The Fisherman and the Jinni: Part I


The sun shone with the wrath of the ten burning hells that together poured all the heat over a lonely fishermen sitting by himself over the shore. His skin was a pale shade of sandy with dark bags under his eyes that bore witness of his sleepless nights, which he often spent worrying about his next catch. The fisherman’s beard was toned salt and pepper, and his face was a crisscross chaos of tired wrinkles, as he waited by the waterline, all broken hopes, and shattered dreams.

Life had been tough for him, a hand to mouth journey, catching meagre fishes and selling them within the next hour to make a few pennies to meet his family’s necessities. There had been a golden time when the fisherman used to bring back home a proud catch of fishes of various sizes and multiple kinds, but all that he returned with to his home now included a small fish or two and an empty net and pockets that craved pennies.

Back home was a son who polished peoples’ shoes, a daughter who sealed her lips with patience, and a wife who gave a sad smile that fell at its edges, tired of staying there when a frown kept battling for a deserving place in its stead.

A few pebbles decorated the shore’s borders, and humid air further accompanied the blazing sun in drying the dying spirits of the fisherman. His net floated in the water aimlessly, half drifting with the false hopes of catching something when it suddenly tugged on the old hands of the fisherman. With the weight of the catch, the fisherman was sure that it was a lucky day for him. After years of dormant luck, his destiny had finally awoken.

With merry thoughts, the fisherman pulled tightly at the net, exerting all his strength to gather his catch only to realize that the lake had gifted him with an abundance of donkey carcass rather than a catch full of silver fishes.

Already, the fisherman had welcomed the sun with an empty catch when he first cast his net. His second attempt brought not fishes but carcass, a mock to his failed fate. Afraid and tortured by pessimist thoughts that buzzed around his head like a whispering bee swarm, the fisherman cast his net for the third time.

He looked around at the landscape far off, ignoring the empty floating vibe that his net was emanating. As if ignoring the problem would somehow magically resolve it. Sure enough, after another few minutes of staring into the far off mountains of stone in the distance, the net tugged at the fisherman again.

To his surprise, the fisherman could not curb the head of false hopes peaking again, only in a lighter intensity. But a sharp pang of disappointment struck again as a basket full of trash landed in his net again. He couldn’t return home with rubbish; he simply would not return home with a load full of waste in his arms, so the fisherman cast his net for the fourth time in a row- all gloom and doom.