Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“Actually, yes,” she said, a little awkwardly.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“I was thinking it would be good if you could come to Lusibari soon, Kanai,” she said. “Do you think you could?”

Kanai was taken aback. It so happened that Nilima was childless and he was her closest relative, yet he could not remember any occasion when she had made such a demand. She had always been very much her own person and it was out of character for her to ask a favor. “Why do you want me to come to Lusibari?” Kanai said in surprise.

The phone went quiet for a moment and then she said, “Do you remember, Kanai, I told you years ago that Nirmal had left some writings for you?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “Of course I remember. But they were never found, were they?”

“That’s the thing,” said Nilima. “I think I’ve found them: a packet addressed to you has turned up.”

“Where?” said Kanai.

“In Nirmal’s study. It’s on the roof of the place where I live, on top of the Trust’s Guest House. All these years, after he died, it’s been locked just as it was. But now it’s going to be torn down, because we need to build another floor. I was clearing it out the other day and that was when I found it.”

“And what was inside?”

“It must be all the essays and poems he wrote over the years. But the truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t open it because I knew he’d have wanted you to look at them first. He never trusted my literary judgment — and it’s true I’m not much good at that kind of thing. That’s why I was hoping you could come. Perhaps you could even arrange to have them published. You know some publishers, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” he said, flustered. “But going to Lusibari? It’s so far after all — from New Delhi it’ll take two days to get there. I mean, of course, I’d like to but —”

“I’d be very grateful if you could, Kanai.”

This was said in the quiet but firm tone of voice Nilima used when she was determined to get her way. Kanai knew now that she was in earnest and would not be put off easily. In their family, Nilima was legendary for her persistence — her doggedness and tenacity had built the Badabon Trust into what it was, an organization widely cited as a model for NGOs working in rural India.

Kanai made one last attempt to give her the slip. “Couldn’t you just send this packet by post?”

“I wouldn’t trust a thing like this to the post,” she said in a shocked voice. “Who knows what might happen to it?”

“It’s just that this is a very busy time,” said Kanai. “I have so much to do.”

“But Kanai,” she said, “with you it’s always a busy time.”

“That’s true enough.” Kanai was the founder and chief executive of a small but thriving business. He ran an agency of translators and interpreters that specialized in serving the expatriate communities of New Delhi: foreign diplomats, aid workers, charitable organizations, multinationals and the like. Being the only such company in the city, its services were hugely in demand. This meant its employees were all overworked — none more so than Kanai himself.

“So will you come, then?” she said. “Every year you say you’ll visit but you never come. And I’m not getting any younger.”

He caught the pleading note in her voice and decided to check his impulse to fob her off. He had always been fond of Nilima and his affection had deepened after the death of his mother, whom she closely resembled, in appearance if not in temperament. His admiration for her was genuine too: in founding his own business he had gained a fresh appreciation of what it took to build and maintain an organization like hers — especially considering that, unlike his own agency, the Trust was not run for profit. He remembered from his first visit the dire poverty of the tide country, and he thought it both inexplicable and remarkable that she had chosen to dedicate her life to working for the betterment of the people who lived there. Not that her work had gone unrecognized — the year before, the president had actually decorated her with one of the nation’s highest honors. But still, it amazed him that someone from a background like hers had lasted in Lusibari as long as she had — he knew from his mother’s accounts that they belonged to a family that was notable for its attachment to creature comforts. And in Lusibari, as he knew from experience, there was little to be had by way of comforts and amenities.

Kanai had always extolled Nilima to his friends as someone who had made great sacrifices in the public interest, as a figure who was a throwback to an earlier era when people of means and education were less narrow, less selfish than now. All this made it somehow impossible to turn down Nilima’s simple request.

“If you want me to come,” he said reluctantly, “then there’s nothing more to it. I’ll try to come for maybe ten days. Do you want me to leave immediately?”

“No, no,” Nilima said quickly. “You don’t have to come right away.”

“That makes it a lot easier for me,” said Kanai, in relief. His stormy but absorbing involvement with the Odissi dancer was then still heading in an interesting direction. To interrupt the natural trajectory of that relationship would have been a considerable sacrifice and he was glad he was not going to be put to that test. “I’ll be there in a month or two. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made the arrangements.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

And now there she was, Nilima, sitting on a bench in the shaded section of the platform, sipping tea while a couple of dozen people milled around her, some vying for attention and some being held at bay by her entourage. Kanai made his way quietly to the outer edge of the circle and stood listening. A few among the crowd were supplicants who wanted jobs and some were would-be politicians hoping to enlist her support. But for the most part the people there were just well-wishers who wanted nothing more than to look at Nilima and to be warmed by her gaze.

At the age of seventy-six, Nilima Bose was almost circular in shape and her face had the dimpled roundness of a waxing moon. Her voice was soft and had the splintered quality of a note sounded on a length of cracked bamboo. She was small in height and her wispy hair, which she wore in a knot at the back of her head, was still more dark than gray. It was her practice to dress in saris woven and crafted in the workshops of the Badabon Trust, garments almost always of cotton with spidery borders executed in batik. It was in one such, a plain white widow’s sari, thinly bordered in black, that she had come to the station to receive Kanai.

Nilima’s customary manner was one of abstracted indulgence. Yet when the occasion demanded she was also capable of commanding prompt and unquestioning obedience — few would willingly cross her, for it was well known that Mashima, like many another figure of maternal nurture, could be just as inventive in visiting retribution as she was in dispensing her benedictions. Now, on catching sight of Kanai, it took her no more than a snap of her fingers to silence the people around her. The crowd parted almost instantly to let Kanai through.

“Kanai!” Nilima cried. “Where were you?” She ran a hand over his head as he bent down to touch her feet. “I was beginning to think you’d missed the train.”

“I’m here now.” She looked much more frail than Kanai remembered, and he slipped an arm around her to help her to her feet. While members of her entourage took charge of his luggage, Kanai grasped her elbow and led her toward the station’s exit.

“You shouldn’t have taken the trouble to come to the station,” said Kanai. “I could have found my way to Lusibari.” This was a polite lie for Kanai would have been at a loss to know how to proceed to Lusibari on his own. What was more, he would have been extremely annoyed if he had been left to fend for himself in Canning.