The Weight of leg pain

In the heart of Kolkata, where the Hooghly River shimmered under the weight of a thousand stories, lived an old fisherman named Anil. His days began before dawn, when the city still slept, and the only sounds were the lapping of water against his wooden boat and the distant call of a muezzin. Anil was known for his quiet demeanor and his uncanny ability to predict the river’s moods. But what set him apart was his peculiar companion—a fish he called Pa Betha.

Pa Betha was no ordinary fish. It was a massive hilsa, its silver scales glinting like polished coins, with eyes that seemed to hold the wisdom of the river itself. Anil had caught it years ago, on a stormy evening when the Hooghly churned with fury. The fish had fought hard, but when Anil pulled it aboard, something stopped him from gutting it. Perhaps it was the way Pa Betha looked at him, unblinking, as if pleading for mercy. Instead of selling it at the market, Anil returned it to the river, only to find it swimming beside his boat the next day. From then on, Pa Betha became his shadow, following him on every fishing trip, nudging the boat gently when the currents grew treacherous.

The villagers called it madness. “Anil’s lost his mind,” they whispered at the tea stalls, sipping sugary chai. “He talks to that fish like it’s his brother.” But Anil paid them no mind. To him, Pa Betha was more than a fish—it was a guardian, a friend, a reminder that the river gave as much as it took.

One monsoon, the rains were relentless. The Hooghly swelled, swallowing the ghats and flooding the narrow lanes of Anil’s neighborhood. Fish were scarce, and the market prices soared. Anil’s nets came up empty day after day, and his savings dwindled. His wife, Lakshmi, grew anxious, her forehead creased with worry. “We can’t eat your stories about that fish,” she said one evening, stirring a thin dal over the stove. “Sell Pa Betha. One hilsa like that could feed us for weeks.”

Anil’s heart sank. He looked out at the river, where Pa Betha’s silhouette flickered beneath the surface, waiting for him. “It’s not just a fish,” he murmured, but Lakshmi’s silence was louder than his words.

The next morning, Anil rowed out farther than usual, his hands trembling as he cast his net. The river was a beast, its currents pulling at the boat like a child tugging at a kite. Hours passed with nothing to show for it. Then, as the sun dipped low, the net grew heavy. Anil’s pulse quickened. He pulled, muscles straining, until the water broke and there it was—Pa Betha, thrashing in the net, its scales catching the dying light.

For a moment, Anil froze. The fish’s eyes met his, and he felt a pang of guilt so sharp it stole his breath. He could hear Lakshmi’s voice, see the empty shelves in their kitchen. With a heavy heart, he rowed to the market, Pa Betha still tangled in the net. The fish didn’t struggle, as if it knew its fate.

The market was a chaos of voices and smells—sweat, spices, and the sharp tang of fish. Traders swarmed Anil, their eyes wide at the sight of Pa Betha. “Five thousand rupees!” one shouted. “Ten!” cried another. Anil’s hands shook as he handed the fish to a merchant with a thick mustache and a wad of cash. The man grinned, tossing Pa Betha into a basket with a thud. Anil pocketed the money and turned away, unable to watch.

That night, the rain stopped, and the air was thick with silence. Anil couldn’t sleep. He lay beside Lakshmi, the rupees hidden under the mattress, but all he could see was Pa Betha’s unblinking gaze. At dawn, he slipped out, unable to face the river. Instead, he wandered the streets, the money burning a hole in his pocket. He bought rice, lentils, a new sari for Lakshmi—things they hadn’t afforded in months. But the weight in his chest only grew.

Days passed, and Anil avoided the Hooghly. His boat sat untouched, gathering moss. Lakshmi noticed his silence but said nothing, her new sari unworn. One evening, a neighbor knocked on their door, his face grim. “Anil, you need to see this.”

At the market, a crowd had gathered around the merchant’s stall. The man was shouting, his voice hoarse. “Cursed fish!” he spat, pointing to a rotting hilsa on the table. It was Pa Betha—or what was left of it. Within hours of being sold, it had begun to decay, its flesh turning foul despite being fresh. No one would buy it, and the merchant’s other fish had started to rot too. “You tricked me, Anil!” he roared, but Anil barely heard him. He stared at Pa Betha’s remains, his throat tight.

That night, Anil returned to the river. The Hooghly was calm, its surface a mirror for the stars. He sat in his boat, the oars idle, and whispered an apology to the water. “I betrayed you,” he said, his voice breaking. The river didn’t answer, but as he rowed home, a faint ripple followed him, like a shadow that refused to let go.

Anil never saw Pa Betha again, but he felt its presence in every cast of his net, every tug of the current. The villagers stopped mocking him, and the river, as if forgiving him, began to yield fish once more. But Anil carried the weight of Pa Betha forever—a reminder that some bonds, once broken, leave ripples that never fade.