songs from the sea

   
      ... 'the fish never want to see the sun'

The sea relentlessly hugged the shore in a symphony of crashing waves, kissing the salt soaked sand, washing over it tirelessly. Picture perfect blue each morning, the beach was a tar black enigma at night outlined with faint white waves, that devotedly died each time they hit the sandy shores.

scrape, scrape 'grunt, phew' scrape, went the little fishing boat as it was slowly pushed into the pitch dark night waters of the midnight sea.
'grrunt.grrunt. phew. Just a little more. phew' the fisherman murmured to himself, as he pushed his little fishing boat, till it hit the waves. 'A little more' and he pushed it again. He could feel the sea wrapping around his knees, it was almost to his waist, when his boat miraculously steadied itself afloat. 'That's a good girl then', he smiled and heaved himself onto his wooden livelihood, and as effortless as breathing he started paddling, steering his little boat into deeper waters.

It was a full moon night, and as he steered further away from the shore, he knew the sand would glint like a million diamonds under the satellite. This picturesque, almost dreamy landscape that could've inspired an artist one too many, was to him another night, indistinguishable from a thousand other starlit nights.

He knew this routine well enough to repeat it in his sleep, hell, he could do it from his grave. Each night he'd set off on his little boat, equipped with a net, older than time itself and a new bottle of fermented coconut water. The net by the looks of it, had been mended several times with an unskilled hand, but it worked- 'it catches enough fish, to get me by. Some I eat, some I sell and the rest I give away. Life is good. It could be better, but what do I need more in this small village. I feel content, even if a little lonely, and for that I have this', he smiled at his bottle of fermented coconut water, and chugged it, coughed a little, and drank some more. 'There's no purpose, I know, but I don't need purpose in my life to feel content. What purpose do fish have? Just swim, and feed and make more fish and get caught in some net?. haha', he mused, laughed and continued paddling to where waters got impossibly darker.
It was the deeper part of ocean, where he'd often struck gold with several schools of little fish, and sometimes renegade bigger ones too.

The sea grows eerily calm when you feel yourself getting closer to the horizon, and as the fisherman looked up at the cloudless sky, he felt like it was mismatched with the night. Sure there were stars, a thousand of them; it felt like the sky was a dark village with a single road paved with glitter, and they were falling? 'shooting stars, so many today. That's new. Maybe it's a good omen'.
He held up his bottle and peered at the star studded sky through its thick soda glass, and laughed. 'The only worthwhile thing I know in my life apart from fishing is making fermented water', he guffawed, and with one seasoned hand stroke flung his net into the inky depths, and sat and waited. Just like every night..and then for a fraction of a fraction of existence, he sensed a smell. A smell strange to the sea, he smelled a flower, and just like that, it was gone. 'What on earth' he murmured annoyed. 'This is one of those irregular moments that aren't supposed to happen. Maybe I drank too much'. He swished around his bottle and drank some more, and pulled back his net. 'huh, no catch. the fish are sleeping, haha. They found a purpose I guess.' He inhaled in deep again, same old salt breeze, no flowers.
'Let's go a bit to the left, I know they're biting there, my favourite hotspot', and he paddled a little more. Thankfully, the breeze was favourable and in five minutes he was ready to cast his net again, when there it was again. This time more pronounced, a faint whiff of a whisper of a flower, like a gentle flap to his senses. 'Flowers, why do I smell flowers in this godforsaken sea? I'm supposed to smell the sea, the salt and fish', but there it was again, like a streak of light and suddenly he saw something.
He stared hard, the flowers he felt were all around him, but there were no flowers, nothing..except his little boat, rocking gently in vast open darkness and a flash of light swimming near his boat. 'Is that a lightbulb? but why is it still glowing?god? is it swimming? I've had too much to drink' he stared at it and wrapped himself in the exotic sweet scent of flowers that now surrounded him.
The little glare of luminosity swam ferociously. It was a rich golden blush, almost an incandescent orange and looked like a careless drop of sun had taken to the sea.
'What on earth is this? Is this why I smell flowers?', and in a blink of thought he spread out his net.
His trained ears knew what those splashing sounds meant, he chuckled to himself. 'looks like I've caught the little sunshine'.

He pulled it out, and saw the little thing thrashing painfully in his ancient net. He brought it closer to his face to inspect it, and at that moment he felt like he was standing in a rich forest of luxurious blooms. 'By the heavens, what are you?' he murmured. 'You glow brighter than all the bulbs, and smell like heavenly roses. Won't you make a neat little pet, in my tiny bowl. You can glow all you want for me, and mask the stench of fermented coconut water. Looks like you've found your purpose in life—to make me happy.'
'My purpose in life is to be free', the fish murmured and for a second, the fisherman almost dropped his net into the sea.
'you talk? or am I drunk?'
'I talk, but I shan't if you put me in a bowl. neither will I glow, nor smell of flowers. Please let me go.' pleaded the fish in a faint jangle that sounded like waves.
'If you talk, lightbulb fish, I'm sure you can sing. Sing me a song and I'll think of letting you go. If you don't, you can stay in this net and die' the fisherman leered at the little fish, licked his lips and took a big swig from his bottle. 'go on, sing then'
  And the fish sang. It sang of the colourful corals, and the seaweeds. Of rainbow coloured conches and giant crabs. Of rocks buried deep in the sea, and thousand year old krakens. It sang till it could sing no more.
'please let me go now. I sang as you wanted. Please set me free'
'What's in it for me? If I set you free, what do I get? will you sing me a song every night?'
'No, I cannot do that.' the fish sobbed and pleaded the fisherman to set it free.
'On one condition' the fisherman said licking his lips greedily. 'you sing for me every night. If you miss even a single day, I'll put the word out for a glowing fish, and it won't be difficult for fishermen to hunt you down. You're not that difficult to miss. Sing for me each night and I will maybe spare you.'
'No, please no. I sang as you asked. Please let me go'
'make a choice, fish. Either I put you in a little bowl, or you sing. What'll it be.'
'Come at the same hour each night, and I promise to meet you here and sing' wept the fish.
'tomorrow then', said the fisherman lowering his net, 'if you don't show up, I'll make sure you end up on a plate'

The fisherman had found a purpose in his life, created his own little secret. each night he'd stay surrounded by the smell of flowers in pitch dark seas, and hear the fish sing. Its voice like lilting raindrops falling upon the ocean.
Each night, he'd paddle himself to the same place, and spend hours, listening to the songs of deep ocean pearl blankets, gentle sea snakes, thriving living fossils, rebellious anemones.
Each night the songs got sadder, but he threatened and urged the fish to sing till it was daybreak.
'Sing me another song, or I have my net you know'
and the fish sang, mournful, jaded, morose, monotonous, cheerless.

From full moon to full moon. It happened over a hundred nights, when the fish told the fisherman it would sing no more.
'I'm tired and unhappy. I cannot sing for you anymore, because I don't want to. It's been a hundred nights, and I want to be free'
'but you are free' laughed the fisherman, gulping the last of his fermented coconut water, staring at the orange sky. 'see, it's morning, and soon you'll swim away. You're free'
'But I'll have to come back at night and sing again. That's not free. I want to sing when I want'.
'Do you want me to tell the world about you, stupid fish? I'll come again at night, till then you're free'. The fisherman made his way back to the shore, humming to himself, the same tune he'd just heard, of a sea cucumber that fell in love with the sea bed.

He returned to the sea at night, and waited for the little fish. he waited for an hour, and waited till he'd finished the contents of his bottle. 'where are you little', fish he shouted. 'I want to smell flowers in the sea and hear your voice. Come out, or I'll have you hunted'. Hours passed by. The night faded into bright streaks in the sky. Stars disappeared.
The fisherman was panicking now. 'where are you fish? you'd better not have cheated and broken your promise. I'll tell the world of you, and they'll hunt you down. come out fish. sing me a song' his voice grew hoarse and desperate.
He inhaled hysterically. 'flowers, my flowers. I can't smell them. The sea is getting blue, and you're not here. Do you not feel it with me? your purpose in life? how could you abandon me? I've nothing to live for. Come to me, sing a song, let me smell you'. he cried as he spat each word. Breathless with tears, he screamed till he could all but croak 'don't leave me fish...smell..sing..flowers..I beg you...what'll I live for?'
 He didn't remember when he slept, but when he woke up, he was still in his fishing boat, and the skies were starlit again. Parched, hungry yet hopeful, he waited. 'I know you'll come tonight fish. what else will you do?' but there was nothing. He was tired, hungry, thirsty and he didn't have the strength to paddle back to the shore, but somehow he did.

Night after night, for over a hundred nights, from full moon to full moon, he took his fishing boat to the same spot, to smell flowers, to hear a song, but each night all he ever did was cry, and shout, and throw curses in the air. Beseeching, threatening, begging the fish to come back.
He never smelled the flowers, never heard another song.
His misery had reduced him to a thinning shadow, too weak to take his boat into the waters, he'd beg every fisherman to look for his glowing fish that smelled like full blooms, it sings, he'd say.
He'd torn at his hair in anguish, beaten himself out of frustration, and sobbed himself to sleep each night.
   His eyes had sunk into the hollows of his sockets, his ribs now protruding, he could barely walk. He was reduced to the local freak show, of the scary skeletal lunatic, pleading everyone to look for his fish.

'the sea will drive you mad' they'd say. ' No fish looks like a sun, they hate the sun. They know they'd die if they ever saw the sun' they'd say.