day I found out what he did for a living.
“What is this?” I asked him.
I wasn’t all that stupid. I was a businesswoman. I knew the white substance that looked like dry, powdered ceramic was some kind of drug—not medicinal, but like opium, something similar to what people extracted from fields in villages with huge lands where intoxicants were grown on the periphery. I knew those locals slept for hours in the fields in the afternoon, daydreaming after consuming opium flowers, but I didn’t know what the tourist had in his bags. It could be anything, and I had to take his word for it.
I liked him a little less, maybe because I saw more of myself in him now.
“This is nothing; none of your business,” he told me, but I wasn’t convinced.
“You go,” I stammered. “Go away from our home!”
“Go where? Are you crazy? I can’t go away right now, man.”
“Give me my money, and you can go.”
“I have nowhere to be for the time being, and I can only pay you when I get my money. So, you have to be patient to get your money,” he tried to persuade me, but I stopped him mid-sentence.
“Ismail will be upset,” I said, considering the consequences. It was strange that I hadn’t really thought of my husband or my child much during that time. This man and his tricks consumed me whole. He offered to pay me extra money to stay longer at the cottage, and I considered it. I had seen the cash in his bag, and for a moment, the idea of stealing crossed my mind, but I wasn’t a thief. I quickly pushed the thought away, immersing myself in the scheme in front of me.
“How much extra?” I asked. I knew he didn’t want to risk being seen by anyone else. Why else would someone with good money ask a fisherwoman not to kick him out of her half-broken cottage? But the negotiation wasn’t going well, and I knew I hadn’t spent the last few weeks of my life for him to run away without reason. If he were to run away in the middle of the night, it would be a disaster.
“I can sell … ” I quickly uttered. “Is it risky?”
“Sell what?” he asked.
“Sell the powder,” I stammered a little. “Is it … illegal medicine?”
I wasn’t foolish enough to tell him everything I suspected about the product. Instead, I convinced myself it was just like crab or fish, and it wouldn’t be a big deal anyway. But he interrupted me before I could think again.
“It’s not risky, no.” He told me that on an island like Kalpeni, it was easy to sell anything, even if you hide it. “You do it, then,” he added. “You are a good business person. Ismail will not know, I promise!”
I did not respond.
“It is better if you don’t know what it is—less risky,” he said. “I live in your home. Did you know what I was doing yet?” He alleged that we could be the greatest team the island had ever seen; it would only be our secret mission. I believed him soon enough. That’s all I wanted: the disillusion of belief.
“But, how will you do it? You won’t know what to do with them, man.” The tourist looked confused when I smirked at him.
“I know,” I said. “I know.”
He could have been scared when he stared at me, but I was too pleased with myself to even notice.
I have worked with fish all my life. It was my saviour, and there weren’t many things I could rely on, so I prayed. I prayed hard. I had trapped big fish that morning—tycoon fish. I opened its mouth, and as I held the tiny packets of white powder near it, I felt like it stared at me, right at me, but I didn’t look at it for long. I was powerful and weak simultaneously as I stuffed the white packets in the tycoon fish’s mouth. They fell into its stomach with a thud—frail, but impactful. When he saw the trick, he made me a partner. We were a good team, stuffing packets of drugs inside fish, big and tiny. We were like marine life, almost—king fish and queen fish. We were dirty fish, the kind that muddies the water it lives in, one that eats its young to live longer, thinking she’s doing them a favour. I didn’t know what the powder inside the fish was exactly. I didn’t know what had gotten into me either.
When I look back at my time with the tourist, I don’t understand who the victim was; sometimes, I imagine it was me but when I sleep at night, the idea of him being the victim makes me sweat through my sheets. I look in the mirror. It is deep, hazed, contorted.
The weather was warm but comfortable, and the waters looked cleaner than ever. Our mandi was bustling with people—locals and foreigners—but the tourist told me he didn’t want to be there. He feared being recognised.
“Bull … shit,” he said. “Why are so many people here, man?”
“Tourism. But why are you scared? It is not safe, but it isn’t risky either,” I reasoned with him. “More people mean more sales … of fish … of powder.”
He shushed me when I spoke about the powder, but it didn’t bother me. I wasn’t as scared as he was, even though I understood that we were indulging in a risky business. He had lied. It was maddening. But I was too far ahead of who I was, and the road to being him was farther ahead than I’d calculated. The only practice that made me feel safe was catching fish, before stuffing half of the catch with the white packets. It wasn’t even safe to cook the fish anymore. I often lost count of the ones I had filled and misplaced the markings on the ones that were good for consumption. I did not want to open up a fish and find the powder in my house. It was in my house for work, but at least it wasn’t in my kitchen while I was cooking. That would have been sad.
The tourist then began asking me to make new dishes every day, and I complied. We ate what he wanted to eat. I didn’t even care about the taste. I wanted to fill my stomach with something—that’s all.
At the mandi, my catch did not sell as much as it did earlier, at least that’s what I thought, possibly because people did not come alone for the fish. I said, “Business is better, but nothing so great,” then pretended to care about someone else’s opinion when they told me I was still reigning at our fisher mandi. The tourist had his people come to me, so I was flocked—not for my fish, but for the tiny packets inside their tiny guts. I had a stream of money flowing toward me, but I couldn’t show it, at least for some time. I wondered, sitting inside my tiny set up at work, if streams could keep fish alive for as long as large water bodies did. They couldn’t, I knew.
“Welcome! What is it that you need today?” I said each time a customer came to buy fish. I smiled as if I had all the right reasons to smile, though that was a farce. Gestures explained if someone had come for the risky product. I would wrap the fish in paper, whole, and present it to foreigners and travellers. The tourist never indulged any locals. I should have been wary about that too, but I offered specific gestures to every customer, every food critic, and every local who was celebrating. The fisherwomen didn’t know why I was doing that, but they were still suspicious of my work. I could see that in their eyes. I wasn’t afraid. We could have been more careful about the work after, but I didn’t pay attention to anything but my sales. If the tourist and I had any uncertainty about the customers, we decided that I would use our code word: "king fish," but never "queen fish." I should have known then that he was going under. Not treating your business partner equally hurts you more than it ever hurts them; he should have known, but I wasn’t the one to tell him that. It was the police.
Not treating your business partner equally hurts you more than it ever hurts them.
Kalpeni Police Station was not much farther from our house, but I had only ever seen it from outside. When the police dragged the tourist out of our home, I felt empty in my gut. Soon after, they caught me, and then they caught Ismail. I couldn’t look at my husband.
The lock-up was small and cold, a little dirty. It held more criminals inside than me and my innocent husband. The tourist was hauled into a different cell. “He was wanted,” they said. “For a long time.” That was the last time I saw him. That was the last time he saw me. His eyes did not seem as worried as mine did. Maybe he did it often, staying at people’s homes to hide and run his business. I wasn’t the only one. I imagined that I was the easiest catch, ready to jump to conclusions and likelihoods. I worried if anything he ever told me was the truth. It bothered me that some of it probably was, and I wouldn’t know the difference between true words and lies anymore. That was the day I started wondering if he had ever been a teacher. But he was my teacher—in the worst way possible.
“Sar,6 we are innocent, sar,” Ismail tried to reason with the police officer, but he wouldn’t listen. We didn’t know what position the officer held or why the tourist had been suddenly caught. “Everything will be all right, Mal,” Ismail said, looking at me with love and concern. I needed a few more hours before I could tell him the truth, before he could see me differently. We were locked up at the station for one night, and I was relieved that Iqbal wasn’t home to see us like this, especially his father.
When an officer woke us up the next morning, he asked, “Ready to blurt the truth?” I gulped at the sight of him.
“Yes, but why are we all here, all three?” I questioned, feigning courage. I wasn’t sure why Ismail was a part of this. Numerous thoughts gushed across my mind.
“Three?” The policeman asked, “That other man, he’s been moved. The drugs he sold have killed two people in Kochi. Know anything about that?”
“Drugs? We don’t know anything about drugs, sar.” Ismail looked at me for support. I lowered my head, and when I lifted it, I told the police everything about our new mission. Ismail frowned. I told them how I was forced to sell the drugs, how I didn’t have enough money to pay for our needs, how important it was for me to save my family, and how scared I had been of that man, the tourist. All lies. I was certain one of the fisherwomen had seen me. I knew how they looked at me—with envy, desire, and suspicion. They didn’t know anything about my life. They didn’t know me. They were idiots.
“We don’t know how he brainwashed my wife. Mosham,7 sab!” Ismail defended me, “That man is a pest! Tricked us!” Ismail shouted.
“Shut up!” the police officer yelled at us.
“We do not know what it was,” I said. “The drugs.”
“I don’t get paid to believe you,” he replied.
Before the police officer could suggest something else, I said, “Why don’t I give you the money I have left, all of it, that he gave me for safekeeping? Would you be able to help send it to the right people?”
I felt like a criminal, a pest like Ismail had said, but at least my lies saved us from the police. They knew it was much easier to say that we were found with drugs in our home and there was no way they could be sure of our involvement. I had heard that before. We were islanders: innocent, uneducated and troublesome when we panicked. Destiny was funny sometimes. Perhaps it knew I had made a mistake, a blunder. Maybe I needed to learn all those lessons on my own. It was possible no one told on us. It may have been all about him, all along—the tourist. He was all they needed, not us, I knew. I wasn’t sure if anyone would ever tell the tourist what I had said at the station. I didn’t know if he’d ever hear about me again or if he’d think of me. I was convinced, however, that I was the best he ever had—the best team member, the best queen fish.
“We can try something, deposit it here,” the officer said.
I learned that he was called an inspector. He said, “You have to come for questioning if we call, all right.”
He took the money, but he never noted anything—not on paper, or in any file, or on any computer screen. Life in Kalpeni wasn’t tough. It didn’t have to be tough for anybody. Charges and criminal proceedings only disrupted order, I thought. They never changed anyone, their lives, or their vulnerabilities. I wondered if he knew I had fooled him. I pondered on the possibilities of my life ahead.
“I want to leave now!” I said to Ismail. I didn’t have time to feel ashamed or exposed.
“Leave?” Ismail asked, feebly.
“For the city, Ismail. Mumbai. Or Kozhikode. An even smaller one to begin with. I can think of something. We can start a new life, away from all these people who will only judge us now. Trouble us,” I told him. He kept listening quietly.
“You can go,” he said. “I will stay. I may be called for questioning.”
“He took the money! He’s not calling us back to get into trouble. What a hassle,” I explained, feeling corrupted and false.
We didn’t speak for a few minutes, but when we started talking again, I cried. I didn’t know why I was sobbing. Was it guilt? Was it shame? Was it the possibility of a person who loved me—who knew me, who cared for me—staring at me like I was a stranger? I couldn’t tell.
“People will hate us!” I spoke.
“People might hate you, Kemal. I have nothing to hide.”
Kemal. There it was—my name. A documented name I didn’t know I hated until that day. I hated it. I hated him. The tourist. The monster.
“Ismail, I am sorry,” I said. I was sorry. For the first time in many days, I was truly sorry, but maybe it didn’t matter anymore. I had lost.
“You can still go,” he said. “To the city … Do what you want.”
“I want to go with you,” I said. “Please.”
He refused.
“Then I won’t go until you want to go,” I said.
“I might never want to leave, Kemal,” Ismail told me.
“Maybe I don’t either; I’m not very sure.”
Then, he held my hand softly and suggested something I hadn’t thought about in the 33 years of my life. He said, “Sometimes, creating opportunity is better than leaving. You were the best, so you wanted to leave. Maybe you need to be the best again to be able to leave from here.” He left the rest up to my decision. I knew I couldn’t go. I knew I was not a victim. I knew I may have been a monster too.
I went into the kitchen—my haven, my safe space. I cleaned all my kitchen supplies: the food grater, knives, spoons, plates, boxes and the entire cooking area. I had left a bag with the drug money in there for emergencies. I remembered it. I didn’t even think what I would spend it on, why I had that much money, or who it was for. I didn’t want to open it, but I did, to get a last glimpse of the tourist in that money. It was my hard-earned money, not his, so I might not see him in it. I might not see anything in it. I opened the bag. Immediately, I covered my face with my saree. The bag smelled horrible. It produced a stench that reminded me of something monstrous. Bad. As I scuffled through the cash, I found a small fish inside. It must have been trapped for several days—an anchovy. It had a green-silver coating that merged into the colour of the cash inside the bag. It reminded me of my title, Queen Fish. I didn’t know she was so small, so trivial, so putrid. I threw the dirty fish out. I prayed. I prayed hard. Then I collected all the money and ran to the madrassah.
It reminded me of my title, Queen Fish. I didn’t know she was so small, so trivial, so putrid.
When I reached the madrassah, Iqbal ran toward me, reminding me of all the lessons I was taught as a child. My amma and appa did not know my exact age, but they knew me for who I was inside. The monster within made me forget all about that.
“Amma, you got me sweets?” Iqbal asked.
“Not today, babu … ” I almost said, then corrected myself. “Not today, my child. But I will next time.”
“Where is Abba?” he asked. I told him that his Abba was at home. I also told him that I needed him to pray for me, or else the prayers wouldn’t work. Iqbal didn’t ask me why I said that. He said he would pray for me.
“Where is Maulvi8 Sahab?” I asked. Iqbal held my hand, and we ran inside the office of the madrassah. It felt good running. I felt free. I also felt a little content.
I was at the fisher mandi the next morning. Some of my customers pried and then asked me, “Where were you yesterday?” I knew they understood where I had been, and I expected my business friends to laugh at that, but they didn’t. As I worked, I wondered if I had done the right thing by contributing the money to the madrassah for their new class and the clinic supplies. It bothered me, but I believed it would do us all some good. It may earn me something: forgiveness or trust. It may even help me heal. Of course, I didn’t use my name on the donation form. It didn’t matter anyway.
One of the fisherwomen asked me for a small knife. “Kemal, can I have that?” she questioned.
“Shukriya,9 Kemal,” she said a minute later.
I didn’t think they were idiots anymore. They were fine women. They didn’t look at me, or laugh with me or talk about me when they ate in the afternoon. I knew they didn’t like me anymore, and that maybe one day I could earn my name back. Perhaps one day, they would laugh with me and they’d know me again.
I wondered what was worse: being a monster, or being an idiot, or both?
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1. ‘Mūḍhamāya’ is a Malayalam word used to call someone, “Foolish.”
2. ‘Madrassah’ is an Islamic educational institute, often made inside a mosque to promote culture, education, and religious learning.
3. ‘Namaskaram’ is a greeting in Malayalam.
4. A ‘Beedi’ is a local cigarette filled with different tobacco products rolled together with leaves and thread.
5. ‘Islamiyat’ is an Arabic word for the Islamic field of study.
6. ‘Sar’ is used instead of ‘Sir’ as an implication of the Malayali accent, a local dialect.
7. ‘Mosham,’ means bad; in this context, it is used as an abuse.
8. A ‘Maulvi’ is a Muslim religious cleric and provides duties as a teacher, philosopher, and administrator at a madrassah
9. ‘Shukriya’ means thank you in Urdu.
