Forgive Us, Great Fish

Running to the door only find it occupied, I’m knocking on it before the pressure becomes too great. Why did I wait so long…again!

“Pardon me?”, offered in my most humble of tones lest Father or Mother be the one using the restroom.

“I’m peeing!” the high pitched retort revealing the occupant to be Younger Brother Dang.

“Open it now or I’ll break it down!” as my polite knocking turns to an impatient pounding.

“Please Elder, don’t come in!”

Even with the pressure building, a devious smile crept upon me as I began to slowly creak the door open to Dang inevitable screams.

“Ok, Ok, a second! I’m finished,” Dang’s face reddened as he stumbled out of the restroom, his underpants still at his ankles.

Not even noticing that my slightest bump had sent him down upon the hard, teak floor, I was a face full of instant relief…

…the sounds of a motor-powered long boat, the driver a dawn’s silhouette…

…the soft steps of our Elder morning risers…

…both sending warm wave after tiny River’s wave to bless our door…

//

“Wait! Oi NO!! Again? How could I have wet the bed again? I’m the oldest and this should be happening to Dang, not me. Grandma will have more wash and be very upset. The entire community will not have to wonder why there are sheets out to dry in front of our River house for the second time this week!” I thought, attempting to see how far I could bury Face within the soft safety of my pillow. The sun had become stern with increasing warmth-I had awoken late once again. I pictured Grandma as she stood the night before, my sun sternly suppressing a loving smile, as I pressed my palms together beneath that button nose and, upon my knees, brought them to the oil-lamp that lit the soft tones of our room, the only room of our River home. “This will ensure that you do not wet your bed again this night,” Grandma’s voice a cool balance of love and authority. She stood over me, wrapped in her Pasin, a long traditional Thai cloth that served as a woman’s basic article of clothing. She had just come from her evening bathing where she scooped water from a large, earthenware container and washed herself around the Pasin. Smelling fresh as the baby powder that kept her cool and dry in the muggy night air, and the hints of Thai spice that never left her, she leaned over and put her cheek to mine, softly inhaling; a Thai kiss. Her round, smiling face shown into mine, “Mahn Keow,” she grabbed my cheeks with an expression that roughly means “You are cute enough to eat!” I hugged her, my small, eight year old arms barely reaching the back of her plumpness, my face buried in the huge pillows of her bosom; again soft, again safe. I could hear Grandpa getting louder, out on the porch drinking local spirits after a long day. Dang chuckled at my scolding from under the sheet of his little nest. I would have to remind myself that he would deserve a little kick for that, then smiled at an idea that would never be realized; I could never really kick my little brother, despite feeling a wish to nearly every day! Well Grandma, it had not worked and you will be disappointed again.

My eyes blurred over my families’ beds as I rubbed the remnants of sleep from them; reflections of my soft mattress on hard teak floor, save that theirs were dry and empty. Through the mosquito netting that surrounded our family nest, I could hear them stir on the porch past the great front doors of our River home. Shuffling on my belly, I ducked my little head under the soft netting. Softly placing my fingers on the teak floors, shiny through decades of constant scrubbing, I traced the spots of light that beamed through knotholes in the ancient walls of this grand place. I scurried over to our drinking water pot, an unfinished earthenware container that grew a fine layer of soft moss on its exterior. Grandma called it our little ice water box and that the moss was what kept the water inside cool for us. As I scooped a morning drink with the ladle, a tinny series of tinks clattered on the corrugated metal roof; a small flock of yapping brown sparrows startled me, causing me to spill a few drops of the precious liquid our family collected off the roof from the rains. Tossing a little hairbrush that lay on the walls support beam, a great clang scared them off.

“Go poop on someone else’s roof!”

I giggled as I gazed at another knothole beam of light on the great “Ong Mong-gon” or “Dragon cistern,” my mouth “O” shaped as I heard Grandma coincidentally call out a good morning and a reminder to wash my face and brush my teeth.

“Wow, she is good!” I thought, the light reflecting off the brown finish and engraved dragon of this great container that might be found in nearly every Thai home. Starring at it wonderingly, I forgot what Grandma had just mentioned.

Grandma was most certainly in the kitchen as the tell-tale poundings of the mortar and pestle sent aromas of chilies, garlic and other spices throughout the home. These incessant sounds were sure signs of her great worth in the kitchen and so as a wife. It is said that a woman may be judged by the pounding sounds of her pestle.

//

“Grandpa! Grandpa! A big fish! Big as me!” Dang’s voice was a crescendo that sparked my dash for the front door and the ensuing spectacle. Younger brother Dang would tease me about something like this, but he would never try and fool Grandfather about something so serious. Our raft house swayed with the excitement of a great fish surfacing and then submerged beneath the cool season clarity of the River’s current. Imagining Grandpa’s eyes, lightened almost blue with age, flashing with the youthful knowledge of that fish eaten in a myriad of ancient Thai styles, I nimbly approached the front door. A fish as large as Dang’s youthful forty pounds, with accompanying delicacies of the River’s bounty, would feed the family for weeks. And Grandpa would also be saved the chore of fishing for a while.

I opened the front door, which remained closed until someone, usually Grandpa, put our bedding away lest a neighbor peer into a messy home and come to some unkindly conclusions about our family. For Grandpa, Face could not be lost, or ‘broken’ as the Thai liked to say.

“You are up late again. Missed our family offering to the monks. I could tell they were a little disappointed,” Grandpa said this as he stood on the porch/deck overlooking the River, his eyes as intent as I’ve seen some hunter birds on branches overlooking the River, scanning the shallows for signs of prey. He seemed somewhat majestic compared to the fisherman’s boat that was passing in the distance. On a long canoe-like craft, the man in the front paddled wearily as another tediously dropped and brought out a net suspended between two long bamboo staffs attached to the rear of the boat. Their efforts, however efficient, seemed to lack life’s intended enthusiasm. Conversely, wearing his usual navy shorts and nothing else, Grandpa’s lean bronze figure, strong despite his age, bent proud as a cocked bow over the waters of our flowing front yard.

Despite the hint of his smile that reminded me that I was, as always, forgiven, I felt a pang of regret at missing the monks. Even at such an early age, I did question a few of the Thai Buddhist practices of my culture and I could tell that some of the visiting monks, though appearing solemn, were in fact scared, ignorant little boys going through the exterior motions of enlightenment. Nonetheless, there were a few that had found…something. It was a something that could be found in more ways and for more people (genders in fact, for only males could be monks!) than their teachings provided for. Yet there was more to my regret than that. I couldn’t possibly have articulated it then, but there was a power in the faith of my people, in its point of convergence though my family that would forever hold me, gently. At dawn, each symbolic beginning, they would mildly, modestly paddle the River’s wise waters to each River home as if wafted in along zephyrs scented with the Jasmine Grandpa planted in an enormous pot at the end of deck. Always the good little boy, Dang would call for Grandma at the first sight of their saffron and orange robes. Grandmother would have spooned the Jasmine rice from the top of the pot into her brass container of traditionally ornate design called a “Cahn,” which she then placed on a brass holder of similar design (Her silver set was reserved for trips to the temple). Thai people believe that the surface serving of a freshly steamed pot of rice possessed a purity to be reserved for their Buddhist holy men. The “Tapee,” a unique serving spoon and a few petals of jasmine or rose inside for a nice aroma would complete the offering which Grandma would bring out on Dang’s (or mine if I had gotten up in time!) announcement. Lined up at the edge of the rafts outside deck, the family would wait, their legs folded under them and to the side, for the monks tiny craft to draw near. As it did, they’d bow their heads deeply in a respectful Wai that reached the level of their eyebrows. The monks would present the traditional “Bhadt” which looked like a polished, black bowl as Grandma, the children, who sat next to her lest they forget a vital step in the process, and the rest of the family would offer rice in turn. The monks would then begin a Buddhist blessing in an ancient Sanskrit tongue as our family sat humbly receiving. At the conclusion of the blessing they would simultaneously Wai all the way to the deck three times. The exchange was as common as the sunrise, and yet I regretted missing something more than the food we offered, the blessing we received.

Standing by the doorway, I softly giggled at Grandpa’s comical little shadow, Dang. Far enough not to intrude upon Grandpa’s intense concentration, Dang seemed more intent on stealing glances of Grandpa’s posture and visage for his own. However, when once again the fish did surface, he screamed and sped in my direction, hugging and jumping with me in a mix of fear and excitement! Instinctively, I joined him at the sight of the silver giant’s emergence, a reaction to my sudden notion that the creature might be able to leap aboard our home and drag us in with it. It WAS as large as Dang!


Grandpa hadn’t seen it yet, and standing proud over the water like a great hunter, seemed somewhat miffed upon realizing we had spotted it and he hadn’t. Behind him the morning mists crawled on shore to mingle and awaken the dense shoreline of Bamboo clusters, Banana and Don Dtan trees. We hadn’t actually been trying to see it again for a great fish like that would usually surface for a meal, as if gracing us with a glimpse of its majesty, before submerging to the comfortable depths of its world. Grandpa seemed to have caught on to some secret that eluded Dang and I.

“Grandpa! Here, here, here!” our pointing fingers jabbing the air with each “Here!” as the silver giant’s scales caught the morning sun. It slapped the surface as if in a great struggle with an unseen adversary, hooked on the invisible line of some unknown affliction and while witnessing the throws of such a grand fish at our doorstep seemed like a blessing, I was left feeling a glimmer of regret. The family that owned and ran the enormous the Mawm, a veritable market as a hooded houseboat, peered over the railing at the scene. Covered on its exterior with huge pots on a string, the hulking ship clanked with the current as a man called out, “You’ll need a big pot to cook a fish like that! Yes,” a woman, his wife chimed in with a smile, “and a great pumpkin to match. The Mawm usually carried such goods and produce as would last the river trip from land market to market. Grandpa ignored them, looking like a hungry child who’d just been offered a sweet as he stomped over. The giant submerged yet, again. “Ah, fish! Where did you go?”

Grandmother smiled from an entryway that looked like great shutters, the folded boards clapping together on their runners as the house swayed in the excitement. Their tune was accompanied by the slapping of smaller versions that served as windows, the lapping of tiny waves beneath the sturdy structure. “Oh my, it reminds me of when we were young and your Grandpa came a’courtin,” her voice enticingly directed towards Grandpa, who let out a sound crossed between the humor and a grumble for being disturbed. I chuckled softly at Grandma’s joke trying to picture a younger Grandpa flirting with a younger Grandma to win her hand. Dang looked up at me and laughed a little too loud; he missed the humor, but didn’t want to let on. I smiled at him fairly certain that he would ask later.
Grandma mused a teasing little encouragement, “A Kao fish, and one of the most succulent fish in the River. Not a lot of bones like the Dapeon fish. Nor dry like the Chawn fish. Perfect for a curry or Tom Yum soup. Now let’s see,” she said putting her fingers up to her mouth, eyebrows a query, “What other dishes would a fish like that bless? Grandpa,” she called a bit louder, “are you planning on WILLING it into our kettle with your intense stare?”

Grandpa crouched over the River and seemed to try and see through the waters and while Grandma continued, “Well now, oh Great White Wildman of the River! I-Jim”, as my family and friends liked to call me, “What was the name of that Great White Wildman from the comic book, the one who controlled lions with his mesmerizing gaze?”

“Tarzan, Grandma!” Both Dang and I sniggled uncontrollably. He got this one since I’d read him the comic just a few days ago.

We cheered him as he tried to continue his hunt, shushing us with an annoyance he had trouble selling as sincere. We continued the torment.

“Go Tarzan! Catch the great fish, oh Great Lord of the River!” Grandma joined our merriment as she knew well how fitting the metaphor was for her proud husband. Caught in the moment, the three of us let out a perfectly timed shriek as the silver giant’s surface made an echoed eruption under the deck beneath our feet.

This time Grandpa laughed at us standing there sheepish in our shock, but he only afforded himself a second of joyous diversion before racing to the end of the deck. He seemed to have calculated where the fish would be by its last outburst and the flow of the River. Grandma, Dang and I followed only to see him bound off the deck towards the surfacing Kao fish. At that moment, silly though it seemed, he did remind me of the fictionally heroic character from the comic.

“Pee Chan!” The tone of her voice and the fact that she used his real name frightened me. She was suddenly concerned and hadn’t thought he would jump after so great a fish. Of course, an afterthought suggested that was what he must have been preparing for. My only disclaimer was that it really happened just too fast to ponder. In the water, a forty-pound fish would be very powerful and Grandpa was quite a bit older than I had imagined Tarzan of the Jungle to be. My father, Preecha cried out just as his mother had a second earlier. It seemed he had peered out the window of his River home at all of the commotion. Our raucous ramblings mix cheers of encouragement with cries of concern as Grandpa struggled to get a hold on the great creature, which, though not at it’s best, certainly seemed to have plenty of energy left for a fight.

“Hold it, Grandpa!”

“Please be careful”

The dark of his permanently sunburnt back splashed with the white and silver of water and fish in motion. Grandpa had a hold on the flap of its gill and struggled to keep it as the giant thrashed with the newfound strength of fear. A strong swimmer, Grandpa seemed to grow tired as he struggled towards the footing the River’s shallow shores would offer. The fish had other intentions and beneath the surface the embattled pair submerged in a flash of silver and bronze.

Preecha disappeared almost as quickly as I’d seen him, emerging once again on the shore of the River. He strode towards the water’s edge, his face full of the concern he had often flashed at Dang or myself at one or another of our careless episodes. “Father!” his call skimmed the waters as Grandpa went under.

Grandma, Dang and I gasped towards the raft’s edge to peer with worry at the shadows that swirled beneath the surface. While at first we could see the two, mud began to conceal their struggle; IT had taken him to the bottom! Suddenly Grandpa broke the surface for an explosive breath in much the same way the fish had originally happened upon us. And as quickly as he surfaced, he was yanked under. In tears, I was afraid that the fish had him and was going to repay him for his insolence. I recall flashes of Fish kings, underwater kingdoms and severe punishments that would turn Grandpa into a fish. Of course what I should have been worried about, what Grandmother had confessed to later, was Grandfather’s stubborn tenacity, his refusal to accept the process of aging…

Grandpa surfaced again, a bit closer to shore and his strategy soon became apparent. He was dragged to the bottom by the fish and would then launch towards the shore. Having gotten the fish close enough to the shore, he pulled the fish back down to the bottom and sprang up closer to the shore. As his feet caught the bottom, he stood for a weary moment as if held in the trance of some sad realization, then shook it for the flash of a smile for his loving onlookers. I caught a glimpse of another knowing aspect upon Grandma’s face as she caught a tear’s course down the channels of her years. Lifting the silver giant in the air, his strong hands locked under each gill, Grandpa shouted and stumbled a bit as we cheered the catch.


“Oh Mother of our Darling Son,” Grandpa emitted a gasp of attempted triumph, “For what wonderfully delectable dish should I butcher this Beauty?!”

The truth of his query coupled with his release from any and all danger hit the unfed recesses of my stomach.

It was beautiful.

The savory spices of Tom Yum Soup would meld soft within its tender white flesh. Our family thrived on fish and my tongue was just not quite as adept at foraging through a scrumptious mouthful of Grandma’s magic for the inevitably tiny bones of the fish we cooked with. Resisting the intense desire to swallow them dangerously down was frustrating and my elders would often sit and smile, their hunger satiated as Dang and I struggled to finish a meal. However, the tremendous chunks of boneless delight that this enormous fish would offer began to fill my mouth with the floods of anticipation.

My father, Preecha, paused at the waters edge and greeted his father in the traditional way, the palms of his hands together as if in Western prayer; the Wai, risen in respect to the precise location of his face. The formality of his greeting was a bit out of character, since son and father were very close. There was another reason for it. His head slightly bowed to his fingertips, Preecha’s voice intoned,

“Greetings Father.”

Grandpa smiled at his only son and returned the sentiment with much less reverence,

“Yes, yes there my boy, yes.”

Like Grandpa, Preecha was informally dressed; his Saturday off from work. Wrapped around his waist was merely a Pakoma, the man’s equivalent of a Pasin and at least as versatile. Used as clothing, a hat, a blanket, to cover the essentials while showering or to carry a load, this piece of cloth characterized the Thai countryside. His frame, stockier than Grandpa’s, was given to him by his mother, and his face glowed with her powerful happiness. He stood a man confident in his physical prowess, jolly as young Kris Kringle. However, unlike Grandpa, his pale torso revealed one who worked indoors; a formally ‘educated’ man, a teacher. Preecha would be the first to tell you, however, that Grandpa was a sage of sages. His knowledge of indigenous healing herbs was second to none and he was widely regarded as something of a local medicine man.

After their greeting, Preecha reached Grandpa and helped him with the fish, a look of pride on his face. “Nice catch Father,” he beamed barely concealing the former concern that would be inappropriate to show his father, “I would not have thought you could jump into the River for such an incredible fish!”

Preecha and my mother, Manit’s River home adjoined Grandma and Grandpa’s. Dang and I enjoyed staying with Grandma and Grandpa more than Mother and Father. For some reason, Mother and Father seemed to have less patience and needed more time alone. At the time, I only knew that Grandma and Grandpa’s home was more comfortable.

Dang and I ran to greet the two as they carried the silver giant from the shore to the bridge that would bring its succulent treasures to Grandma’s magic recipes. Knowing that Grandpa would have to go and forage on his land for the appropriate spices to whatever dish Grandma had planned, helping to carry the fish would certainly be a point in my favor when I would ask him to take me along.

Following the formality of our father’s lead, we did Wai, “Greetings Father.”

“Greetings Grandfather,” Dang and I chimed together, our hands a Wai in the harmony of daily practice, bowing slightly deeper for Grandpa out of respect for his age and stature. The two men, engrossed in a lofty conversation on the merits of this fine catch merely grunted a country style acknowledgment.

As they began to cross the bridge, Dang and I went on either side of the prize and placed our palms on its underbelly. Grandpa’s eyebrow arched a quizzical assertion at our forward attempt to share in his pride. Our faces illuminated, Grandma couldn’t help but giggle at the innocent aid we offered the two grand men.

“Grandpa, I may be of some help when you to gather the herbs and vegetables for cooking,” my soft suggestion in its humblest tone. Grandpa placed a free hand on my shoulder, confirming that he heard me as he continued his conversation with Father, their faces as serious as local monks offering the Buddha’s teaching.

“Me too, I want to go!!” Dang rudely interrupted.

“And what might those herbs be?” Grandpa was annoyed and his tone was directed at me.

“Dang, apologize to your Grandfather for being impolite!” Preecha scolded.

“Now Son, don’t scold this darling boy. Do you understand? You too must respect your father and this boy will not be scolded while I’m around.” Grandpa always spoiled Dang and sometimes I could tell that it would hint of no good. Dang would at times bend the rules around Grandpa, almost as if he wished to test the protection Grandpa offered. And though he remained silent, I often wondered what feelings stirred within Father Preecha.

So encouraged, Dang began to plead, his voice rising in a whine that would earn him a stiff rebuke had Grandpa not been around.

“I waaant to go with you Grandpa! Please? I can go, yes? Please?”

“We will need to ask Grandma first,” I explained, flashing Dang a look that warned him to let me handle this, but it was Dang’s show now and it seemed-as infuriating as the truth can ever be-to be working!

“Oh, yes, I would love to have you along my boy. Both of you.” Then he invited our praise with, “Did you see Grandpa catch this great fish?”

“Yes” we both answered in stereo. “I was frightened,” I confessed, swallowing my feelings as they rose refreshed. “Especially when you both went under the River”

We reached the end of Grandpa’s raft, the place where he could conveniently butcher the fish and discard the scraps. As he prepared his tools and called to Grandma for instructions on how the great creature should be sectioned for the meals that she had planned, I asked him what had been nagging me since the melee began.

“Grandpa?”

“Yes child?” Grandpa answered as Dang seemed to struggle in the background with some unseen opponent. My guess? A great fish.

“Why couldn’t the fish just swim away? It almost looked as if it were drowning.”

“Ha, ha! Who is just sooo stupid. Fish can’t drown!”

“Well Dang, actually your sister is right,” Dang pretended not to listen as he went back to his world. “If a fish has trouble swimming, it can drown.” My eyes opened inside and I knew that it was this great curiosity that Grandpa loved in me. It commanded his most covetous attention as much it commanded mine.

“You see, in order to breath water this fish needs to swim. This way the water passes its gills.”

“Where are its gills?” Dang poked his cute little head between us. I understood this need to be a part of Grandpa’s teaching and despite a slight twinge, welcomed my dear brother.
“Do you remember where the tastiest part of the fish is?” I instructed receiving the same attention Dang would have given Grandpa. Grandpa’s face reflected pride.

“Ummm,” Dang’s crinkled in query as I snatched the back of his head and pulled him in to sniff his cheeks in a Thai-style kiss.

“The cheeks!” I told him saying “Man Keow” as Grandma or Father would have. He giggled as I further mentioned that the fishes’ gills were right behind it’s cheeks.

“Quite correct. Underneath that flap are the organs that enable the fish to breath water. However, the fish must be able to move water past them, and if it is having trouble swimming then this may become difficult. And to answer your question I-Jim, I believe that this fish was shocked with electricity.”

My own face scrunched, not understanding how the fish could have been shocked as Grandpa continued his explanation.

“Some people use electricity to shock fish. The electricity causes many fish to loose consciousness and float to the surface where the fisherman, if he can be called a fisherman,” Grandpa’s face twisted a bit in disgust, “merely collects bushels of them.”

“Maybe we should shock them?” Dang asked with uncharacteristic sincerity. I warmed to the honest curiosity of his question, a hopeful step from his usual attention getting antics.

“No. I believe that this practice is dishonest.” Grandpa’s expression grew serious, somewhat distant.

“Our River has a life of its own, and this life is made up of all of the creatures that live and grow within it.” Grandpa continued to speak as his hands, as if possessed by a separate mind, began to section the fish with fluidity and grace.

“Even us?” Dang asked, again showing the proper respect.

“Yes child,” Grandpa smiled, “even us. The electricity machine used to shock the fish affects many things in a large area, and not just the larger fish that the men want. Baby fish are killed, fish that would someday become the River’s next generation. Frogs, snakes and insects, all of which are important to the River, are also destroyed and discarded. All things are invariably connected and these people are greedy and are willing to destroy the balance of the River for their own profit. This is not Buddha’s way.”

“But Grandpa,” I asked, a mischievous smile creeping to the ends of my cheeks, “didn’t you catch a fish that was shocked by that very same machine?” Excitement grew within me for I knew that this was an inappropriate question, and yet I also felt safe asking it with only Grandpa.

“What!?!” though his volume soared, it was light and it spurred my excitement to a squeal as he stood up and grabbed my cheeks. “Well then my insolent young mouse, this fish must be given back to the River!” He smiled and gathered the enormous fillets, slowly edging them dangerously close to the edge of the raft.

“No! No! Grandpa, my Love! I was kidding!” I grabbed his stout calves, tittering uncontrollably. Dang, as if shaken from a stupor of seriousness, sprang up and grabbed Grandpa’s other leg. Grandpa’s voice boomed with mock seriousness, “But it would be wrong!! Just wrong to eat this delicious fish!!”

He slowly fell in feigned surrender, joining our laughter even as he concerted our embrace.