The bite of existence
Growing up, people usually experience events that shape the way they see the world. Something happens, it grabs your attention and that’s it — you are a whole new person. For me this event included a fish, a fork and a seemingly never-ending summer.
I was around five or six. I was visiting my grandparents in our village in northern Bulgaria for the summer. I was a jolly little child, always going around the large bumpy roads on her bike, enjoying life in all of its glory. My grandma loved cooking. She liked making all kinds of classic Bulgarian dishes (moussaka, mish mash, banitza, etc.) and one extremely hot summer afternoon she decided to cook fish.
She, my grandfather and I jumped in the small Fiat Punto my grandpa owned at the time and headed to a road nearby the village where a guy was selling living fish. I didn’t pay that much attention at first, I just knew she was going to make something delicious. I was playing around the car as they made the decision what fish was going to pay the price of its life for our feast. After around five to ten minutes we were back in the small car, jumping on the road, as different parts of it rattled every time there was a lump under the tires. I could see my grandma holding the fish tight in a plastic bag as the animal moved vigorously, trying to grasp for air and hold onto its life. I still didn’t pay that much attention, even though I had a strange feeling in my stomach.
The sun was shining bright — in the middle of July it was only natural for the asphalt to be smoking hot and for the heat to be almost unbearable. It was one of those summers where the days are longer than they appear, sometimes you have nothing to do, sometimes even throwing rocks down the road is the most interesting activity. The kind of summer that you don’t know is going to be memorable.
We went back home and as I was rushing towards my toys, I saw my grandma hang the plastic bag on the small metal roofing above the table in front of our house. I could clearly see the fish moving its shiny body inside the plastic bag. It was a carp, probably bigger than my head, or so it appeared at the time. Its gills were expanding and closing as it gasped for its last breath of air. I could sense the agony through the plastic and through the meter separating us as it hung above my head. I was looking at the fish and I remember thinking how much I want to free it from this trap, to run towards the closest river and set it free.
Looking back at it, I realize now how this moment was a huge milestone for me growing up. It was the first time I saw death, the first time I experienced it. The first time I saw a creature fight for its life and lose the battle grisly. The first time I stared as the breath of existence exited the gills of the carp and its body started slowing down its movements until it became completely still. That is when it hit me. This creature was no more in this world. This enormous carp was evanescent compared to the grip of death. Compared to the absence of life in the eyes of existence.
***
We sat at the table outside our house. The night was warm, as it was expected by the even warmer day. Heat was still radiating from the asphalt. The news were streaming on the small TV. The table was filled with salads, appetizers, drinks. The plates were full of food and the cups were not getting empty. It was its own kind of feast without us even realizing it. I was playing with the food on my plate, not really willing to eat any of it. My grandma offered to serve me carp stuffed with rice. I refused. She, being a typical eastern European grandma, insisted on serving me. I kept refusing and she got angry, she felt as if I had offended her and her cooking. But how do you explain that you do not really wish to eat something you earlier watched die in such a brutal way? You can’t. Especially when you’re six.
She ended up serving me. I remember seeing the big piece of fish filling my plate, stuffing coming out of it. I did not want to even look at it. My grandma grabbed my fork and poked a small piece of the fish with it. I felt so disgusted, I didn’t want to even touch it. She kept on insisting for me to eat it and even tried to hand me the fork, so that I could at least try it. I kept refusing. She got so angry — how could I not eat, how could I not appreciate her cooking? We drove so far to get it. I had to at least try it. I kept refusing. She then took the fork again and stuffed the fish in my mouth.
I still remember the taste. Bland, soft and mushy. Almost tasteless — just like death itself. I remember the struggle of eating this piece, the small bones poking the insides of my mouth as I chewed. The disgusting feeling I had of consuming this creature with whom I shared one of its most vulnerable moments, the moment it left this world. It was precisely this bite of existence that was enough for me to know that life is worth more than a dinner.
Later I puked.
***
Teodora Zlateva is a student at the American University in Bulgaria. She hates carp.
