Fishing for the Mind

Breaking away from the city life and work for a weekend that can truly reconstitute you, is like believing in a fable. When I selected this river-side home-like retreat to spend a weekend with family and friends, the expectations remained grounded. The offerings did not include an orderly “hotel” room, or polished attendants and the food was supposed to be hygienic, ample and home-like.  The friend who advised me on taking this experience listed fishing, natural surroundings, basic accommodation, and no mobile connectivity as the package.

The idea of fishing seemed to resonate in my mind. When I shared with my elder son of 5.5 years, he almost slept, ate and breathed on the idea. He imagined the experience, before experiencing it! The enthusiasm just grew as we proceeded towards the day we would embark. Nothing else now mattered except the fact that I and he could do something, we had never tried. On the appointed day, as I drove towards the place leaving the city behind, the oxygen and the curiosity kept increasing.

The final few kilometers to the farm, was getting off the highway to village road to almost no roads. Rains had made the natural surroundings surreal, while the village road offered some last mile hiccups. Having overcome the last mile, the farm gates were the gateway to our 24 hours of chosen seclusion. Mild rains and downcast skies squeezed the light out of what could have been a generously sunny late September afternoon. Our room’s door opened to a basic accommodation. The other door in the room, opened to a sumptuous balcony that oversaw the river with forests, all around. The simplicity of the room and its magnificent balcony gave way to a certain appreciation of where we were. We tried to absorb the view, to embed it in our mind. The weary driver in me found a quick healing.

The lunch was spicy. It still managed to placate my taste, enhanced by the hunger along the journey. My elder son’s excitement brewing along the highway was hitting its crescendo. As we ate, we asked the care-taker to arrange for the fishing rod and the bait. His smile assured his preparedness to our excited nerves. We quickly retired for a nap, as the quantum of food impaired our mobility. I woke up before the alarm would set-off on my phone. My son was as prepared for the moment, as he perhaps had imagined many times in his mind. The care-taker gave us in a black polythene bag wheat dough, to be used on the fishing hook as bait. A flight of stairs took us to the farm’s backyard, with a thick cover of bamboo trees and several others at its feet. The dried leaves from trees had absorbed rain water and offered a soft cushion to the feet. We were led to a small gate and then to a small concrete platform by the river bank. He handed us the fishing rod, made from a long bamboo stick with a small hook, tied to a nylon thread. Being our first time, we did not bother about the basicness of our equipment.

A pea-sized dough was put on the hook and thrown into the water. When it was pulled out of the water, the dough was gone. I was not sure if fishes in the water found some food or the dough being water soluble, just washed away. Our guide assured there were fishes. Then started several attempts with varying the dough size, the time in suspending the hook beneath water, the speed of pulling the rod out of water and trying different locations, without any success. Seeing the disappointment, our guide kept the belief intact that there were indeed fishes in the water and we needed extra patience. With faith restored, some changes were made to our approach. The size of dough to be used on the hook was reduced to be sufficient enough to just hide the hook. We decided to observe silence while fishing and be alert to every soft pull that the rod may transmit to the hand.

The rod was freshly suspended with the dough on the hook. My son held the bottom-end of the rod and I supported the upper part. Out of instinct, I just pulled the rod up and our heart leapt with joy. There was a small fish about three inches long at the other end, caught in the hook. It was that private glory moment that gets permanently etched in the memory.

The guide unhooked the fish and inserted it in a plastic bottle filled with river water that he had carried in case we find a catch. With our prize of patience and excitement, we reloaded the hook and suspended the rod again. There was light pull and when I pulled the rod up, the failure as usual. I was unwilling to believe that our catch was just beginner’s luck. The hook was reloaded with the bait. There was a mild pull, which my heightened instincts picked and I pulled the rod. There was our second catch, another small fish. In successive ten attempts I got lucky six times! My son was in raptures. My friend who was with us could not believe his eyes. The plastic bottle could not accommodate the fishes. A bucket was brought and the fishes were transferred to the bigger pool. At the end of almost an hour and forty minutes, between me and friend’s attempts, there were twelve fishes in the bucket swimming and two dead. Our guide was surprised and ecstatic.

As we climbed the stairs towards our rooms, the less cloudy sky was preparing for the evening. The foliage of the trees had made the stairs dark. The guide was ahead of us with the bucket in his hand. I looked at my son. His eyes were glued to the bucket. As I looked behind, a gentle mist was descending on the river. I could not ignore the feeling that for few hours I and my son ceased to be separated by age, or our relationship. We were connected by curiosity, excitement and certain celebration.

The subsequent day before checking out of the farm, we decided to go fishing. We did not have luxury of time, as lunch was getting ready and then we would leave. We hastened with some dough and a bucket. The prized experience of the previous day did not retain momentum. My son disappointed by the failed attempts suggested that we abandon. Armed with the lessons of patience from the guide, I tried few more and there were two quick catch. As I kept the fishing rod and put the remaining dough back, my son requested that I throw the fishes back into the water. I asked, “Are you sure?” His answer was a kind – “Yes”.

I held his hand as we climbed up the stairs. He was happy. This time… for releasing the fishes into the water. I drove through the village roads amidst some breathtaking open greenery, forested mountains in the distant horizon and reached the highway. The open highway pushed the adrenaline to rush towards the city, before my other city dwellers who had equally tried to escape, choke its roads. The fishing rod, the hook remained behind…near that small gate.