Fishmonger

 The road is just the front .

When you stop and peer into the shop , the bottom drops off, and so does your jaw .

The floor of the shop is a slanting slope , on the sides of which , gravity defying wicker baskets and white insulation boxes , are kept . White boxes of thermocol keep fish and other perishable items as advertised on the shop sign outside .

There is a chopping board , which is a large tree stump , bearing thousand knife cuts , but scrubbed clean and covered with a muslin cloth . An array of large sharp knives next to the chopping board , declare the wares of the shop , amply .

A covered dustbin is inadequate to disguise the odours from the offals and a sleepy , one eyed and one eared dog , at the doorway , gives me a mildly interested glance . As if he knew that more visitors mean more and fresh offals .

A couple of knowing crows sat on the high tension wire , high up , outside , keeping a watchful eye , while pretending to look elsewhere .

There is no one inside . I mean humans .

A cage full of poultry sitting quietly , occasionally letting out a piteous squawk of protest .

The walls comprise of old sarees hung to keep the breeze out , which , of course , makes its way in via billowing thin fabric . A reinforcement of beaten tin sheets pathetically rattling with each gust .

Another older sign inside the tin roofed hutment declared this to be a " Non vegetarian paradise " that specialised in selling you " chicken , mutton , eggs and fish " .

In the landlocked region we live in , white thermocol boxes herald the arrival of fish . Specially on the lookout are people raised in the coastal regions , like Bengal , whose ancestors have thrived on fish for generations .

Responding to a call older than myself probably , I found myself clearing my throat at the entrance to this unique shop , where the meagre act of selling your wares will entail a mountain climbing of sorts . I was wondering which muscular and long legged powerful being is about to emerge from behind those billowing saree curtains , when a tiny boy emerged .

Standing at the base , he looked puny , positively fragile .

Fair and clear skinned , he wore a striped white shirt , crumpled but clean , dark pants , a clean pair of chappals and his hair was oiled and slickly combed .He had obviously , dressed up for work . Like a proper adult shopkeeper .

"Kya chahiye ?" He asked , with proper respectful intonation , striding up the slope with ease and long strides .

Upon hearing my reply, he nimbly climbed down to the valley , and started displaying his wares .

Expecting some adult to emerge any moment from a slit in the saree , I kept looking right and left , as I negotiated the perilous path downhill . There were strategically placed pieces of brick to resemble crude steps , but they seemed too tiny for my broad , sneakered feet .

Out of sheer force of habit , I asked " Isn't there an anyone around ?"

I regretted the question immediately . The boy , possibly used to this question , didn't answer me . He just proceeded to show me his wares .

I chose a golden scaled rohu , a delicacy .

Climbing past me , he swiftly weighed it and declared the weight .

Then , proceeded to clean and chop it up in perfect pieces with what can only be described as professional finesse.

He had , obviously , been doing this for a long time .

A gentleman , standing behind me , reeking of bidi smoke, asked "How old are you ?"

"13" . He replied precisely .

The dog , lazily opened his remaining eye and stared at the bidi smoker , as if saying "Seriously ? You had to ask that ?"

Midway through processing the fish , he got up and sharpened his chopping knife , with a sharpening tool , secreted in the derelict tin wall .

As I carried my expertly double bagged fare , the gaze of the crows followed me .

I wondered what family exigency had transformed this kid into an adult .

Making him a bread winner at a time when boys his age are learning the spelling of bread .