“
Fish and the old woman
An old woman, selling fish,
Crying at all those who passed by,
“Try my fish that you shall relish,”
Most of them ignored her calls but many asked why?
She answered all whys, all ifs, all questions,
As long as you were someone she thought would buy,
And I stood there listening to her witty quotations,
That addressed all doubts and answered every why,
Her greasy hands often patted and placed the fish in order,
In the round wicker basket that was wet but clean,
And in this fish market she looked much wiser and older,
Her face was round, her eyes sharp, with a body frame that was lean,
Few minutes passed, unlike the fish she was unable to catch a reliable prospect,
Then a man stopped and looked at her basket full of fish,
And she had found her much needed suspect,
The providence had granted her her wish,
She turned the fish around and showed him the best ones,
Her greasy hands held them with twin feelings,
A feeling that still wanted to retain the best ones,
And a feeling that was willing to let go of the few in her commercial dealings,
And there was her struggle, and her eyes revealed it clearly,
She shuffled the best ones around and then mixed them with the rest,
And she did this with a professional dexterity,
Creating a mix of the good fish and the best,
Because to her all customers are the same,
They all deserve to savour the fish that she thinks are the finest,
So she had to indulge in this necessary hypnotic game,
And she performed it in ways sharp and tidiest,
She scrubbed off the scales carefully,
And cleaned them with a unique fondness,
And when ready she handed them to the man lovingly,
He held them with a sense of quickness,
And walked away, leaving behind the old woman and her basket full of fish,
Who once again shouted in her typical melody, “Try my fish that you shall relish,
The fish that will make the tastiest dish,
The fish from the lake that breeds the best fish!”
While I watched her and her teary eyes,
Because she missed the fish that were being taken away,
Away from her everyday, with her daily lot gone a part of her in that basket dies,
But she does not let her feelings give in or sway,
Because this is who she is, the seller of life and joy,
Who shouts on the bridge on a cold November day,
For she too has a home, where she has to feed her girl and her always waiting boy,
It has been so for many decades, and was so today,
In the evening when the wicker basket is dry with no fish left in it,
She lifts the basket, mops the floor, and places it on her head,
Well I guess not all of us can do it,
Because she carries the physical load over the head that with a million thoughts is also fed,
Yet she walks with a smile and vivaciousness that is radiant,
Because she sells the fish that are the best,
And in the wicker basket they look magnificent and brilliant,
I guess for her, the fish and the basket are her test,
Where fate pushes her to the extreme every day,
But she never gets tired to shout and say,
“Try my fish that you shall relish any day,
Why not let that day be today, your luckiest day!”
With the old woman gone, the bridge is still crowded but the spot is empty,
So, I turn around and look at it, and I hear her echoes,
And I feel a wave of humility induced by my realisation of her piety,
Towards a different God, the God she invokes often in her melody that resides there in the form of her echoes,
I may never see her again, or maybe I will,
Whenever I cross the bridge, the bridge that leads people to their destinations,
But for me it begins there and it ends there too, there time holds still,
Because we all respect her courage and we love her melodious incantations!
”
”