He,

Who is a flimflamm and a part-time fisherman,

Is slowly approaching, giggling in his mother tongue,

Exchanging salutations and murmurs to the other assembly of men.

On the banks of Teesta, he rolls his jeans around his knee,

and thrusts his fishing rod, in the sand,

like a coup, recently claimed.

Beside him,

A pandit is chanting incantations to a possible Hindu god,

cautioning the bald son of the dead,

not to over-sprinkle the precious Ganga Jal.

on the stale cranium of his Mother.

A herd of middle-aged woman

are half drenched in the river, worshipping the Sun-God,

(with a bouquet of artificial flowers)

wet and almost naked, tittering and pouring saffron vermilion,

on each-others forehead.

An old rag-picker who passes by, surveils the leftovers and their bodies.

It is noon,

A time for lunch in ordinary homes.

Water unhurriedly rises,

It is the dam(n).

Meanwhile,

the fisherman announces, " I've caught something of a fish"

Some teenage girls (advocates of the fish rights),

who are strolling by the bank,

with a tall monk, gets concerned.

One of them looks into her purse, and says,

" Here! Take the money and let it live."

He, lets it.

And later in the evening,

He's a little drunk on ethanol,

and is still-fishing, singing “Resham-fi-ri-ri”

to a Honeymoon couple from Calcutta.