I used to go to a very small school back then—a quiet little place with a dusty yard, a single bell hanging from a tree, and a handful of classrooms filled with laughter and chalk dust. Every day, I would walk to school along a narrow path lined with bushes and wildflowers, my books tied with a cloth belt, swinging in my hand. But what made the journey most special wasn’t the school itself—it was the large, beautiful pond that lay just before it.
That pond felt enormous to me as a child. It sparkled in the morning sun and glowed orange in the afternoons. Tall grasses grew along the banks, and dragonflies zipped through the air like tiny helicopters. Some days, I would walk slower just to look at it a little longer.
In the afternoon, on my way back home, I would often see a group of people sitting quietly around the edge of the pond, each holding a long fishing pole. Some sat on overturned buckets, some on stones, and some barefoot, legs dangling into the water. They rarely talked. Just waited. Patient and still. The soft breeze carried the smell of water and mud and the occasional ripple of a fish breaking the surface.
I was fascinated.
Every day, I would slow down, sometimes even stop and hide behind a tree, just to watch. I could never understand how they did it—how they dropped a simple string into the water and pulled out a slippery, wriggling fish. Was it luck? Magic? Or did the fish somehow choose who they wanted to meet?
I remember thinking, “If I had a fishing pole, I would catch the biggest fish in that pond.”
I imagined myself sitting beside the others, my pole steady, my eyes focused. I’d watch the line twitch, feel a gentle tug, and then—just like that—I’d pull out a shining silver fish, like the ones I saw flopping in the old men’s baskets. I wanted to feel that tug, to know what it was like to wait for something and then be rewarded by the surprise under the water.
But I never had a fishing pole. I didn’t even know where to buy one. So instead, I dreamed.
Sometimes I picked up a long stick and tied string to the end, pretending it was a real pole. I’d sit by the edge when no one was around, dipping it into the water and imagining what might be swimming below.
