The Unlikely Friendship of Rainbow and Waffles

The Unlikely Friendship of Rainbow and Waffles  

~ A Dal Lake Chronicle  

By Ankul

I have been coming to Dal Lake every winter for the last seven years. I rent the same creaky houseboat named New Zealand Dream (nobody knows why), tie my little shikara to its wooden post, and let the cold mountain air scrub the city out of my lungs. This year, something different happened. I witnessed a friendship so absurd, so pure, that I have to write it down before the lake freezes and the memory turns into just another story tourists tell.

It started on a November morning when the lake was still half-asleep under a thin sheet of mist. I was sipping kahwa on the balcony when I noticed a small commotion near the lotus pads. A lone mallard duck (bright green head, orange feet, the full Kashmiri wedding attire) was arguing with a fish. Not just any fish. A rainbow trout. A very large, very opinionated rainbow trout who kept leaping clear out of the water as if punctuation marks were required in whatever he was saying.

I named the duck Waffles (because the first time I threw him bread, he quacked like he was offended by its shape). The trout I named Rainbow (creative, I know, but he already had the colours).

For three days I watched this strange courtship. Waffles would paddle over to the same spot every dawn. Rainbow would rise like a silver missile, slap the surface with his tail, and disappear. Waffles never gave up. He would lower his neck almost to the water and make these soft, persuasive quacks (the duck equivalent of “Come on, bro, one coffee?”).

On the fourth day, Rainbow stayed on the surface. He floated there, gills flaring, eyeing Waffles the way old Kashmiri shopkeepers eye tourists who ask for discounts. Waffles did something I will never forget. He plucked a single lotus petal that had fallen on the water and placed it (very deliberately) in front of Rainbow. Then he waited.

Rainbow circled the petal twice. Then, in one smooth motion, he nudged it back toward Waffles with his snout. Acceptance. Treaty signed in the currency of pink petals.

From that morning on, they became inseparable in the strangest way two creatures from two different worlds can be.

Waffles would glide along the edges of the lake, and Rainbow would shadow him two feet below, a living reflection that never quite matched the pace. When tourists in shikaras came too close, Rainbow would breach explosively, sending sprays that made the tourists shriek and Waffles puff up with what I swear was pride (“That’s my guy”).

At noon, when the sun finally burned the mist away, they had a ritual. Waffles would find the exact spot where sunlight hit the water in a perfect golden column. He would sit there like a fat emerald Buddha. Rainbow would station himself directly beneath the beam, his scales igniting into molten coppers, violets, and greens. Together they made one complete creature (half air, half water, all colour).

I started leaving gifts. Bits of roti for Waffles, tiny balls of kneaded atta mixed with boiled egg yolk for Rainbow (the boatman’s son told me trout go crazy for it). They learned my silhouette. When my shikara approached, Waffles would give one authoritative quack and Rainbow would rise slowly, mouth open like a dog waiting for a treat. I felt like a drug dealer of interspecies friendship.

One afternoon, a kingfisher dive-bombed Rainbow (territorial dispute, I suppose). The bird hit the water hard, missed, and came up squawking murder. Rainbow, instead of diving for safety, turned sideways and flashed his full flank (all the colours of a Kashmiri autumn shawl at once). The kingfisher froze mid-air, confused by the sudden explosion of beauty, and flew away muttering. Waffles watched the whole thing, chest puffed out so far I thought he would tip over. That day I understood: Waffles was the diplomat, Rainbow the muscle. Yin and yang wearing feathers and scales.

Winter tightened its grip. The lake began to glaze over at night. The houseboats pulled closer to shore. Tourists thinned. I worried. Rainbow trout need moving water; ice would trap him. Ducks can fly away, but Waffles showed no sign of leaving. Every morning he was there, walking on the thin ice near the edge, quacking anxiously at the dark water where Rainbow used to be.

On the last day of November, the lake froze completely except for a small circle the houseboat owners kept open with boiling water and prayers. I went out at dawn with a heavy heart, expecting the worst.

They had solved it together.

Waffles was sitting on the ice directly above the breathing hole. Rainbow was vertical in the water column, nose almost touching the underside of the ice, eyes locked on his friend. Every few minutes Waffles would stamp his orange feet (crack, crack, crack) keeping the hole from closing. Rainbow, in turn, kept swimming in tight circles, pushing warmer water up from below. They were maintaining the only open window between their worlds by sheer stubborn teamwork.

I stood there until my fingers went numb. Something inside me broke open (the way ice sometimes cracks in a perfect straight line for no reason). Two creatures who should never have met, who speak different languages, breathe different elements, had decided the rules of nature were negotiable for the sake of friendship.

That evening I packed to leave. As my shikara pulled away, I looked back one last time. Waffles was still on his patch of ice. Rainbow still circled below. The sinking sun painted them both the same shade of burning gold, and for a moment the boundary between water and air disappeared completely.

I don’t know what will happen when the big freeze comes, when the lake locks solid for months. Maybe Waffles will finally fly south. Maybe Rainbow will sleep under the ice and dream in slow motion. Or maybe (just maybe) spring will find them exactly where I left them, still arguing over lotus petals, still refusing to say goodbye.

Some friendships are small miracles. Most happen between people who already speak the same language. Once in a while, the universe gets playful and stitches together a duck and a fish with nothing but a pink petal and a promise.

I was lucky enough to watch the needle go in and out.

If you ever find yourself on Dal Lake in winter, look for a mallard who quacks like he owns the place and a trout who wears the colours of paradise on his skin. Throw them a little bread and egg yolk. Tell them Ankul says hello.

And if anyone tries to tell you that friendship has rules (species, distance, common sense), laugh gently, point at the water, and say:

“You clearly haven’t met Rainbow and Waffles.”