The sun was in its dying breath and its silvery rays were turning violet. He jumped into the water holding a bag with one hand and reaching out for another. He called the boy loudly and shoved a bag towards the boat.
The boy cautiously directed a depleted wicker basket to the man and sank into the water. Both grasped the fish wicker jointly and swam towards the sand.
As they came closer, I was amazed to see Sabir with his father – a bona fide fisherman. Sabir never wanted to fill his ancestors’ shoes. He wanted to be a ‘literate and cultured’ man like those who live in Karachi, just 30 kilometres away.
I recall watching a documentary highlighting the problems of fishermen stressing on the use of illegal nets which were meant to kill fish with fries. Sabir had played the lead role in the documentary. He was in the eighth grade at the time.
In the documentary, made a decade ago, young Sabir had declared that he was not going to be a fisherman. Yet, I saw him now helping his father in a profession he clearly despised. Sabir was now a scrawny man in his 20s with a fading glimmer in his dissatisfied eyes.
As the pair touched the sand they thrust the plastic bags away and waded out. I cast a glance into the wicker and found a distressingly small catch inside – a few mackerels.
I held Sabir’s arm and pulled him close to me. He staggered. His eyes filled with surprise as they searched me in detail.
“Do we know each other?” he handed the wicker to his father and put his hands on his waist in an aggressive manner.
“You don’t know me,” I clarified. “But, I know you.”
“How can you know me? I am not Amitabh Bachchan.” He referred to the Bollywood star whose fame is next to none in the coastal areas of Sindh.
“I saw a documentary many years ago. I think you played the lead role in it.”
He stood in silence with his head bowed. I saw his eyes brimmed as he looked up and nodded to my query.
I reminisced the days when that documentary was played at many forums across the country and abroad. Sabir had attained a celebrity status, but the makers kept him away from the audience and successfully put him in the void.
“You told everyone that you did not want to be a fisherman…” I gazed at his guise – damp and sodden.
“I tried…” he whispered. “I matriculated and got into in a college but my parents were short of money.”
I was all ears.
“I found a job in Karachi as well, but could not continue. It is difficult to shuttle from here to Karachi on a meagre income.”
He did not speak about the filmmakers who had promised him of a fortune when he agreed to speak according to their script.
“God bless them…” he choked.
I saw a dozen children – barefoot and in rags – running across the beach. They tried to look inside the wicker.
The old man angrily shoved a couple of children away. They fell giggling and sand stuck to their half-naked bodies.
The old man said: “Don’t touch the fish, you damned souls!”
The boys playfully threw the sand at each other.
“You know…” the old man paused. “Fish will lose its gloss if it falls on the sand.”
The kids chortled. The old man clutched Sabir’s arm and strode away.