The Fishy TaleFollowing interview of Shaikh Turabbhai Potia, Mumbai, by Mudar Patherya
We have a tradition in the family. We present taazi (fresh) fish to Huzurala on the pehli taarikh of each month – wherever he is in the world. The tradition is challenging; it requires one to network with global shipping and delivery agents. The result is that whenever fish is placed in the thaal on pehli taarikh, Huzurala generally enquires ‘Turabbhai yeh mokli?’
.When Huzurala is in India, the specie – Tikru, easily available in Mumbai - is specific. Whenever Huzurala enquires about the specie, my reply is standard: “Allah ek, Quran ek, Nabi ek, Wasi ek, Dai ek, ane aa bhi ek – naam chhey Tikru.” And each time Huzurala smiles. Just smiles.
Something interesting happened some years ago. Aqa Maula was in Austria and my agent was away in Zanzibar. I missed my pehli taarikh deadline. Surprisingly, I got a call late into the night from a Qasre-Aali sahib who said, “Maula ney tamari machchi mili, ghanu tasty hathu aney Huzurala tamara haq ma dua keedhi chhey.”
I was confused; neither of my agents had sent the fish, then how did Huzurala receive it?
The story gradually emerged: Moula was in Vienna, spotted a fish farm, stopped his vehicle, bought some halal fish and gave it to his hotel to cook. When the fish was served, Maula observed that generally it was Turabbhai who sent fish on pehli taarikh, but “aaje main ehna taraf si tamne sagla ne machchi jamaaru chhu; sawaab ehne pahunchse.”
It is the fish around which is centered one of my life’s most memorable anecdotes. Huzurala was in Kashmir in the late Seventies; I was a part of the entourage. At Pehlgam, I apologized that on this occasion I would not be able to present him with machchi. Huzurala enquired why. I related that we would not be allowed to fish at the Pehlgam lake unless we sought permission from the relevant government department in Srinagar. Huzurala was unfazed; he assured me that we would all eat fish that day and asked me go fishing with him at 5 ‘o clock.
By the evening, Huzurala had got permission to fish in the lake (don’t know how!). I sat in the Ambassador car with Huzurala. We proceeded to a scenic point. Huzurala walked out on to a large boulder. Extended the fishing rod. Dipped the tackle into the water.
In the first minute, Huzurala reported his first catch. Lucky, I thought. I felt that Huzurala would roll in the rod and we go to the hotel. We didn’t. In the second minute, Huzurala caught another. What fortune, I told myself. Huzurala continued to hold the line out. Suddenly he caught another. Then another. Then another.
Highly unusual. Anglers wait an entire day and go back with one or two if they have had a good day and that becomes the subject of the evening conversation. And here, in the first five minutes, Huzurala had caught five. By this time, the locals had begun to sense that something highly unusual was unfolding; they had started moving closer to watch this shawl-draped man casually standing at the edge of the water and picking fish after fish.
This is what eventually transpired: over the next hour, Huzurala caught 60 – sixty! - fish, gave me half (“aa tamaaro hisso!”) and then added “Tame itna arsa si mane pehli taarikh ni macchi jamaaro chho, aaje main tamne machchi jamaaris!”
http://www.bohranet.com/part_27_the_fishy_tale