Fishing Rod = My dad's mighty sword.

I wrote a story a month ago in perspective of my dad's fishing rod. I have a soft spot for my dad's passion for fishing. He loves it so much that when my siblings and I were younger and couldn't be left alone at home, he would bundle us up in jackets over our pajamas and take us to the sea-end of my country to fish. Where was my mother? She would be with us too, also dozing off in the boat  and not always happy about being on a boat but she married a fisherman at heart, so what could she do? Anyway, this story is especially dedicated to my dad, the fisherman :)

  September is the time when my master wakes up at 4 a.m. goes to the mosque for prayers at 4:15, comes back home at 5:15 and then goes up to his room. However, rather than switching on his television at 5:20, he comes down again, dressed in frayed khaki pants, black Nike T-shirt and a baseball cap. He switches on the storeroom light at 5:25 and takes me out of that rat hole. Who am I? I’m my master’s servant, his beautiful fishing rod. I anticipate my master’s appearance every day but he fits fishing into his schedule when he has wrapped up most of his obligations at work. In a world where professional competition is a battlefield, my master takes out the time to look after his mechanized sail boat at a fisherman village called Mubarak Goth. I believe my master was a fisherman, living in a rundown shack, in another life. The fact is that I have a bond with my master that he may not even have with his own children, the most primitive characteristic of a man comes alive when he hunts and I am the tool that my master uses to hunt fish.

He was about to put me in the car when he patted his pockets, searching for the car keys. Ah yes, an old habit of my master, he would never remember to take the keys and he would go up to his room, open the lights and look for them everywhere. As I wait for my master’s return by the entrance door, I look down the empty lane. I can see the blue board that says Clifton, Block-9, some punk though spray painted “Anda Group” on it with silver. It is sad the way some humans mistreat public property, heck I’ve seen the fishing rods lying around for rent at the village. They are badly rusted, some loops are missing and the grip is practically ripped off. I am thankful to be in the ownership of such a thoughtful master. I smile grimly at the other graffiti on the walls of bungalows across from me, the crumbling paint on some other wall and the crows, perched on the wires that are entwined with the palm trees and hedges, beginning to get loud as the sky did a transition from a dull grey to a bluish shade. The scent in the air is of early morning, I breath it in deeply, I love this dewy scent. It smells like what clouds would smell like. I’m drinking in the sight of how time has changed the picture of the roads at the end of the lane. I can see what used to be the main Gizri road, which has become quarter of its size on each side due to the flyover built on it. I’ve heard my master grumble about it when it was under construction. The noise was a constant headache, the dust and the rubble was the source of my master’s countless coughing fits, it was a nightmare. It took three years to build that bridge and I thank the Mighty when it got done and the roads were remade. However, time did not change the board signs of the shops across the road, there is still the yellow board of ‘Dunlop’ tyre shop, the image-full of lamps and lights on the ‘Roshni’ board or the four story mosque with its tiled walls and white domes. Oh how I missed being outdoors. A few cars are zipping by to and from, echoes of minibuses and their unique horn tones are audible, I also see some familiar house guards walking by, probably on their way to work, leaving their families even on a Sunday. I felt sorry for the guards, but I didn’t feel sorry for my master leaving his family to go fishing with me. I am the main reason for his steady blood pressure, I can tell the expression on his face since he picked me up from the storeroom, and he looked twelve years old.

My master returns, jiggling the car keys from his finger in stride. He picks me up and puts me diagonally into the car so that my one end lies on the floor of the passenger seat and my other end can almost touch the back wind shield. He settles into the car and turns on the ignition. Then he looks out towards the almost empty road of this maddening city called Karachi and slowly drives the car out of his lane. On his way to go to the fishermen village where the sea awaits him, where there is nothing but fresh air, his underdeveloped boat and I, his friend, his fishing rod.  

Z.