The famine came and everything was normal for a while. People sold and bought things at the market like it was any other day, but not Thach. He held onto his rice, waiting for the right time to make his move.
Then one day, his village and the neighboring villages ran out of rice because there had not been any rain for the crops. Being the only person with rice, Thach could demand whatever price he wanted. He sold his rice at a very high price and was instantly rich.
He bought a house next to the king. He got servants and only the most expensive items were put inside his house. He bragged that besides the king, there was no one richer and that he had everything in the world one could imagine.
One day, the king's brother heard about Thach's boast and challenged him to a competition. The person that did not own an item that the other one possessed, had to give up his entire estate to the winner.
Each side had their advisers and the contest began. Thach asked for expensive pieces of jewlry and rare artifacts, the king's brother was able to produce the same thing from his house. The king's brother showed Thach famous paintings and lavishe furnitures, Thach had whatever the king's brother asked for. This continued back and forth for a week.
At the end of the week the king's adviser brought out a simple looking clay pot. A pot not made of gold or the finest material, but one made from clay used mainly by beggars and peasants.Thach and his servants searched and searched and searched their palace but could not find one, because he only bought the finest things. And when he couldn't produce the simple clay pot,Thach had to give up everything he owned to the king's brother.
Thach became a poor beggar again. When he died, Thach became a gecko. If you listen carefully to the gecko as his tongue slithers back and forth, you will hear him revealing himself to you. Thach thach thach, he says as he tries to find a warm place to sleep in your house.
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I'm sitting next to my mother staring at the fishing poles. Without a cloud to intercept the ray, the sun throws a perfect spiral of light and warmth on the piece of earth I am inhabiting.
My mother points and makes a move towards the fishing pole.
"No no, not yet," the guide tells her.
She edges back to her seat.
I move to the back of the boat, and lay down to the gentle rocking of the waves. With only seven hours of sleep total the past two days combined, the guide can "not yet" all he wants for now. Sleep comes first, fish a distant second, not the usual order in my life but sleep deprivation is throwing my priorities a bit out of wack.
After a few hours, my mother is still staring at her pole, resting against the holder. The guide had instructed her to leave it there,
"The red pole is yours," he had said.
Mine is the blue. Untouched by me.
"The Delta is a great place to fish," I tell the guide.
"You've been here before?"
"Yesterday!"
The tip of red pole kneels down to the water and rises, kneels and rise. My mother makes a move towards the pole.
"No no, not yet," the guide tells her.
A light gentle breeze brushes my face. My mother's hands are itching, itching to touch the red pole. Touching, feeling, snagging that's what you do when fishing.
"Did you catch anything yesterday," the guide turns back to the conversation.
"Did pretty good."
Rise, kneels, rise, kneels the wind, the currents, all natures way of toying with an amateur fisherman. If there is a fish, the tip of the pole bends without popping back.
I shake my head to let my amateur mom know to settle down, she's being played.
"Really, what did you catch?"
"Large mouth bass, striper bass, sturgeons and tons of nice size sun fish."
Rise, kneels, rise, kneels, the guide wants to be the one to hook the fish when the tip bends without popping back.
"I'll hook it and you can reel it in," he had said at the beginning of the trip.
But real fishing is about the fish in the cooler just as much as the fish that got away. Real fishing is about the feel of the sinker as it sets on the bottom of the water. Real fishing is about conquering the current, the wind the tides. Real fishing is about the sliminess of the bait, the wiggle it makes, the smell it leaves on your hand. Real fishing is the feel of the pole. Most importantly real fishing is the satisfaction of knowing a fish is really hooked and no way is it going to escape.
"Want to see?" i ask him.
I didn't wait for his answer. I pull out my phone.
"Eighteen large mouths!"
"Wow, nice size," he says.
"Two large buckets of sun fish about one and a half times the size of my hands," I boasts.
"You caught it here, at the Delta?"
"Right here, yesterday, but a bit more towards that way."
Rise, kneels, rise, kneels, I am about to hook me a guide into doing what I want.
"This picture, eight striper bass, caught about twelve but had to let four go because of size."
Rise, kneels, rise kneels, he wasn't going to get away.
He stands there with my camera up to his face, stunned. I remove the red pole from it's holder and i give it to my mother. She holds her pole for the first time all day. Not a word from the guide as I'm doing this because he knows I can hook a fish just fine.
If I come back as a gecko for my boastful ways, it's well worth it, because real fishing is about holding the pole.
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