Meenkari sandhyakal!!!

It all began with that wretched private bus. I had dozens of buses heading toward Sreekariyam, my side of town. But, as fate would have it, I was late leaving college—and in a heroic attempt to save two rupees, I decided to jump onto this one.It was a pleasant evening… or rather night.

 Just two seats were vacant. I leaped into one, relieved that I’d finally be heading home.Then came the moment of truth. My feet didn’t touch the floor. Instead, they sank into something soft. Something mushy. Something… fishy.

I looked down in horror. A large vessel full of fish sat right under my seat—scales, water, and all. My Woodland shoes were drenched, and my Nike socks (which, I admit, hadn’t been washed in three days) had just entered a whole new ecosystem.Before I could react, a rough, sand-crusted hand slapped my shoulder. My crisp white shirt—now decorated with fish scales—would never be the same. The hand’s owner, a stout woman with the unmistakable air of a seasoned meenkari (fishmonger), glared at me.She declared that she had reserved the seat—for herself and her fish.

Vellarikkapatanamo?  No way! I had paid for my seat, just like everyone else. She could keep her bucket on her lap if she wanted to—but not on the seat!I told her as much. She didn’t take it well. A few choice words came my way… not quite from the Oxford dictionary, mind you. Then came a dramatic monologue about how hard life was for hardworking people like her, traveling day and night with no respect.

And just as I thought the episode was ending, she began to sing. Yes, sing.“Enthathishayame Mariyanmmede sneham ethra manoharame…”Her voice echoed through the bus, part melody, part protest. Heads turned. I froze, clutching my fish-scented bag in disbelief.That was it. 

Enough was enough. To hell with my precious two rupees. I jumped off at the very next stop, choking on laughter, embarrassment, and the smell of sardines.

Sometimes, saving two rupees comes at a very high price.