Fishing: The Final Frontier (Part 1)

Greetings

About four weeks ago, three brave young desi men embarked on a cataclysmically dangerous yet exciting expedition that would later prove to unravel their deepest secrets and inner most thoughts, all the while making them better human beings as they reached epic proportions of enligtenment. This adventure was none other than, yes, you guessed it, fishing. And fishing in my hometown, too, which isn't anything like your nice fishing get-away spot or some sort of exotic location in the middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin. Regardless, my town has a fairly decent fishing "resort" (as they like to call it) all but 10 minutes away from my crib.

What gave us the idea to go fish, you humbly ask. Why would three hot desi guys get in a boat to be alone with mother nature when we could easily be fishing instead for hot babes on, say, Michigan Avenue? These are valid questions and the answer deals directly with one concept: Brotherhood. Oh, make that two concepts: Brotherhood and We-Had-Nothing-Else-To-Do.

The idea for fishing was actually initiated by Taha. Or Ahmed. Really, I don't remember and if you ask either one of them, they'll tell you that it was himself. The important thing here is that the idea spawned on the now infamous "Night of Ahmed Hassan" nearly a couple months back. Before we had decided to go mini-golfing that night, we were brainstorming of things to do. Two ideas that came up was going at least once to an amusement park (specifically, Six Flags Great America) and the other was fishing together. I told the guys that I just so happen to recall seeing some sort of fishing club sign in my area and so they insisted that I find out the details. Weeks passed by with casual references to fishing. Taha would inquire, Yo niggah! You find out about that fishing club? Balle balle! (he's Punjabi, if you couldn't tell). And Ahmed would yell in an interrogating tone, Hey, Punjabi Slave! You better not forget that we're gonna go fishing sometime soon (he's Kashmiri, if you couldn't tell). Continuously, I would blow them off by saying, Oh ho, bhai sahib! I'm all over it! But secretly, I was thinking to myself that these clowns were all talk. I convinced myself that if I were to actually find out all the details about fishing, at the last second Dr. Ahmed Hassan would say, "I can't make it" and give me some excuse about saving lives (how pathetic, right?). Again, that's what my single friend Ahmed Hassan, MD would most likely tell me. To reiterate, "I can't make it" is probably what my single physician of a friend, Ahmed Hassan of Stl origin would probably say. (Don't ever tell me that I never looked out for you, AH!)

Well, time slowly passed away. And so on one night in particular, just a few nights before the momentous occasion, Ahmed and Taha (but especially Ahmed) kept callin me out sayin that I would never follow-up with the details of the fishing spot because I was a "sellout" and I really didn't want to hang out with them. Now, the latter part was and still is inherently true, but I seriously resented being called a sellout! I mean, as you very well know, if you look up the word "sellout" in the dictionary, you will inevitably see Taha Ghani's and Ahmed Hassan's pictures and say to yoursef, "Ahh, yes! I should've known." But I digress...

So after one day of constant harassment about the issue, I finally called up the resort and got the information. It was open to the public. 100+ acre lake. No advanced reservations were required. Open from 7am to sunset on a daily basis. 10 min from my house. And you could rent all supplies (boat, fish pole, bait). All this for a nominal fee of about $20; not bad if you ask me. We were all excited and ready to go for that Saturday.

Or were we?

The night before, Prince AH, Taha, myself, and one of Prince AH's boys (Vishnu?) played two-on-two basketball at Northwestern's downtown campus. It was Taha and myself versus Ahmed and his friend. Taha and I dominated in true Punjabi fashion. So much so that the Kashmiri was emotionally, physically, spiritually, and intellectually destroyed. This is no exaggeration by any means, folks. On the walk back this bachara bucha looked like he escaped the local insane asylum. He had no words; just an expressionless stoic demeanor that cried for pity. In trying to cheer him up, I reminded him that he would soon forget this onslaught on the court in a matter of hours. A calm, peaceful lake awaited him in my hometown where the only thing he would have to worry about is learning how to hook a fish instead of learning how to make a hook shot on the court. Hassan slowly looked up at me (his eyes were almost pasted to the ground after being humbled by my defensive presence that kept him away from the basket) and vociferated, "Oh Master! Have but some pity upon me! I am in need of rest and shelter tomorrow for thy lashings on the majestic court of King Taha and Lord Imran were severe and swift. Alas! My body and soul have indeed failed and I cannot be in thy noble company. The pain is far greater than a hundred kicks in the balls."

Upon hearing this, I looked at Hassan deep in his eyes and thought to myself, How can I be so tyrannical as to expect him to show up tomorrow in such a defeated state of being? Should I not show him some pity? But then again I didn't show him any pity that night on the court, so why start now? "Hell no, dude. After all the shizz you've been giving me about not calling up the fishing resort, you now wanna get out of it? Are you kidding me?! You're gonna punk out on me now? Just because you seemed like you were sitting on the court making chai instead of plays, you want to me cut you some slack?! After you reamed me time and time again about wanting to go fishing and making me feel bad for not looking up the fishing stuff? You now have the guts to say that you don't 'feel' like going? WTF???!!!"

*** To be Continued ***