Behind the Ice
On his fourth morning as the auctioneer of Kochi harbour, Saju Thomas heard a voice bid against the buyers.
It came from behind the stacked blocks of ice at the back wall. It was flat and dry, like a man reading out a number. “One rupee,” it said, on a lot of sardines that had just gone for ninety a kilo.
Nobody turned. The buyers crouched on the wet cement, the fishermen leaned on their baskets, and the auction went on. Only Saju had heard it.
His father had called this auction for thirty years, until a stroke took his right side and most of his speech. The night before Saju's first day, the old man had written three lines on a slate with his left hand. They were still pinned above Saju's desk.
ICE VOICE. SELL IT THE FLOOR FISH. NEVER A BOAT.
Saju had thought it was the stroke talking. But on the first morning the voice had spoken at the very end, when the last lot was done. “One rupee.” He had picked up a mackerel lying on the floor, held it up, and said, “Floor fish, one rupee. Sold.” The fish was gone from his hand before he could blink.
He had done the same on the second and third mornings. He did not ask himself why. It cost one rupee and kept the old man's slate happy.
Today the voice had spoken early, before the last lot. Saju felt it was not finished with him.