Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“My goodness!” said Nilima. “And who was this man? Did he tell you his name?”

“Sure,” said Piya. “His name’s Fokir.”

“Fokir?” cried Nilima. “Do you mean Fokir Mandol by any chance?”

“He didn’t tell me his last name.”

“Was there a little boy with him?” said Nilima.

“Yes, there was,” said Piya. “Tutul.”

“That’s him.” Nilima directed a glance in Kanai’s direction. “So that’s where he was.”

“Were people looking for them?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “Fokir’s wife, Moyna, works at the hospital here and she’s been half out of her mind with worry.”

“Oh?” said Piya. “It’s probably my fault. I kept them out there longer than they’d have stayed.”

“Well,” said Nilima, pursing her lips. “As long as they’re back now — no harm done.”

“I hope not,” said Piya. “I’d hate to think I’d gotten him into some kind of trouble. He saved my life, you know. And it wasn’t just that — he also led me straight to a pod of dolphins.”

“Is that so?” said Kanai. “But how did he know you were looking for dolphins?”

“I showed him a picture, a flashcard,” Piya said. “And that was all it took. He led me straight to the dolphins. In a way, that fall was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me — I’d never have found the dolphins on my own. I really need to see him again. I’ve got to pay him, for one thing.”

“Don’t worry about that,” said Nilima. “They live nearby, in the Trust’s quarters. Kanai will take you there tomorrow morning.”

Piya turned to him. “It’d be great if you could.”

“Yes,” said Kanai, “of course I will. But that can wait. For the time being, we’ve got to get you settled so you can change and rest up.”

Piya had given no thought to what would happen next, and now, with the euphoria of her arrival beginning to fade, she was suddenly aware of a weighty backlog of fatigue. “Settled?” she said, looking around. “Where?”

“Here,” said Kanai. “Or rather, upstairs.”

She was discomfited to think he had assumed she would stay with him. “Are there any hotels around here?”

“I’m afraid not,” said Nilima. “But there’s a guest house upstairs with three empty rooms. You’re very welcome to stay there. There’s no one in it but Kanai. And if he bothers you, just come down and let me know.”

Piya smiled. “I’ll be fine — I know how to look after myself.” But she was glad the invitation had come from Mashima: somehow it made it easier to accept. “Thank you,” she said. “I’d really appreciate a good night’s rest. Are you sure I won’t be in your way if I stay a couple of days?”

“Stay as long as you like,” said Nilima. “Kanai will show you around.”

“Come on,” said Kanai, reaching for one of her backpacks. “It’s this way.” He led her upstairs and, after pointing out the kitchen and bathroom, unlatched a door and switched on a fluorescent light. The bedroom was no different from his own: there were two narrow beds in it, each equipped with its own mosquito net. The replastered cement walls were blotchy with damp spots and cracks, left behind by the last monsoon. On the far side was a barred window that looked out over the rice fields that adjoined the Trust’s compound.

“Will this do?” said Kanai, depositing her backpack on one of the beds.

Piya stepped in and looked around. Although bare in appearance, the room was comfortable enough: the sheets were clean and there was even a towel lying neatly folded at the foot of the bed. By the window stood a desk and a straight-backed chair. The door, she was glad to note, had a sturdy latch that could be attached from the inside.

“This is more than I expected,” Piya said. “Thanks so much.”

Kanai shook his head. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “It’ll be nice to have you here. I was getting a bit lonely on my own.”

She didn’t know what to make of this, so she gave him a neutral smile.

“Anyway, I’ll leave you to settle in,” said Kanai. “I’ll be upstairs in my uncle’s study. Knock if you need anything.”

Any excuse to return to Morichjhãpi would have sufficed, but none could have been better than that which Horen presented me. I had, in the meanwhile, arranged for his son’s admission, so it happened that I often ran into him in the school’s vicinity.

“Saar,” Horen said one day, “I have news from Morichjhãpi. There’s to be a big feast there. Kusum said you should come.”

I was astonished. “A feast? What kind of feast?”

“They’ve invited many people from Kolkata — writers, intellectuals, journalists. They want to tell them about the island and all they have achieved.”

This explained everything: once again I was impressed by the acumen of the settlers’ leadership. Clearly they had decided their best defense was to enlist the support of public opinion and this was to be a step in that direction. Of course I had to go. Horen said we would leave in the morning and I told him I would be ready.

When I got back home, Nilima took one look at me and said, “What’s the matter? Why’ve you got that look on your face?”

Why was it I’d never spoken to Nilima about Morichjhãpi before? Perhaps in my heart I knew she would not share my enthusiasm; perhaps I knew she would see my excitement about their project as a betrayal of her own efforts in Lusibari. In any event, these fears were soon confirmed. I described as best I could the drama of the settlers’ arrival; I told her about the quest that had brought them from their banishment in central India to the edge of the tide country; I explained their plans, their program for building a new future for themselves, their determination to create a new land in which to live.

To my surprise, I found she already knew about the settlers and their arrival: she had heard about it in Kolkata from bureaucrats and politicians. The government, she said, saw these people as squatters and land grabbers; there was going to be trouble; they would not be allowed to remain.

“Nirmal,” she said, “I don’t want you going there. It’s not that I have anything against the settlers. I just don’t want you to be in harm’s way.”

I realized at that moment, with a great sense of sadness, that from now on my relationship with Morichjhãpi would have to be conducted in secret. I had intended to tell her about the feast of the next day but now said nothing. Knowing Nilima as I did, I was sure she would find a way to prevent me from going.

Yet I would not have lied had she not pressed me. She saw me packing my jhola and asked if I was planning to go somewhere.

“Yes, I have to leave tomorrow morning.” I made up a story about visiting a school in Mollakhali. I knew she didn’t believe me, for she looked at me closely and said, “And who are you going with?”

“Horen,” I said.

“Oh?” she said. “Horen?” And the inflection of her voice as she said this was enough to make me fear for the safety of my secret.

Thus was sown the seed of our mistrust.

But to the feast I went — and it proved to be one of the strangest days of my existence. It was as if, on the eve of my retirement, I had been presented with a glimpse of the life I might have led if I had stayed in Kolkata. The guests who had been brought in from the city were exactly the people I would have known: journalists, photographers, well-known authors; there was the novelist Sunil Gangopadhyay and the journalist Jyotirmoy Datta. Some of them I even recognized for I had known them back in the university. One of them — we used to call him Khokon in those days — had once been a friend as well as a comrade. I observed him from a distance, marveling at how well he looked, at the bright effulgence of his face and the raven-black hue of his hair. Would this have been me had I stayed on, living the literary life?