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      October 27, 2021Gourami Fish TaleZilka Joseph

      At eleven, I had only seen the “kissing” kind
      in the Mumbai aquarium, the platter-flat pink gouramis
       
      with enormous lips sucking at each other’s mouths
      for an eternity till boredom made me look around
       
      for something more shocking. But the edible kind
      I never saw until Captain Da Silva happened
       
      to catch one in Lake Powai, (where he invited
      some sailor friends to fish) its brown-
       
      black scales shining like melted chocolate, one white
      spot bright near its gills and a line of tinier dots
       
      trailing along its spine till they faded
      into tail. The men fished for carp, for tilapia,
       
      but my little-girl job was to snag bait—slippery
      chilvas (that’s what Captain Da Silva called
       
      this minnow-like fish), and proud I grew
      of my silver arrows darting about in the blue
       
      plastic bucket. But I craved big game,
      and tried the heavier tackle. A sharp tug
       
      at my slack line made me yell, ecstatic
      as a shadow emerged—a gourami it was
       
      (declared Captain Da Silva, and a good
      size too)! Its sulky protruding lips gaped,
       
      desperate, and I gasped in horror, and yet
      joy fluttered like a hundred fins
       
      in the ocean of my chest, while the fishing rod shivered
      with the small weight of my prize, the dying fish
       
      flipping and flapping on the rough boards
      of the wooden machaan. Squeamish at first
       
      to pull the barbed torment from its bloody
      face, I got bolder, (won much praise
       
      from all) for removing the hook
      from the thick-lipped mouth that kissed
       
      and kissed at the empty air, at the terrifying
      churn of demon faces above it, and, gulped
       
      the poison oxygen until my dad released it
      into a yellow nylon-string net
       
      which held the catch, quickly lowering it
      into the water. Innocent babe of the lake,
       
      frightened soul—pierced, tortured,
      suffocating slowly all the way home,
       
      betrayed by me (this fierce savior
      and lover of animals, this grand Little Lady
       
      of No Mercy), and fried crisp that night
      at Captain Da Silva’s. Eating two pieces
       
      I am told (no mean feat for a girl of such
      petite stature), removing the bones
       
      with help from my mother, I chatter on
      about how I caught it, while the men
       
      pat my back, chug Johnny Walker,
      tell my dad I have his genes, this was no
       
      small catch, a keeper indeed, (wink wink)
      the envy of officers and anglers.

      from #73 – Fall 2021

      Zilka Joseph

      “My home was Kolkata, India. I grew up there, was educated there, taught there, and got married there. Years later, I moved to the U.S. with my husband, and struggled with all the things that new immigrants (of color, especially) go through. I would return home to see my parents, to help them as they got older and frailer. But I have not visited that city since my mother passed. Entire worlds seem lost to me, and yet they are all present in some dimension as they are inextricably entangled with the present. Sometimes it seems that I have lived several lives all at once and memories of these many lives (in India and in the U.S.) overlay and play with each other. Parents, friends, relatives, students have come and gone, and I grapple with the emptiness that is left behind. I especially mourn the loss of my beloved parents, my city, and in some of my poetry, I try to bring what’s lost back to life.”

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