Happiness is not a fish

If I head out to visit the Begunbari slums early enough, I pass the wholesale fish market. Many fish came to the market by overnight bus, kept alive in huge cooking pots filled with water. Some big fish have been injected with a chemical called formalin to keep them "fresh". Other's were caught just this morning in the toxic ponds surrounding the slums. It's better not to ask.
By the time my CNG drives past, never before 9 am, the whole area smells fishy, but it is still buzzing with traders, haggling over the big expensive fish or piling up cheap little tiny bony fish.
By ten oclock, all that is left of this scene is melting ice, a few cats, and the strong smell of fish. The retailers will spend the rest of the day at the local market, selling fish alongside of the fresh vegetables and chickens. Others will take two baskets of fish over thier shoulders and go to door calling "Maaaaaach!" ("fiiiiiish!") The office cook might call one of these sellers over, and I might have one of these fish for lunch.