Prologue

Goldfish

They are hundreds in number—the goldfish. They navigate effortlessly, weaving in and out, one over the other, and sometimes, a school over the other. The sunlight transforms their golden-orange fins into radiant extensions, casting ripples of their dazzling reflections across the aquatic stage.

As I observe the aquarium, the sunlight occasionally reaches such extremes that it feels as though rays of liquid gold are piercing through the water, momentarily overwhelming my senses. Watching them play in the water for long can make one’s head spin.

I am amazed by the tenacity of my brother, have always been. He is five years younger to me. The teachers in school always expected of him the things they never expected of me. Every academic hurdle set before him seemed like an opportunity for him to shine, while the same challenges often left me in their shadow. Relatives, too, would compare us, praising his virtues and subtly pointing out my perceived shortcomings. He was supposed to be the rising star of the family, and I was thought to be the black sheep. Basically, he is everything that I am not, and everything that makes one more likeable.

But coming back to the goldfish, his fetish for these small, useless creatures is bewildering to me. We used to have a small glass aquarium in our house back in the day, and it had three goldfish. Our ancestral pond, once a potential source of prosperity through more conventional fish farming, now played host exclusively to his golden-hued obsessions.

Quite a waste of space, if you ask me. Some other species of fish would have been far more profitable and palatable at the same time. Pond owners in our village earn thousands every month just selling Rohu and Katla, which are the tastiest varieties of fish in my opinion. I still crave them, even though it has been years since I turned vegetarian. A lot has changed since then.

Sorry for digressing, but these damn goldfish. A five-acre pond is being exploited by my inept brother for farming the fish which he had taken a particular liking to when he was young—and I am not happy.

I am squatting beside him in the traditional Indian style as he beholds the pond dreamy-eyed, and I look at him with disgust. The lines on his face and the prominent dark circles under his eyes bear witness to the countless nights spent tending to his piscine obsession and they have taken away much of the signature good looks he had in his youth—he doesn’t look younger than me now. That fills me with a sense of weird satisfaction. Last time I checked, the skin on my face was smooth and taut, thanks to Vicco Turmeric. Kuber, despite his illustrious namesake, hasn’t even managed to build a fucking toilet in our house, which is almost in ruins.

I wonder why our parents named him Kuber. This good-for-nothing fellow hasn’t brought in even a single penny since he came to this godforsaken world. Wow! Such irony. The frustration wells within me as I ponder the incongruence between his name and his actual contributions. Yesterday, my uncle and aunt literally begged me to convince him to do some work. He indulges in a routine of eating, sex, drinking, and sleeping, squandering the hard-earned money brought in by the contract farmers. Was he always this way? I guess so. As they say in our village, you can never straighten a dog’s tail. This seems to hold true for Kuber, a man ensnared in the perpetual loop of hedonistic pursuits.

I reached my village yesterday. I was very reluctant to even think of stepping foot here after 20-odd years, and the memories of what had happened due to which I left are still fresh. It took me tons of effort to bury them deep beneath years of engaging myself in other things, and they still manage to peep out of nowhere from time to time. But my heart begged me to come here, and I somehow convinced my mind. My village is a small place tucked in the heart of vast traces of farmland, around a couple hundred-odd kilometres from the famous town of Mughal Sarai. Everyone here is a farmer—people either farm crops or fishes. The village is beautiful, lined with ponds and trees, and full of small, thatched roof houses. Electricity is regular now, and almost everyone has a TV, a sign of prosperity. Back in my youth, the only form of entertainment available was the occasional circus that came to our village, and summer nights would be spent sleeping on the roofs of our homes due to the scorching heat.

Ah, digressing again. I have a habit of speaking about things that might not be relevant to the situation. Please bear with me.

I came here for the last rites of my mother, and I am happy that she went peacefully. Seeing her for one last time was also something that pushed me into boarding the train and travelling the dusty and torn up roads that led to my home. As I think about her, my eyes well up, and I use my loincloth to wipe them off.

The birds have started chirping. I look around and see the multitude of palm trees that surround me—I think they emphasize with the fact that we are all alone at the barren outskirts of our village—shitting and making merry with the goldfish. My gaze shifts back to Kuber, and a wave of surprise washes over me as I observe his seemingly carefree existence. Am I jealous of him? Yes, I have always been.

However, it’s a jealousy I’ve never allowed to morph into something malicious; I’ve never harboured the intent to inflict any kind of harm upon him. Sadly, the same cannot be said for him—he has a penchant for causing me pain. I can never forget what he did yesterday; on a day that should have been marked by mourning and reflection, he was partying with his friends. As I stood beside our mother’s pyre, a solemn duty I undertook with reverence, Kuber was nowhere to be found. How could he? I don’t think anyone who knew Kuber ever had any expectations from him, but even by his standards, skipping one’s mother’s cremation for the pursuit of inebriation sinks to a new low. In that moment, I question not only his lack of regard but also the indomitable spirit of jealousy that has long festered within me.

I stare at him, while he peacefully shits, smoking beedis one after the other, and feeding Rohu to his goldfish. He is cutting and slicing the fish that he bought yesterday, and feeding them to his fish, while chanting Rani’s name continuously. Rani is the biggest goldfish in the pond—15 inches long, Kuber told me on our way here. He is very excited by the fact that his goldfish eat Rohu; he has turned them into cannibals.

As I watch him, there is something that is growing inside me, like a tree which is rooted deep inside my gut, forcing itself out of my head. My mind is going back to the time when I last saw goldfish. It was in the filthy aquarium in my bedroom—Kuber had gifted it to my wife and me on our second wedding anniversary.

I can’t stand it anymore. I need to do it. I don’t want to—but these goldfish, these damn goldfish. They bring back too many memories. There’s a forceful insistence, a yearning to break free, to pierce through the surface of my consciousness.

I snatch up Kuber’s scythe as soon as he keeps it on the ground between us to light another beedi. It is shiny, and extremely sharp—he had polished it yesterday. The look in his eyes is a mixture of fear and surprise as I swing the scythe with all the power my right arm can muster. There is a very soft and satisfying sound of flesh being torn as the scythe rubs against the side of his neck and slices it.