Shrijana, a ten-year-old girl, little known to the world, little known to herself, lived with her grandparents in an old house in Naxal. The house was built to the east of Bhagwati Bahal and lay along the cross of the busy road. Shrijana was named after her great-grandmother, whom she signified in many ways—she had her lips and her unwillingness to be in crowded places. She had her fair face and flawless ears. Her nose was exactly like her father’s. She had fringes; and her orange cheeks made everyone call her Suntali. She resented being called Suntali though. Her grandmother would tie her hair in a ponytail every morning; this highlighted her ears and slender neck.
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Her parents took her to a psychiatrist once, but their attempt had been futile as there were no other features in her that were abnormal; Shrijana was declared a normal girl. When her mother asked her who her imaginary friend was, she said that it was Suntali and that her head was made of orange. She had no mouth, yet she spoke; she had no nose, yet she breathed; she had no eyes, yet she saw; she had no ears, and yet she heard Shrijana very well.
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Shrijana loved watching the rain fall. She would rush to the window and stare at the skies.
As on every other rainy day, Shrijana was looking out of an open window into the street, the houses and the Bhagwati Bahal temple. She kept glaring at the drops as they tumbled down from the vast sky. At exactly 12:35 pm, something dropped. She looked up to see if it was a bird or an aeroplane; no sign. She put on her raincoat and rain boots, and hurried down the stairs to find out what it was that had fallen from the sky.
When she got down, there were no people or vehicles; this made the place look barren—almost rural. People
living in the vicinity were considered to be of ‘higher society’ but that day, everything had seemingly perished. There were no people; the vehicles they owned did not run on the street; there was the temple—drenched in rain— but it seemed as if the place had somehow grown immoral.
She walked along towards where the mysterious object had fallen. She looked down to find that it was a glowing fish. It seemed like a thing of dead beauty; the scales were radiating—a scene in which people find pure, glowing gold in untouched caves. Shrijana picked it up and held it carefully in her palms.
She had an empty aquarium in her room filled with colorful pebbles and water and the dead soul of her goldfish swimming inside it.
She walked into the house and went up the stairs to her room. She locked the door and took off her rain boots and coat. She let go of the fish in her aquarium; the resultant ‘plop!’ filled her room. The fish swam across the glass bowl rapidly; almost as if it was trying to escape. This fish’s energy delighted Shrijana, and the prospect of saving someone brought a smile to her face. She kept looking at the fish; it no longer radiated.
“Silly girl.” Bubbles rose from its mouth as the fish moved its lips and mouthed these words.
Shrijana was amused by what she heard; she couldn’t stop beaming.
“Yes you! I am talking to you!
You are the only one in the room. Aren’t you?”
Shrijana nodded.
“You think you saved my life, don’t you? You are completely wrong. A cloud broke, and I dropped from the sky. All my friends escaped, leaving me behind with you in this smelly tank. Lord knows how many fish have died in here!”
“Hello little fish. How can you talk? And why is it that you’ve stopped glowing?” Shrijana finally spoke.
“I hate introductions, and how I can talk is of no importance. The
horrible smell in this tank stops me from glowing; makes me look like the normal fish I shall never be,” the fish replied.
“Well then, are you delicious?” Shrijana asked.
“Hell! I am delicious. I am the best fish in the whole world. Just try eating me; but mind you, if you eat me, you will die. You have to eat me raw, though. Don’t wash me or my taste will be washed as well. Just bite and slurp down. You will find heaven in your throat, but when I get down to your stomach, you will die.”
Shrijana picked the fish out from the tank, as if plucking a flower from her favourite Mimosa tree. As she took him out, the fish glowed again but it didn’t sway at all. As she was just about to put the fish into her mouth, just as it had said she should, a sudden sound alarmed her.
“Don’t! You will die if you eat that fish. I don’t exist if you don’t.”
She turned back to find that it was Suntali, the girl with the orange head.
“Why should I listen to you? I hate you. I don’t care about you. People call me by your name and my name is nothing. My parents, they call me Sirish! How ridiculous can people be?” Shrijana shrieked out.
She moved her hand and opened her mouth to swallow the fish when ‘Paatt!’ the sound reverberated across the room, and quickly overcame the silence. The fish dropped was down safely in the glass tub, and its radiance vanished once again. The fish kept swimming inside the bowl.
“You don’t even let me have a fish!” Shrijana cried out, and began choking Suntali until she disappeared into thin air.
“Little girl, you will die if you eat me. I have to tell you something that may ease your decision.”
“You seem so hushed, don’t be. First, your grandparents will die if you die because they love you a lot. They will die in a fraction of a
second after your death. Second, your parents don’t love you at all. They hated you immensely ever since you were born. They wanted a boy, and they wanted to name him Sirish.”
Dazed and confused, and shocked by what she just heard, Shrijana broke down and started crying. “Howw-ow... do you know that?” Shrijana finally managed to speak.
The fish began to speak again.
“Little girl, every fish up in the clouds knows every little secret that human beings keep. We are like your accountants; except we keep records of what’s in your mind. There are 7,974,834,985 fish altogether to keep track of every little human brain out there. One fish for one human.
Every ten minutes a baby is born and for that baby; a fish is born. When it rains heavily, some of us, rendered unconscious by the rain, fall from the clouds. I am not your fish, but a friend of your fish.
When a person dies, his fish dies as well, and falls out from the sky into rivers and seas. This is how the waters on earth are filled with fishes. The eggs are only an excuse; a cover to hide us.”
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“What does it matter anyway?” said Shrijana. “My grandparents don’t have much time to live anyway. So what if they die a day earlier?! Let my parents bear another child. I don’t want people to call me Suntali or Sirish. Nobody, except my grand
parents, even knows my real name anyway,” said Shrijana. She spoke with real difficulty; as if a bone were stuck in her throat.
“You can swallow me then, little girl. Swallow me, and be free from your pain.”
Shrijana carefully picked the fish out of the bowl; slowly opened her mouth, and directed the fish into it. The fish glowed brightly—like a bag of pure gold. She moved her tongue to get a taste of the fish. It had been right; it tasted delicious. Like nothing else she’d ever had.
It soon passed her throat. Shrijana collapsed; the house was empty—three fishes dropped from the sky into the sea.
- Shrinkhal Shrestha
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