The Gutter Fish That Caught My Soul

I was in sixth grade when the world was still a playground of wonders, and curiosity was my compass. One day, I found myself knee-deep in adventure with my friend Mansoor—a gentle soul, a gem of a companion whose laughter still echoes in my memory. If he’s out there somewhere, God bless him. We were chasing tiny, dazzling fish in a stream near my house, their tails flashing like bursts of color—red, gold, a dance of life in the water. We called them “color fish,” and to me, they were treasures worth any risk.

I was so lost in the chase that I didn’t hear the voice calling me—not the first time, not the second. Mansoor nudged me, “Come on, don’t worry, we’ll catch them before they swim off!” The stream flowed toward us, a ribbon of possibility, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from those shimmering scales. I’d even brought a glass bottle—my drinking tumbler, scrubbed clean that morning—to carry my prize home. Then came the third call, sharp and insistent: “Hey! Can you look up? What are you doing?”

Me in Stinking Gutter :)

I lifted my head, peering through the bushes, and there she was—my sister, her face a mix of fury and fear. “What are you doing here?” she barked. “I’m telling Mom and Dad you’re catching fish in this bloody place!” I blinked, confused. “What’s the big deal? I’m just catching fish with Mansoor.” She shot back, “It’s not Mansoor. It’s where you are. Don’t you dare do this again!”

“What’s the problem?” I protested. “I’m careful. I’m close to home. I’ll finish and come back—please don’t tell them!” My heart raced; I could feel the panic rising. Then she exploded: “Do you even know where you’re standing? This is the gutter—the great gutter of this town! The last stop for all the city’s waste before it joins the streams. You’re in a ditch, you idiot! Can’t you smell the sulfur? It’s disgusting!” She jumped, yelled, waved her arms, then stormed off with her friend, vowing to snitch. Looking back now, at 48, I see her worry clear as day—and I laugh at my own mischief.

But back then? All I saw were those fish. The stench didn’t faze me; the filth didn’t register. My world was the “color fish,” darting through water laced with bougainvillea petals—red and radiant, like roses floating on a dream. I’d caught three or four, tiny miracles swimming in my tumbler, and I was thrilled. Mansoor, though, was done. He shivered, wide-eyed, and begged, “Let’s go, please. I’m scared—I don’t want to be here anymore.” He was innocent, wise beyond his years, a friend who’d shared food, games, and endless kid adventures with me. But I was too stubborn, too hooked on my catch.

Climbing out of that gutter was a struggle—small as it seems now, it loomed large to my sixth-grade self. I grabbed vines and plants overhead with one hand, my other clutching the bottle tight. I wasn’t about to lose those fish. They swam in their little prison, unaware they’d traded a sprawling gutter for a glass cage. I’d even boasted to Mansoor, “This tiny one? It’ll grow big in my backyard tank!” I imagined them thriving, oblivious to their fate.

At home, I snuck around to the backyard, avoiding the front door like a mastermind. There was a small tank—fresh water my mom used for washing clothes, pure in our Brahmin household. Without a second thought, I dumped my gutter fish in, grinning as they swirled in their new world. I slipped inside, casual as ever, but my sister had beaten me to it. Mom’s eyes narrowed: “Where were you?” I mumbled, “School, then back,” but the jig was up. She didn’t ask more—just unleashed a storm of scolding and swats. I dodged some, promised I wouldn’t do it again, and figured I’d escaped the worst.

Those fish, though? They swam in that tank, tasting clean water for the first time. I can picture them now, bewildered by the stillness—no current, no friends, no dirt, just a window of sky above and the occasional ripple from my mom’s hand dipping in. I had grand plans—turn the tank into an aquarium, breed them, maybe even sell them for pocket money. Crazy kid dreams.

Later, when my father—the tired headmaster of a village school—came home, Mom pounced. “Your son was in the gutter catching fish!” she fumed. I braced for a lecture, but he just nodded, his eyes soft. “He’s a kid. He’ll learn. Did you tell him what not to do?” Mom said yes. “Then that’s fine,” he replied. “As long as he knows right from wrong, good from evil, we’re safe. Life will teach him. Time will teach him.” Then he turned to me: “Did you eat? Go play.” And that was that.

How This Shaped Me

That day wasn’t just about fish or a scolding—it was a thread in the tapestry of who I am at 48. Looking back, I see how it rewove my views on religion, boundaries, and society.

• Religion: Growing up Brahmin, purity was a silent rule—holy water, sacred spaces. Dumping gutter fish into our washing tank? That was heresy, unintentional but real. Yet my parents’ reactions—Mom’s fury, Dad’s calm—taught me that religion isn’t just rituals; it’s the humanity beneath them. Mom cared more about my safety than caste taboos, and Dad saw innocence over impurity. Today, I see faith as a guide, not a cage—flexible, forgiving, and rooted in intent, not rigid rules.

• Boundaries: That gutter was a line I crossed without knowing it—physical, social, even moral in my sister’s eyes. But chasing those fish, I learned boundaries aren’t always walls; they’re lessons. Mansoor’s fear, my sister’s shouts, my parents’ responses—they showed me limits exist to protect, not just confine. Now, I question borders—geographic, cultural, personal—not to defy them, but to understand their purpose.

• Society: The gutter was the town’s underbelly, a place polite folks avoided. Yet there I was, with Mansoor, a friend whose name hints at a different world from my Brahmin roots. Society might’ve frowned—on the ditch, on us together—but I didn’t care then, and I don’t now. That day taught me to see people, not labels, and to value curiosity over conformity. It’s why I bristle at a world obsessed with status and division—those fish didn’t know they were “lowly,” and neither should we.

  
  

This story—silly, messy, heartfelt—stays close to my heart because it’s more than mischief. It’s the spark of a boy who saw beauty in a gutter, who learned from love and discipline, and who grew into a man skeptical of rigid lines. Those “colour fish” didn’t just swim in a bottle; they carried me to a wider, wilder view of life.