fish and juice

I am buying fish and juice in India. I am buying them regularly, leisurely, casually. Nothing too fishy about it, nothing too juicy to tell. I am a regular. I go to Fresh Zone and I point at the fresh limes, which are the size of oranges and mostly taste like oranges, and I say “fresh lime” and sometimes I say “juice.” It doesn’t even matter though because I am a regular. I walk the 40 yards to Fresh Zone from my house, I drink my juice sitting on the steps, and when I’m done they pour me the extra juice. I get the leftover juice. A nice phenomenon, that extra juice, like a free refill on a smoothie. Whoever heard of that?

I sit on the steps beside Fresh Zone, in front of the three pay phones, all different models and makes, sipping my juice from a straw, and I ponder the group of skinny guys smoking. I wonder about their jobs and what sort of husbands they’ll make. I watch the married couple approach the adjacent medical stand, our local medical shop, and I wonder where their dog sleeps. I wonder what drugs the auto drivers are buying, what drugs the software engineers are buying. What makes their meters run? What keeps their microchips conducting?

I leisurely, casually drink my fresh lime juice and when I’m done, done with the extra as well, I hand the friendly man 15 rupees and we both cordially shake our heads from side to side. Then I walk away like that’s life. And it is.

I go to the fish stand. I stand over the fish like I know what I’m doing and people try and tell me things like I know what they’re saying. There’s big ones and little ones, shrimp and other things. Of course I don’t really know. I say fillet because someone told me to and it seems to work. They grab one of the big fish, or what’s left of it really, and it’s big so I know I’m on the right track, and someone starts cutting. I ask how much and the man by the scale says a number and we argue a little like I know what I’m doing. They move their hands a lot and I shuffle around eying the fish, as if they’ll clue me into their true value.

The cutting man looks at me and makes more chopping motions and I nod yes of course. Cut it up good and right. It’s all happening so fast and suddenly I have a kilo of some large fish, now small and well proportioned, in my hand, double bagged. I place my other hand under the bag. It feels squishy, yet firm, stable, and a little cool. I confirm the price and pay the man by the scale. A lot of people are paying attention, a few people are doing something with fish. The man by the scale gives me 10 rupees back. He always does. He just gives them back like a receipt. Like it’s part of our relationship, really what defines our relationship. We both smile extra because we know this is unusual, you don’t usually give change on an agreed price. I see a man oddly close to picking his toenail with a cutting knife so then I turn and leave. I have fish to cook. I have juice to drink.