Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

She had thought of these concepts — keystone species, biomass — as ideas that applied to things other than herself. To nature, in short — for who was it who had said that the definition of “nature” was that it included everything not formed by human intention? But it was not her own intention that had brought her here today; it was the crabs — because they were Fokir’s livelihood and without them he would not have known to lead her to this pool where the Orcaella came. Maybe the ancients had it right after all. Perhaps it was the crab that ruled the tide of her destiny.

RETURNING TO THE Guest House, Kanai found that Moyna had left him his lunch in a tiffin carrier. The meal was simple: plain rice, musuri’r dal, a quick-cooked chorchori of potatoes, fish bones and a kind of green leaf he could not identify. Finally there was a watery jhol of a tiny but toothsome fish called murola. Even cold, the food was delicious. Kanai’s cook was from Lucknow, and his table at home in New Delhi tended to be set with elaborate Mughlai dishes. It was a long time since Kanai had eaten simple Bengali food and the tastes seemed to explode in his head. At the end of the meal he was giddily replete.

After he had put away the utensils, Kanai made his way up the stairs to Nirmal’s study. Shutting the door behind him, he pulled a chair up to the desk and flipped open the notebook.

You, Kanai, were among the last to see Kusum in Lusibari, in 1970. That year, on the eve of the performance of the Bon Bibi Johuranama, she vanished as if into the eye of a storm. No one knew where she went; no trace of her remained. That was the last we heard of Kusum and, to be truthful, we paid little mind to her fate. Sadly, it is all too common in these parts for young people and children to disappear into the city: there are so many such that one loses track of them.

The years went by and the time of my retirement approached. I would be lying if I did not admit that the prospect filled my heart with trepidation. I had been headmaster for close to thirty years: the school, my pupils, my teaching — these things had become my life. Without the pattern and order of a classroom routine, what would become of me? I remembered my days of disorder when the world looked so irredeemably confused that to lie abed seemed the best possible course. Would this condition beset me again? You can imagine my despondency.

The true tragedy of a routinely spent life is that its wastefulness does not become apparent till it is too late. For years I had been telling Nilima that I’d been writing, up in my study. She was glad for me; she took no pleasure in the fact that she enjoyed so much esteem in the world and I so little. She wanted me to be known for what she believed me to be — a writer, a poet. But the truth was that I had not written a single word in all my time in Lusibari; not just that, I had even abandoned my other great pleasure — reading. Regret and remorse attacked me on all these counts as the day of my superannuation neared. One day I went to Calcutta and scoured my favorite stalls and bookshops — only to realize that I could no longer afford to buy books. I returned to Lusibari with only one new volume in my possession — the copy of Bernier’s Travels that you were so kind as to buy for me.

As my final day in school drew nigh it became increasingly apparent that the other masters were keenly awaiting my departure — not, I think, out of a spirit of malice, but merely from an eagerness to see what the future might hold. Someone who has stayed in the same job for thirty years becomes like mildew on the wall — everybody longs to see it wither in the bright light of anew day.

As word of my impending retirement spread, I began to receive invitations to visit schools on other islands. In the past perhaps I would have declined, but I now recalled the Poet’s dictum — “To stay is to be nowhere” — and I was happy to accept. One such invitation was from an old acquaintance who lived in Kumirmari, which is a good distance from here: to get to it requires several changes of ferry. I decided to go.

The morning came and it so happened that Nilima was away, making one of her trips on behalf of the Trust. Left to my own devices, I spent too much time packing the jhola I had planned to take with me. I put in one book and then another — the journey was not a short one, after all, and I would need plenty to read. In the process I misjudged many things — the timing of the ferries, how long it would take to get to the jetty and so on. Suffice it to say that I missed the first connection, which meant that I would miss all the rest.

I was sitting in despair on the bãdh when suddenly I spotted a familiar figure going by in a boat. I had not seen Horen Naskor for many years, but I recognized at once his squat build and narrowed eyes. There was a teenage boy with him and I knew this must be his oldest son.

I hurried down the embankment and accosted them: “Horen! Horen! Wait!”

When I drew level with them, he said in amazement, “Saar? You here? I was bringing my son to see you — he wants to enroll in your school.”

I put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure he gets in. But in return there’s something you must do for me.”

“Yes, Saar. What is it?”

“Horen, I have to go to Kumirmari. Can you take me?”

“Why, Saar, yes. For you, anything. Get in.” He gave his son a pat on the shoulder and told him to find his own way home. Then, without a backward glance, we set off in the direction of Kumirmari.

Once we were on the water, it struck me that it was a long time since I had sat in a nouko like Horen’s. In recent years, when I felt the need to travel outside Lusibari — and this happened seldom enough — I generally took ferries and bhotbhotis. Sitting in the boat, the familiar scenery began to take on a different aspect: it was as if I were seeing it in a new way. Under the shade of my umbrella, I opened one of the books I had brought with me — my copy of Bernier’s Travels — and, as if by magic, the pages fell open to his account of his travels in the tide country.

Presently Horen said, “Saar, what is that you’re reading? Are there any stories in it? Why not tell me too, since we have such a long way to go.”

“All right, then,” I said. “Listen.”

This book was by a Christian priest, I told him, a Frenchman who’d come to India in the year 1665. At that time, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s memory was still fresh in our villages and Emperor Aurangzeb was sitting on the Mughal throne. The priest’s name was François Bernier and he was of the Jesuit “shomproday.” He had with him two Portuguese pilots as well as a considerable company of servants. On their first day among the mangroves, they found themselves beset with hunger. Although they had food, they were nervous about going ashore to cook it. They had heard many stories of the ferocity of the local tigers and they wanted to take every possible precaution. Late in the day a suitable sandbank was found and two chickens and a fish were prepared. After consuming this meal, the Jesuit and his party set off again and rowed until dark. When night approached, they took their boat into a “snug creek” and anchored it at a distance from the shore where they judged themselves to be safe from predators. But they took the additional precaution of maintaining a watch through the night and this proved lucky for the priest. When his turn came he was privileged to witness a truly amazing spectacle: a rainbow made by the moon.