ABOUT A FISHY BURROW

[Note: This poem is an account of a true instance, inspired from my friend, Shanidul's interesting tale.)

Fishing rods serve a pastime there.
Hands play winter sport here.
Rush and rust and rest out there:
Ponds hold interesting tales here! 

Sunday’s sun was
somewhat warm
shawls kept in iron boxes
winter was young alive
only in words and phrases.

“Prepare, boys, for the midday hunting;

adventures are for the oldest karahis”,

shouted an old from the brown cow’s

newly thatched byre:

He was a gourmet, loved fish roasted

in winter fire.

The party assembled:
Kingshuk in half-pant,

Ranjan in a folded full,

a drowsy still Ishfaqul,

and unwilling Atul!

Joys were their hope
Plastics and buckets
their storage tools-
bare hands were a sport
to trap a fish beneath
their muddy toes!
Ranjan cracked the test,
caught a little one,
threw it in his plastic
and looked for more;
Atul drew a gasp of breath
and shrieked, excited:
"I got one, the biggest:
That's why I come."
Ishfaqul was fruitless
while...
Kingshuk looked intelligent,
stood at a crab's burrow
where fishes stay in pleasure,
crabs do not disturb!
Thoughts are luring,
phantoms of unseen tragedies:
he drove his hand
into the tunnel,
at an instant then
shouted and laughed:
"Atul, I beat you
It's longer than your foot!"
And then...
then and then
he pulled out a thing:
brownish like a fish
but only a tail, no fins
and frustating Ishfaqul 
shouted:
"It's not a fish
but a snake not pleasing;
it's not longer than his feet-
it's the longest in the field!"


(Disclaimer: Most of the snakes are not poisonous! Smile!)