Rooma Mehra

Sunset on Lake Sal. An hour that unfailingly heralds peace and wonder if one may allow oneself the temptation to fantasise that this lake is not shrinking like the other lakes of our country, that the waters are as pure as its shimmering silver at this touristless sunset-hour. Yes, the cool sea breeze wistfully whispers peace and the pale golden lotuses spell wonderment. But morning is still a night away.

I look back to see little Cyrus strolling back towards his village with his home-made fishing rod tucked securely under his shoulder. Today, I do not speculate if he has caught anything. The boy used to be a source of amazement to me. While his brothers and sisters splashed about in the water making merry the whole day long, he sat, a pensive little figure, from morning till the twilight hours, with his makeshift fishing line. I have never seen such patience in one so young before.

The rest of his family had become quite friendly with us. He, however, maintained his distance. The monosyllabic answers I had managed to elicit from him made it evident that he did not like any intrusion into his private domain. Besides, the noise could scare the fish away.

I had never seen him catch any fish. But the sight of those little fingers dexterously rolling up the flour into tiny balls and carefully attaching one to the crooked hook at the end of the line, fascinated me.

I remember the first time I had seen little Cyrus actually catch a fish. It was a small one but a fish it was. I had watched with disbelief as he unhooked the fish and threw it back into the lake. I had forgotten about it, till I saw him catch another small fish only to throw it back into the water. Was the little one waiting for ‘the big catch’ after all these long hours of patient, silent wait?

The day before had been a revelation. On my morning lotus-watch, I detected a tiny fish that had unwittingly jumped on to a lotus leaf, struggling unsuccessfully to get back into the water. Tilting the leaf to end its ordeal and watch it bounce back with relief into the water, a thought struck and I rushed to Cyrus’ side just in time to see him haul up a really big catch. I saw the horror etched on his elfin face as he quickly unhooked the writhing fish and decisively threw it back into the water.

The sound of Cyrus’ receding footsteps mingled with the whisper of the wind. It seemed that all was right with the world.

That sunset-hour just two days away, I was far away from newspapers and TV with their screaming headlines of hijacked aircraft blasting people-filled skyscrapers. The reality of Cyrus’ saved fish was so overpowering that if anyone had telephoned and told me the sick, simultaneous reality of splintered skyscrapers and shredded people, I would have just not registered the truth.

I could hear no screams. Only notes of the birds’ rhapsody spelt an evening in a forest, far away from the artificial urbanity of India. Very far away from the congested heart of the US. That was ‘another world’. God’s intended world. The little world of little Cyrus.