A tryst with the fish market

5 years and a half i was, with small arms held tall by my father's warm hands, gripping my tiny fingers. Clean combed in neat half pants i toddled along, all set for a first ever visit to the fish market. I remember it as clear as the muddy pit waters on the way, which reflected the dazzling exhalation in my eyes, expecting an amusement park and there i was, stuck in awe by the panorama of clustering stalls, with tarpaulin ceilings waving in the gleaming sunlight. A sweltering heat stench duped by the air that reeked of a distinct smell, a discomforting smell, which could trigger an odd nostalgia drive brushed my nostrils. It was the distinct stench of a fish market, a marker of sorts, painted in red by the butchering sellers filling up plastic bags, as the jolly catla lunged in a basket of live prawns, while the lobster that leaped out into exile scrambled around in terror just to get squashed amidst the hruly burly of a crowd. The reflection was contorted now by the speeding bicycle that ran over the muddy pit waters on our way back. Father gripped my tiny fingers while carrying a plastic bag of fresh catla in the other hand, but the warmth in his palm was gone.