Feudalists were in reality a mass of gangsters |
Every system has sucked |
No! I don't think so |
Pain giver; Pain giver |
Love is the power |
Did you ever think? |
A piece of pie |
We stepped out into a dimension of mind |
Crazy Fisherman on the River Ravi My father had an unquenchable thirst for fishing. One Saturday evening, in the middle of July he said we were going fishing in the morning. "Son, get all the gear ready, and ask the servant to prepare breakfast, and lunch for us for tomorrow". I was extremely excited. Going fishing with dad! Far out! I guess Uncle Lester must have been busy. Uncle Lester, father's cousin, was also a fanatic fisherman. He didn't like a kid coming along, I slowed-down the proceedings. Good! Uncle Lester was busy. We woke up at three a.m. Ate breakfast while everyone in the family slept. I put the backpack on my back and held the fishing rods, and got onto the back seat of the Vespa; an Italian job; a deluxe model. Dad used to drive a red Triumph for years, but he had it dismantled, and kept all the parts on the terrace, as a momento. He loved that motorbike. The sun was already beating down. In July, in the Punjab, in Lahore, Pakistan, one could not only fry an egg on the sidewalk; one could prepare the sausages and hashbrowns as well. We rode down Mayo road and other roads I don't remember; I was only twelve years old when we emigrated to Canada, you know; but I do remember the Ravi was within the city limits, or at least, on the outskirts of Lahore. We got to the riverbank, parked the Vespa and started fishing immediately. Dad was in an exceptionally good mood; he even let me use the new fishing rod. But all I could come up with was turtles. The weather was steadily becoming warmer. Father's concentration was becoming more intense as time clicked on. He really needed to catch a fish. His reputation as an angler was in jeopardy. Most of his friends had reiterated, "no good fishing on the Ravi this July". He needed a tall tale of triumph to recite. I was seriously hoping he would make a catch. I had also kept an eye on the group of crocodiles that had been inching their way closer to us, over the hours. It was about noon hour and the crocks were about fifty feet from us! Dad was oblivious to their presence Thank goodness! A bite. It was a huge fish. It bent the rod like a hundred-pound turtle, but it ran with the line, (as if fish ran). It jumped and tugged like a monster, but I was sure it was a fish, a huge Angelfish. When my dad reeled it in to the shore, and as he netted the catch, I gave a sigh of relief that it was him who had the catch of the day, It would add to my credentials, for accompanying him fishing on future ventures. "Raymond is good luck", and all that. While I was musing about future fishing trips and packing the gear and the fish, the crocodiles were suddenly too close for comfort; a mere fifteen feet away and almost ready to attack; my father noticed the danger for the first time since our sojourn. Seconds later we were fleeing for our lives. The heat had taken its toll on my father; he was too fatigued to kick-start the motor. In a panic he asked me to try. I pounced down on the starting pedal. The blessed thing started. We mounted the Vespa, and as dad slipped it into gear, I looked over my shoulder to see crocodiles on the attack. They were on the shore and about six feet behind us before the Vespa sped away leaving a trail of dust. |
|
[ Artist's Statement ] [ Main ] [ More Stories ] [ Poems ] [ More Images ]
Text and Images ©1999 Raymond Cooper