My name is Rajesh Kumar, I’m 36 years old, and I work as an accountant for a construction company on the outskirts of Lucknow, India. My wife, Anjali, four years younger than me, is an assistant at a cosmetics company. She’s beautiful, elegant, and talented, but what truly sets her apart is a peculiar passion: every weekend she insists on „catfishing.”
From our first Saturday as a married couple, she would wake up early, put on her rubber sandals, grab her net basket, and excitedly tell me,
„Let’s go fishing, Rajesh!”
At first, it seemed harmless, even admirable. Not many men can boast such an energetic and dedicated wife.
But over time, doubts began to arise. Every time she returned from her excursions, she left the basket full of catfish, the water spilled, and the smell was intense and muddy. Yet her clothes always remained impeccable: not a stain, no dampness, no dirt. Sometimes, only a faint scent clung to her neck.
Still, something didn’t add up. At night, while she slept peacefully beside me, I sat in the living room, staring at the basket by the shoe rack, wondering if those fish were really just catfish.
One Saturday, I decided to find out. I pretended to have a job, but I followed her secretly. She didn’t head for ponds or rivers, but into the city, stopping in front of a run-down hostel tucked away in an alley. She walked quickly in, and my heart sank.
Fifteen minutes later, a man I instantly recognized arrived: Vikram Sharma, an old colleague of Anjali’s, divorced and a few years older than me.
I couldn’t go in. Not for fear of being discovered, but for fear of confirming what I already suspected.
That evening, Anjali returned with the basket full of fat catfish, her face beaming:
„Today’s catch was perfect! Tomorrow we’ll make curry,” she said.
I nodded with a barely perceptible smile, my hands shaking under the table.
The next day, I asked my friend Sanjay, who works in security, to attach a small GPS tracker to his scooter. I hated myself for doing it, but I couldn’t bear the burden of suspicion anymore.
For three weeks, I recorded his movements. Every Saturday, sometimes even on Sundays, I visited several hostels—three in total—always accompanied by him.
I couldn’t keep quiet anymore. I arranged to meet Vikram at a small tea room near the train station.
He looked surprised to see me, but sat down politely. I wasted no time:
„What is your relationship with Anjali?” I asked.
He sighed, lowering his gaze.
„I’m sorry, Rajesh… but feelings can’t always be controlled.”
My fist closed around the steaming cup, my knuckles white. I wanted to break something, but I could only hold back.
That night, I spread photos, call logs, and GPS data on the table in front of Anjali. She stared at them for a long time until tears filled her eyes.
„I never meant to cheat on you,” she murmured.
„But with you… I feel invisible. You plan everything, calculate everything, treat life like a balance sheet. With him, I feel alive again.”
She didn’t leave right away. She asked for time to reflect. I didn’t beg her to stay. Something inside me had already broken, with that last basket of catfish.
I still love her. Maybe I will always love her. But true love isn’t about holding on at all costs; sometimes it means knowing how to let go, allowing the other person to live their authentic life.
From that day on, I never touched a catfish again.