Red Dot Irreal by Jason Erik Lundberg Read Free Book Online

through the food.
    Mrs Singh paused in her work, and looked to the aquarium. “Fish?” she said.
    “Yes, dear lady?” She normally ignored the affectation, but it always made her a bit uneasy, as if it was claiming that she was something more than she really was. She also couldn’t help noting that it was one letter away from “dead lady.”
    “I could change your food, buy the expensive dried shrimp from Thailand.”
    “It still would not change the fact that I will die.” The fish turned so that its eye fixed directly on hers. “And your ghee is burning.”
    Mrs Singh cursed and turned her attention back to the pot, scraping in her curry paste to fry. In her large rice cooker, she steamed enough basmati to get her through the initial rush. Vishal finally showed up, laden with a Rubbermaid container full of red snapper. She’d once asked the talking fish if he was bothered by seeing so many of his kind butchered, beheaded, and served up as food, and he’d said, “Of course. Wouldn’t you be disturbed seeing a stall selling fresh ‘long pig,’ with human heads cooked in curry? Your practice makes me shudder to the root of my self, but what can I do about it? Even Buddhists, who work toward the enlightenment of all sentient beings, eat fish.” Since that conversation, she’d asked Vishal to have the fishmonger scale, gut, and behead the fish they bought, so that at least her friend would not have to see her doing such violence to them; it was worth the extra cost.
    She checked her watch; it was getting on to 11:15. Fifteen minutes until she officially opened for the day. As she finished her preparations, Vishal checked the stocks of rectangularized banana leaves that she used as eating surfaces, as well as utensils (a true devotee of curry ate with her fingers, but most of her customers were Chinese men and women who lived or worked nearby, and she didn’t expect them to do so) and plastic trays. She noticed a growing group of potential diners gathering at the tables nearby, and pointedly looked toward the small handmade placard affixed to the front of her stall: No Early Queuing.
    At 11:30, she flicked the switch that excited the neon in her Open for Business sign, and the loiterers rushed to form an orderly queue. No one was interested in filets or steamed whole-body snapper, they were all after her fish head curry. She cooked as quickly as the orders came in, with Vishal acting as waiter. The temperature in the kitchen rose, and she turned the fan to high, glad that she had long ago given up wearing a sari whilst working; a simple t-shirt and capri pants did nicely enough. Although, at times, the choice, practical as it was, made her feel as if she were turning her back on her homeland.
    She paused again in her work and addressed the fish: “What if I buy you a new tank? Or a pond in which you can freely swim? Someplace where you can feel more at home.”
    “It will not matter, auntie. I will still die.” The fish blew a few bubbles, and they popped inaudibly at the top of the water in the tank. “And you are still bargaining.”
    “But there must be something can be done. I have always believed that your life is what you make of it, not the result of the whims of chance.”
    “I am sorry, dear lady, but this is not a thing you can control. It is karma, and is therefore inevitable.”
    “Fish have karma?”
    “Of course. All living beings have karma. We cannot escape it, but carry it with us from one life to the next. It is very likely that you yourself were a fish in a past incarnation. My actions have determined that this afternoon, shortly after you close your stall for the day, my body will expire. It is the way of things. But I do ask for one kindness in return for the years of wealth I have brought you.”
    “Anything, fish.”
    “Cook me as you would any of my brothers and sisters, and then consume me yourself.”
    “What?” For Mrs Singh, the request bordered on cannibalism, as if one