Catch of the Day
by
Vashti Bowlah
It was the talk of the small fishing village when the only doubles vendor in the area brought home a wife. Word quickly got around that she was hotter than the special blend of pepper sauce his customers couldn’t get enough of. Young and old wondered what had prompted his sudden change of status. He had driven off one morning in his beat up old car, after hearing the news by chance, that someone he knew had died. When he returned two weeks later, children looked up from their play, men froze with their mouths opened, and women peeked through their windows to catch a glimpse of the new arrival.
Roshan was a good-looking young man when he made the effort, and was considered to be quite a catch. He was tall and lanky though not too skinny. His jet-black hair was always in need of a cut, but kept hidden under his white vending cap--a look which revealed his deep forehead. His eyebrows were thick, his lips thin, and his smooth brown face always clean-shaven. He lived alone in a small wooden house in need of some minor repairs. Though he was no hermit, he never joined the other men for drinks at the neighbourhood bar. When he was a little boy his mother had run off with the mailman who lived in another village, without leaving as much as a hand-written note for his father. After the old man died some years later, he transformed their doubles vending stall into a thriving business, replacing the wooden stall with a small but cozy food hut right next to the bar, in the same spot where his father had made his first sale. There he served his hot Indian delicacies, expanding his menu to include phulorie, aloo pies and saheenas, as well as sweets and home-made juices in recycled soda bottles.
The hungry fishermen and vendors were his best customers after a long night out at sea, as well as the busy early morning crowds seeking bargains at the weekend market. The women had heated discussions about what his bank balance should be based on his daily sales, and how they thought he should invest his money. They tried to get their daughters married to him as soon as they attained a marriageable age, but he always declined their offers.
“I sure that girl Roshan married only after his money and don’t deserve him. My daughter ten times prettier, but he refuse she,” complained one fisherman’s wife.
“My daughter just as pretty and she not lacking nothing, so he shoulda married she instead,” complained another.
“I wouldn’t mind having him for myself, not that I would get married to him or anything,” remarked Sheila while filing her nails.
“We don’t even know nothing about she or where she belong to,” commented the fish vendor’s wife.
“My husband cousin wife say that she sister-in-law know somebody who went to school with she, and she was always chasing after some boy,” replied the gardener’s wife.
“I wouldn’t be surprise if she planning to go after we husband next,” the carpenter’s wife threw in.
“I hear too that she did engage to some boy and he break off the relationship,” added the gardener’s wife.
“He must be come to his senses,” hissed the carpenter’s wife.
The newlyweds were unaware of all the interest their union had generated throughout the village. They were too busy adapting to their new status as husband and wife. Nisha soon encouraged her husband to get the repairs done on the house. The lawn was cut and maintained and the flower garden tended to. She shopped for the latest trend of clothes and Roshan looked dashing in his new shirts and trousers. He started wearing cologne and even got his hair cut in a modern style. Not long after, he traded his father’s beat up old car for a used station wagon. Nisha would wake up before dawn to help Roshan in the kitchen. She would cut up the potatoes and wash the chickpeas that were usually left to soak in water overnight for the curried channa and aloo. She would then finely chop the dasheen leaves for the saheenas. She’d watch him mix the ingredients for the various delicacies, as she dropped small portions into the hot oil to deep fry. He instructed her to ensure they were fried to a golden brown before scooping them out of the big iron pot, and packing them into the respective coolers. Bottled kuchela, chutney and pepper sauce were always prepared in advance and stored in abundance to add that hot and spicy flavour. She also accompanied him to the food hut and stayed until the breakfast crowd had dwindled, before returning home to tidy the kitchen and complete the other household chores.
Roshan was thrilled with the crowds clamouring in to buy his hot and tasty delicacies. The men talked among themselves about how excited they were to have such an attractive and mysterious young woman in the village, since it was common to marry the local girls as they had all done. They looked forward to catching a glimpse of Nisha and enjoying the tasty delicacies almost every day, though they were sometimes tired of it. Nisha would take their orders, flash a smile, or exchange a few pleasant words while collecting their payment or wiping the counter top. Her fair skin reminded the men of freshly squeezed cow’s milk, and the way her hips swayed from side to side was enough to drive them wild. It didn’t take too long before they started comparing her to their own wives.
“If my wife could look like she, I would stay home more often,” said the carpenter.
“And if mine could move she hips like that, I go be the happiest man on earth,” added the fisherman.
“All my wife does do is complain whole day, so right now I willing to trade she for a used bush whacker,” remarked the gardener.
The men continued to praise Nisha whenever they gathered for drinks. The fishermen would sit around for most of the day after throwing their nets throughout the night, and the gardener, carpenter and others would join them after they completed their day’s work. The women were not as thankful as the men were to have Nisha in the village, and did not fall short on their criticisms. They often gathered at each other’s homes anxious to exchange the tiniest bit of news or sightings of the new couple. They complained that their husbands never had a problem with any of them until she came along, and they now preferred to eat at the food hut or waste away their time and money at the bar.
“My husband don’t do nothing around the house. You wouldn’t even know I was married to a carpenter.”
“My husband only putting on weight with all that fried food he eating,” said the fisherman’s wife, stuffing another phulorie into her mouth.
“My husband don’t even look at me no more. If I didn’t know better, I would think he have a next woman stash away somewhere, but I know it don’t have no woman who go look at him twice,” complained the gardener’s wife.
“Whenever I complain, my husband does tell me I should learn to walk and talk like she, like if something wrong with me,” said the other fisherman’s wife.
“And that is why I always saying I don’t want no husband to give me that kinda trouble,” remarked Sheila.
“She making we look bad, acting like the perfect wife, swinging she hips left-right-and-center, making we men drool every time they see she,” complained the gardener’s wife.
“I still think she just waiting to make a move on we husband,” added the carpenter’s wife. “We should do something before it too late.”
So they devised a plan, which they quickly put into action. As she had been doing every Saturday morning, Nisha stopped off at the vegetable stall in front of the gardener’s house after leaving the food hut. The gardener’s wife smiled from ear to ear when she approached, and initiated some small talk and marriage advice.
“You shouldn’t trust your husband too much because he break plenty hearts in this village already. You know Sardine? That is the fisherman from up the road by the junction,” she explained. “Well, he did promise to marry Sardine daughter after she mother dead and he change his mind just so. I wouldn’t say who tell me, but it look like he still seeing she because somebody see she with him just the other day. But I sure you don’t want to hear about all that, seeing as how you is a newlywed and all.”
Nisha was devastated. She wondered how Roshan could have changed so much since she had first met him. He grew up here, so the villagers would know these things better than she would. But she needed to be sure, so she decided to confront the fisherman’s daughter before going home. It’s not like Roshan would admit to an affair if she asked him. Roshan was serving a customer that very day when the carpenter’s wife came to his food hut. She placed an order, and asked him about his married life while she waited, commenting that his wife seemed to be a quiet young lady who kept to herself. She suggested she should mingle with the other women in the village, as they would be happy to show her around. She expressed her concern that he was always busy and he should keep a closer eye on his wife.
“You can’t trust these women you know, especially them quiet ones. I wouldn’t say who tell me but I hear that your wife getting a little too close to Sardine and she does go by him after she leave here. You remember that his wife dead about a year now so he must be lonely. Who knows?” she lifted her eyebrows, “she must be going there right now because I think I see she leaving here a little while ago.”
Roshan was shocked, hurt and confused. He never expected that kind of behaviour from his Nisha, and wondered how she could have changed so much since he had first met her. He pondered over what the carpenter’s wife had said, trying to convince himself that it wasn’t true. He couldn’t confront Nisha about an affair because she would never admit to it, so he decided to carry out his own investigation. Still wearing his white cap and apron, he closed up early, drove to Sardine’s house, and parked a short distance away near a huge mango tree. To his surprise, Nisha was just walking up to the opened front door, when Sardine came out. She said something to him and started crying, so he invited her inside. Roshan’s hands tightened around the steering wheel and his chest rose, as he breathed heavily. He shut his eyes, but was still unable to block out the image of the two from his head. Too hurt and embarrassed to do anything else, he started the ignition and drove off.
He came home even more confused and angry, and stuffed all of Nisha’s clothes into her suitcase. He greeted her with hostility when she came in a short time later, pointed to the suitcase and asked her to leave. She was too distraught about her own discoveries to argue or question her husband’s actions, so she picked up the suitcase, ran out of the house, and caught a taxi back home to her mother. That night, and for many nights, she cried, saddened that her husband whom she still loved so much would cheat on her. She was so happy being married to him that she was too blind to pick up on any of the signs, and had allowed him to make a complete fool of her. Her father would have thrown it in her face had he still been alive. Roshan on the other hand, was determined not to fall into the same deceitful trap as his simple and trusting father, whom he swore had died of a broken heart while grieving for his unfaithful mother. He preferred to send away his cheating wife, rather than face the embarrassment of seeing her run off with another man right under his nose. He still loved her though, and was already missing her.
The villagers noticed the change in Roshan over the next few days. He opened his food hut but did not serve his customers with the cheerful smile and disposition they were accustomed to. When they passed his house, they saw that it was neglected once again, and his lawn and flower garden were not being tended to. It seemed he rarely had a decent meal and had stopped shaving; a shadow began to form on his face. In the meantime, the women sent their daughters over with home-cooked meals to take advantage of his vulnerable state, but he sent them away claiming he needed to be alone. The women’s frustrations grew since nothing was going their way. Roshan was still refusing their daughters, and their husbands continued to ignore them, leaving the house whenever they complained about one thing or the other. The men became sad and restless because there was no more Nisha to ignite a spark in their otherwise dull day. They grew concerned about Roshan and one suggested they should try to console him by finding out what had triggered the sudden break-up. They knew they wouldn’t only be helping Roshan who was sinking deeper into depression; they would also be helping themselves, for they now had to tolerate the pitiful sight and constant nagging of their wives.
Soon after their discussion, the men were surprised to see a sad and depressed Roshan walking into the bar after packing the empty coolers into his station wagon. They invited him to join their table, calling to the barman for a round of drinks. Roshan could not hold his liquor well, so it was not too long before he started spilling his heart out. He told them how he had accompanied his father to a dry goods store one day, to help him after he had complained of feeling unwell. He had seen Nisha there for the first time and learnt that her family owned the store. They had fallen in love, both volunteering over the next few weeks to run errands for their families, so they could meet each other secretly. Her father found out soon after and did not think a doubles vendor’s son was good enough to marry his only daughter. Nisha’s father complained to his own father one day, throwing insults at them, and his father had pleaded with him to forget about the girl. Being the noble man that he was, he had abided by his father’s wishes. He didn’t want to see him suffer any further hurt or humiliation. Nisha had been his only girlfriend. Though five years had passed, he had dated no one else and thought of no other woman since.
He had heard the news from a long time friend who was passing through the village, that her father had passed away two years earlier, succumbing to a sudden heart attack. After careful consideration he had ventured to see her, doubtful as to whether she would receive him with joy or whether she had already married someone else. To his relief she was just as happy to see him, and her mother had agreed that they could have an intimate wedding. He expressed how much he was missing his wife and why he’d had no choice but to send her away. The men remained speechless for a while, touched by such a beautiful love story.
“I feel like I just watch a good Indian movie,” remarked the fisherman.
“For true boy, but you sure about Sardine?” asked the carpenter. “Let we call him here now and settle this, because something not sounding right.”
They were all shocked at the news about that particular fisherman and were determined to get to the bottom of it. Sardine arrived within minutes, anxious to clear his name. He explained that Nisha had come over that day and asked to see his daughter. He didn’t know why she had broken down in tears when he told her his daughter had gone to her husband’s food hut, but he felt sorry for her and invited her in for a glass of water to calm her down. She wouldn’t say why she was looking for his daughter and left soon after. He swore it was the only time he had ever spoken to her.
Roshan thought for a moment, a finger propped under his chin. “I remember she really come in the shop that day to buy some doubles and aloo pies but she leave right after, so that doesn’t explain why Nisha was so upset?”
The fish vendor asked why he had suspected her in the first place and he mentioned the visit from the carpenter’s wife that day. The men all looked at each other, the same thought occurring to them. They had a notion that their wives had everything to do with the couple’s marital problems. Roshan was baffled, so they explained how jealous their wives were of Nisha and their pre-occupation with both of their lives. They encouraged Roshan to go after his innocent wife, apologise, and bring her back home where she belonged. Meanwhile, they needed to deal with their own wives.
The gardener confronted his wife later that day and an argument erupted. She complained that he never paid any attention to her and rarely spent any time at home. He retaliated by confessing that he has been keeping a mistress for the past two years and he wanted a divorce. The fisherman also confronted his wife, chasing her through the village with his fishing knife in hand, to teach her a lesson for meddling in other people’s business. She stumbled and fell on the side of the road while running and broke her hip, which left her bedridden for some time. Not too long after that, the carpenter’s wife found her husband in bed with none other than Sheila. An argument ensued, blows were exchanged, and household items were thrown around. The carpenter’s wife then packed up her belongings and left the village.
Roshan returned to the village with Nisha, both completely wrapped up in each other and too busy to notice the changes that had taken place. They both realized their mistakes, and despite the advice they had been given earlier, they committed to trusting only each other. END
Meet the Author...
Vashti Bowlah is a writer from Trinidad and Tobago and a participant of The Cropper Foundation/UWI Creative Writers’ Residential Workshop. She has numerous publishing credits and won prizes and awards for her writing. She admits that with a full time job, several ongoing projects and a teenaged son to do battle with, her writing is the only thing that keeps her sane.
CV: I laughed at the wives' tragedy at the end of the story, then I felt guilty for laughing. How do you anticipate readers will react to the story?
Bowlah: I hope readers will see that while the story is meant to be entertaining, it also conveys the message that time is better spent mending your own broken homes, rather than trying to destroy others for personal gain. Nothing good could ever come from idle gossip and bad intentions.
CV: Who do you envision as your audience for your writing?
Bowlah: Both women and men in the age range from 18-65 seem to enjoy my stories, as they tend to appreciate the simplicity and everyday experiences of my diverse characters.
CV: Who are your favourite / most influential writers?
Bowlah: When I first started to write some years ago, it wasn't easy for me to identify or relate to any writers, until I read the work of R. K. Narayan, Jhumpa Lahiri, Guy De Maupassant and M.G. Vassanji.
CV: Are you currently working on a manuscript? If not, do you intend to do so?
Bowlah: Short stories are my passion - and my favourite pastime. I currently have enough stories that have already been published in various reputable journals, as well as a few new ones to complete a collection of my own, but I haven’t attempted to publish them.
CV: What, in your opinion, would be an ideal romance? Or is the notion of an "ideal" romance just stuff for fiction writing?
Bowlah: I don’t think there’s an “ideal” romance as such, because we all have our own ideals on what it should be, based on our unique personalities and other factors. I do believe however, that nothing happens before its time, as love comes knocking much later for some than others. Many successful couples out there can attest to the fact that it’s better to wait for Mr. or Mrs. Right than to compromise with Mr. or Mrs. Right Now. For those who choose to wait, their real-life romance stories can rival any piece of fiction writing.
