A fisherman patches his torn net with threads from neighbors’ old clothes and catches more than fish.
**Hook:** Monsoon teeth had chewed the net to lace. Arun stared at the holes: some big enough to promise hunger.
**Rise:** He knocked on doors with a needle and a question. The widow gave a sleeve from a blouse too loose for memory; the tailor contributed blue thread mistaken in an order; the priest offered the end of a dhoti with a burn mark shaped like a comma. Night fell; stories landed one by one. Arun stitched the net with colors of other people’s days—rose, indigo, temple white, rain-stained brown.
At dawn he cast. The patched net flexed like a sentence learning a new clause. It held—fish flashed silver commas, pausing in mid-escape. Arun hauled, laughing. Back on shore he sorted the catch and the gratitude. He took less than he could and more than yesterday.
**Finish:** That evening, the village ate a meal hundreds of threads had cooked. The holes were still visible, but now they looked like design. **Moral:** What’s mended with many hands holds weight lightly.
