The Catch and the Catch

Nobody had a clue how the king ended up in a fishing net.

Of course, for the residents of Fort Kochi, the how was less important than the why. Still, it was quite the sight. And with great curiosity, people gathered by the dock to watch.

One of these watchers was Udayan. His amma forbade him from ‘stepping foot on any fishing dock.’ But every sunrise the boy moseyed down Beach Walkway to the cheena vala, the Chinese fishing nets. Perched on a wooden pile in a deep squat – knees up to his chin, dusty toes dangling off the pillar – the boy was technically respecting her wishes. Non-technically, who cared? Was his eyesight so poor he couldn’t see trouble coming?

Amma’s warning, he knew, had nothing to do with him. Long ago, his achan was a fisherman. She never discussed him, except to say he took a trip north and never came back. (Udayan had the suspicion he sneaked off with a Gujarati woman.) But just because the man disappeared didn’t mean the boy would follow in his achan’s wake. Anyway, if he hadn’t moseyed down Beach Walkway to the cheena vala on this particular day, Udayan would’ve missed the return of the king.

The cheena vala lined the shore in an attack formation, reaching out over the water like giant mantises without heads. Cranes flocked above as planks creaked beneath the weight of six fishermen. With legs bent, they stood in place and waited as one of them walked along the beam to lower the net. Four minutes later, the fishermen gripped the ropes. They pulled.

‘Heylasa! Heylasa! Heylasa!’ they chanted.

Mesmerised by this maritime dance, Udayan ran over to help, dodging the large swinging stones used as counterweights. The rope felt gritty in his hands and he pulled so hard he thought his arms might rip off. Held together by bamboo and teak poles, the contraption squealed and groaned as the net finally emerged from the water. Bystanders gasped. The air carried the tangy scent of the Arabian Sea and the net hung there, dripping, suspended – full of shrimp and mackerel, yes, but also pressed against the slimy mesh was a plump man with a big moustache. His skin was the colour of coconut flesh. He wore a sacred thread, a poonool around his waist and had a crooked crown atop his head.

‘Is that King Maveli?’ one onlooker asked.

Murmurs rippled through the swelling crowd. It couldn’t be him, could it? It was only mid-July. As Udayan helped lower the net, witnesses huddled closer. Once sprawled on the planks, the potbellied man sputtered water. His eyes remained closed. Somebody shoved past Udayan for a better view. ‘It is him,’ he shouted. ‘King Maveli has come early!’

Filled with awe, Udayan bolted down the busy shore to relay the good news to his amma.

*

About 800 metres west on Fort Kochi Beach, Dhara lay a fishing net across the shell-lined counter, tracing its weathered fibres with her hands. An anxious fisherman had come into her workshop seeking nautical guidance.

‘When do you leave for Alappuzha?’ she asked him.

He sipped the chai she prepared for him. ‘Tomorrow morning, by the grace of Kadalamma.’

Dhara’s repair shop was in a wooden hut. Handcrafted fishing nets hung from colourful walls. She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with whiffs of spices. There was a time when her shop had space to breathe on this beach, but plastic-covered shacks had taken over, suffocating her business. She closed her eyes. To drown out vendors barking, she focused on the sound of waves breaking.

The man took another sip. ‘Tell us, Dhara, what does the sea hold for us?’

‘Hold on,’ she said as her nimble fingers found a frayed part of his net.

Every fishing net told two tales: one of the past and one of the future, woven together in a unique pattern to form the perfect present. With her eyes still closed, Dhara took a needle and twine to repair the damage. Her intuition knotted up, a feeling she couldn’t yet untangle, but something felt off.

‘Amma, Amma,’ yelled her twelve-year-old makan, bursting into the workshop.

Dhara’s eyes flared. ‘Mind your manners,’ she said, then smiled at the startled customer. ‘Please excuse my son…’

‘But Amma,’ Udayan continued, desperate to catch his breath, ‘we caught the king.’

The customer nearly spit out his chai. ‘The king? What do you mean?’

‘In a fishing net, we caught him,’ Udayan said. ‘King Maveli has come early!’

The customer snatched his net from the counter and rushed out without paying. Dhara started after him, but it was no use. He was halfway up the beach. She turned around to face her makan, who was hunched over and wheezing. The boy was going to get it even if he passed out right then.

‘I told you not to step foot on the fishing docks, did I not?’

‘But I wasn’t…’

‘Did I not?’

The boy nodded.

Dhara pointed to the storage room at the back of the workshop. There would be no more outings for him for a long time. Udayan sulked to the room, muttering to himself.

In the doorway, he turned around with a frown. ‘Don’t believe me, but I saw it with my own eyes. He was fair-skinned with a big mustache and he wore a poonool and he had a crown. We should be celebrating.’

Dhara was still pointing. ‘When you graduate, there will be much to celebrate.’

Udayan shook his head and closed the door. Dhara exhaled. How she wished in times like these that Rajan was here to shake good sense into the boy. Or bad sense out of him. She stepped outside to be soothed by the sea breeze. Illegal vendors hollered in her ear, calling out to tourists. Many others scampered up the beach towards the cheena vala.

Dhara shielded her eyes, squinting into the sun. She had sensed something off. Could it be this? Maveli – also known as Mahabali – was a generous king so loved by his people that the gods became jealous. They disguised themselves as a Brahmin beggar and tricked him into going to the underworld. He was granted a wish to return, but only once a year in late August during the Onam festival. As she grew older, the story grew harder to grasp than the wind.

Despite recent depictions, Dhara knew Maveli opposed the caste system and believed in equality and, therefore, would never wear a poonool. She knew the Malayali man would also never be ‘fair-skinned,’ but rather dark-skinned. And he would never come early.

Whoever, or whatever, it was the fisherfolk drew from the sea was not the king.

*

It was just before sunset when the power went out. No storm had swept in from the shore. Those days of load shedding were long gone. But like Udayan’s ammaayi, who moved to America, always said: The power company works in mysterious ways.

Udayan had dozed off at some point during the day. When he emerged from the storage room, he found his amma lighting candles around the shop. Seeing her reminded him of what took place that morning. The mighty catch of the day. The return of the king. Udayan stretched, breathing in the aromatic blend of a home-cooked meal.

‘Udayan, come,’ his amma said, holding out a hand. ‘The food is prepared, come.’

In the dimly lit workshop, they sat on the floor before a spread of steaming rice, sambar with drumsticks, spicy fish curry and tangy mango pickle. Udayan eagerly devoured it all. He drank the curd at the end. The liquid dribbled from his lips.

Udayan caught his amma staring at him. ‘What?’

She shook her head. Udayan never understood his amma. Everything he did or wanted to do, she had an issue with it. All she wanted him to do was study, study, study. All day study. Could he play video games? Not possible. Play cricket? Not possible. Go fishing? Forbidden. Any activity beyond mathematics was practically illegal in her eyes. Udayan often thought his amma wished she gave birth to Pythagoras instead of him, an ordinary boy who favoured angling over right angles.

‘Kuttan, where are you going?’ his amma asked as Udayan headed for the door.

‘Is it okay to step outside?’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Or is it forbidden to breathe?’

She motioned for him to take a seat on the mat. ‘I need to talk to you about something.’

Udayan let out a sigh. It was always something. How he wished to go see King Maveli, a kind man whose generosity knew no bounds. He could ask for wealth so his amma would never have to toil again. He could ask for intelligence, so he would never have to study again. Why couldn’t she see the great possibilities? Why deprive a young boy of such blessings?

‘You’re afraid I’ll leave you like Achan did,’ Udayan said with a sour tongue.

Just then, a flash of light illuminated the darkening sky, like a burst of fireworks during Vishu – except there was no sound.

‘What was that?’ Udayan asked.

He looked outside. His amma joined him. They saw many heads poking out of doors and candlelit faces full of confusion. Over the chirping of crickets and crashing of waves, residents called out for answers, but nobody had any to share.

‘Stay here,’ his amma said and went outside into the night.

*

As the crowd made their way towards the cheena vala, Dhara tried to keep her mind firm, but a disturbing feeling engulfed her, like high tides swallowing granite rocks. The bright flashes seemed to emanate from that very spot. To calm their nerves, the residents presented all kinds of theories.

Yet what they saw defied all imagination.

Before them, about ten metres from the nets, the land was no more. Not eroded by the sea or demolished by developers. It had simply vanished. What used to be an area with swaying palm trees and sturdy rocks and a path along the shoreline had disappeared. What remained, maybe four-square-metres in size, was oddly shaped, and could only be described as a Blank White Spot.

Nobody knew what to make of it. The residents skirted around its edges, cautious not to enter. One souvenir vendor reached out slowly, sticking his fingers into the patch, then his hand, then arm and eventually his entire body. With bated breath, the crowd watched. The vendor let out a great laugh of relief, calling for others join him in the nothingness. Some did. Others stayed on the perimeter.

As Dhara rushed around to River Road to continue on her path, her stomach flipped like a badminton shuttlecock. She had never seen such a thing, but the feeling was intensely familiar. Twelve years ago, Rajan told her he wanted to join a fishing expedition off the coast of Gujarat. Dhara warned him not to go. She told him the coastline had been depleted; that industrial pollution had wrecked the fish habitats; that mangroves and salt marshes had a meagre supply, which would force the fisherfolk deeper into the treacherous sea. Dhara warned him. But her husband, a man more stubborn than a colonial bungalow, decided to go. She later discovered Rajan was arrested and jailed for fishing in Pakistani waters. Dhara never saw her husband again.

That same sense of agitation flooded her spirit now as she approached the cheena vala. A large group huddled on one of the docks, holding candles. She couldn’t see over them. Climbing up to stand on a wooden pile, Dhara saw in the middle of the mass a potbellied man with a poonool and a crooked crown and skin the colour of fish bones.

Then, the wind stopped. The sea became completely still.

The man on the dock began convulsing, flopping around like a sardine. His eyes bulged, his back arched and blinding white light radiated out from his paunch. Bystanders shielded their faces as the flash rippled out far and wide.

Dhara slowly opened her eyes. And there, just up the road, where another chunk of the shoreline and a fishing net used to be, was a Blank White Spot.

She covered her mouth. ‘Ayyo.’

*

The flashes kept coming.

His amma said very few words after returning that night. Udayan wanted to go see for himself what was out there, but she forbade it, which came as no surprise. What did surprise him though was her strange behaviour in the days that followed. She refused to let him leave her sight at any point. Udayan asked his amma why she was treating him like a prisoner. This only angered her more.

The flashes kept coming.

Udayan learned what was happening, not from his amma, but from the fisherfolk coming into the workshop for net repairs. As he studied in his jail cell known as a storage room, he overheard them. His amma would advise them to stay away. They ignored her warnings.

The flashes kept coming.

Whispers of a parade spread through the neighbourhood. Udayan could only gather information in pieces. Evidently, the ones who believed the king had come early wanted to celebrate. Onam was three weeks away, but why wait?

The flashes kept coming.

‘Will we have to leave Kerala?’ Udayan asked one hot afternoon.

Under the shade of a palm tree, he sat with his amma for snacks. They ate masala dosa and drank buttermilk and prayed for the mercies of a cool breeze. Less than 20 metres from her workshop, a Blank White Spot had appeared overnight on both sides.

His amma stared out over the sea. ‘I don’t know,’ she said finally.

Udayan let out a sigh. ‘What do you know?’

He had become sick of waiting. All his life, his amma spoke of turning to nature for guidance. But what happens when nature disappears? When wildlife goes away? When trees become rootless? Udayan thought maybe this was the reason why so many sought the king’s counsel.

‘That is not the king,’ his amma said. ‘That is Iraysar.’

‘Who’s Iraysar?’

His amma explained that these creatures appeared abruptly, often in a guise to trick local residents, and emitted destructive flashes of light. Udayan had never heard of this.

‘Oh pinne,’ he said, dismissively.

She raised her hand. ‘Ennikyu vayya, how else do you explain this?’

Udayan dipped his dosa in the last bits of coconut chutney. He lacked any definitive answers, but he did have a dream the last night, which felt more real than reality. After dark, as the wind blew fiercely outside, Udayan heard his name called. The power had gone out. His amma was in the workshop, struggling to light a candle due to wayward gusts. She kept trying, over and over to light this one candle. Seeing she was occupied, Udayan sneaked outside in the night.

He walked along the empty coastline and observed a figure up ahead. His skin, pale and pallid, flaked away in the wind like delicate paper, revealing a bright light underneath. Without a word, the man nodded, then led Udayan to a Blank White Spot in Vasco da Gama Square.

Once there, he pointed and said: ‘Fill in the blank.’

Udayan stepped back. ‘I’m not going in there.’

The man crouched down. ‘Maveli has come early, but the king is sick. He requires your assistance. With your strength and intelligence, you must finish the assignment: to change this world to its natural state. In return, you will receive all the blessings you’ve ever wished for.’

Udayan peered into the nothingness. The idea of supporting a powerful figure was both enticing and terrifying. Was he even capable of such an undertaking?

‘I…’ Udayan hesitated. ‘What’s the cost?’

The man plucked a piece of flesh off his head. ‘Occasional shedding.’

Udayan grimaced. ‘I have to study.’

‘Here is a maths problem for you.’ The man pressed his palms together. ‘What is God’s Own Country divided by negligence?’

Even in his dream state, mathematics made little sense, but Udayan understood the concept of infinite blessings. He stepped back four paces, took a deep breath, then ran and jumped – and he awoke in a cold sweat. The problem haunted his mind all morning. But he dared not share this with his amma. She would surely forbid him from dreaming ever again.

*

Everybody wanted to know if Dhara was coming to the parade.

When they asked, she politely declined and said she had been feeling ill. This was partially true. Ever since they drew that thing-which-was-not-the-king from the sea, her gut had given her trouble. Business slowed down. Her makan had become even more belligerent.

And the flashes would not stop.

Staying in Fort Kochi right now, she decided, would not be wise. ‘Kuttan, come,’ she called. ‘We are leaving for the night.’

No response came from the storage room.

‘Udayan,’ she tried again.

Still nothing.

Dhara darted around the shell-lined counter and pushed open the door. There were books everywhere, highlighters and notepads, but no sign of her makan. Her heart dropped like a coconut.

Without hesitation, Dhara grabbed her shawl and went outside.

She heard them first – devotees marching along Beach Walkway – as blaring horns and clamouring bells took flight on tidal drafts. Sparklers flung vibrant light against the stepped gables and arched doorways and colonial buildings of the fishing village.

Every time a flash erupted from the cheena vala, they cheered: ‘Adipoli!’

Dhara caught up to the procession at the Parade Ground, a four-acre plot of land 500 metres from the beach. Dhara kept her distance, scanning the crowd for Udayan’s face.

Another flash lit up the twilight sky.

‘Adipoli!’ some yelled, but this time others screamed.

On the south side of the Parade Ground a Blank White Spot appeared, blotting out a large swath of grassy field – and apparently, whoever had standing there. Witnesses ran away, but just then, there was another flash and a Blank White Spot showed up beside the first one, so it doubled in size. Until now, each one had showed up in separate spaces, disconnected and seemingly random. Not anymore.

It was impossible to find Udayan in the chaos. She had no time to dwell on the thought of him vanishing. She raced to the cheena vala. Witnesses stood back from the dock. The man they believed was the king thrashed with greater passion than before. His crown had fallen off. His skin too seemed to be sliding from his bones, revealing a bright light underneath.

‘Iraysar,’ Dhara said to herself, then shouted to the crowd. ‘We must throw him back!’

But none of them budged or took their eyes off the creature.

Dhara stepped closer towards the dock. Each step scarier than the last. But this had to be done. She had suffered too much grief in her life. Too much loss. To block out the creature convulsing, she focused on the sound of waves breaking.

‘Someone fetch me a net,’ she said, reaching behind her, but keeping her eyes ahead.

Again, nobody responded.

The planks creaked beneath her feet. Her throat closed up, making it impossible to swallow. Holding out her arms for balance, she approached with caution. It looked as if it might burst at any moment and who knew what would become of the shoreline.

Just then, a great flash erupted from the creature. Dhara jumped back. She heard screaming behind her, but refused to turn around.

‘Here, Amma.’

The familiar voice startled her at first. Udayan stood beside her with a net – she recognised the net from the previous customer who ran off without paying.

‘I do not want you around here,’ she said.

‘I’m not leaving you,’ Udayan said, then grimaced at the slimy creature. ‘Ende ammo.’

It was of no use to argue. ‘Mone, we must hurry.’

They stepped to either side of the dock, careful not to fall off the rickety beams. Spreading the net around the squirming creature, they wrapped it up.

Udayan winced from the bright light on his face. ‘It burns.’

‘Do not touch the body,’ Dhara said, as the writhing grew more erratic. ‘And close your eyes.’

Udayan did so. Together, they lifted the creature. It was quite heavy and bits of flesh leaked through the mesh, sizzling on the wet dock like formic acid.

‘We count to three,’ Dhara said.

‘Wait,’ Udayan said. ‘We toss on three? Or one, two, three, toss?’

‘See, this is why you need to study,’ Dhara said.

They swung the creature back and forth for momentum. One … Two … Three …

‘Poda patti!’ Dhara said as they hurled the creature off the dock into the sea.

After the splash, the witnesses standing back snapped out of whatever trance they were in. Dhara and her makan collapsed on the planks, completely exhausted. The patches remained all over like big splotches of bleach. So much of the shore was gone, but they would recover. They had to.

‘Am I in trouble,’ her makan asked, still catching his breath, ‘for stepping foot on the docks?’

Dhara nodded. ‘This year, you will be making the Pookolam,’ she said, referring to the intricate and colourful kolam of flowers laid on the floor for Onam. She reached over to hold his hand and to hold onto this fleeting moment. The harvest festival was coming up fast. Everything comes up fast, Dhara thought to herself, including her makan. But this was the hidden cost of life: Just because you raise someone – or something – doesn’t mean it is meant to be kept.