Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“I hear a scratching sound, Saar,” he said in a while. “It’s very soft.”

“But what is making this sound?”

He listened a while longer and then his face lit up with a smile. “Are they crabs, Saar?”

“Yes, Fokir. Not everyone can hear them but you did. Even as we stand here, untold multitudes of crabs are burrowing into our bãdh. Now ask yourself: how long can this frail fence last against these monstrous appetites — the crabs and the tides, the winds and the storms? And if it falls, who shall we turn to then, comrade?”

“Who, Saar?”

“Who indeed, Fokir? Neither angels nor men will hear us, and as for the animals, they won’t hear us either.”

“Why not, Saar?”

“Because of what the Poet says, Fokir. Because the animals

“already know by instinct

we’re not comfortably at home

in our translated world.”

LIKE EVERY OTHER trainee nurse, Moyna lived in the Lusibari Hospital’s staff quarters. This was a long, barracks-like building situated close to the island’s embankment. It was on the periphery of the Trust’s compound, about a five-minute walk from the Guest House.

The space allotted to Moyna was on the far side of the building and consisted of one large room and a small courtyard. Moyna was waiting on her threshold when Kanai and Piya arrived. Joining her hands, she greeted them with a smiling “Nomoshkar” and ushered them into the courtyard, where a few folding chairs had been put out to await their arrival.

Piya looked around as she was seating herself. “Where’s Tutul?”

“In school,” said Kanai after relaying the question to Moyna.

“And Fokir?”

“There.”

Turning her head, Piya saw that Fokir was squatting in the dwelling’s doorway, half hidden by a grimy blue curtain. He did not look up and offered no greeting nor any sign of recognition: his eyes were lowered to the ground and he seemed to be drawing patterns with a twig. He was wearing, as usual, a T-shirt and a lungi, but somehow in the setting of his own home his clothes looked frayed and seedy in a way Piya had not thought them to be before. There was a fugitive sullenness about his posture that suggested he would rather be anywhere but where he was: she had the impression it was only under great pressure (from Moyna or his neighbors?) that he had consented to be present at this occasion.

It stung Piya to see him looking like this, beaten and afraid. What was he afraid of, this man who hadn’t hesitated to dive into the river after her? She would have liked to go up to him, to look into his eyes and greet him in a straightforward, ordinary way. But she thought better of it, for she could tell from his stance that, with Moyna and Kanai present, this would only add to his discomfiture.

Kanai too was watching Fokir. “I thought only parrots could sit like that,” he said to Piya in a whispered aside.

It was then that Piya noticed that Fokir was not squatting on the floor as she had thought. There was a raised lintel at the bottom of the doorframe and it was on this that he had seated himself, squatting on his haunches and using his toes to grip the wood, like a bird perching on the bar of a cage.

Since Fokir clearly wanted to have no part of the conversation, Piya decided it might be best to address his wife. “Will you translate for me, please?” she said to Kanai.

Through Kanai, Piya conveyed her gratitude to Moyna and told her that in return for all Fokir had done for her, she wanted to give a gift to the family.

Piya had already prepared a wad of banknotes. She was taking it out of her money belt when she noticed that Kanai was leaning back to make room for her to reach over to the chair beside his. Moyna, meanwhile, was sitting forward with an expectant smile. It was evident that they had both assumed Piya would hand the money not to Fokir but to Moyna. This was in fact what Piya herself had intended a moment ago, but now, with the money in her hands, her sense of justice rebelled: it was Fokir who had risked his life in pulling her out of the water, and it was only fair the money should go to him. After everything he had done, she could not treat him as if he didn’t exist.

Whether he chose to give the money to his wife or his family was his business — it was not for her to make that decision for him.

Piya rose from her chair but was quickly preempted by Moyna, who stopped before her with an extended palm. Thus forestalled, there was nothing Piya could do: she handed the money to Moyna with as much grace as she could muster.

“Moyna says she’s very happy to accept your gift on behalf of her husband.”

Fokir, she noticed, had sat through this without making a move: it was as if he had grown accustomed to being treated as though he were invisible.

Piya was going back to her chair when she heard Fokir say something that provoked a sharp response from Moyna.

“What did he say?” Piya whispered to Kanai.

“He told her it didn’t bode well to take money for something like this.”

“And what was her answer?”

“She told him they had no choice: there was no food in the house and no money either. Nothing except a few crabs.”

Piya turned to face Kanai. “Look,” she said, “I don’t want to interfere in whatever’s going on between them, but I also don’t want this to be just between Moyna and me. Isn’t there any way we could pull Fokir into the conversation? It’s him I really need to talk to.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” said Kanai. Rising from his chair, Kanai went up to Fokir and said in a loud, hearty voice, attempting friendliness, “ Hã-ré, Fokir, do you know me? I’m Mashima’s nephew, Kanai Dutt.” Fokir made no answer, so Kanai added, “Has anyone told you that I used to know your mother?”

At this Fokir tipped his head back. Now, looking him full in the face for the first time, Kanai was startled by the closeness of his resemblance to Kusum: he could see her likeness in the set of his jaw, in his deep-set, opaque eyes, in his hair and the way he held himself. But Fokir, it seemed, had no interest in pursuing the conversation. After briefly locking eyes with Kanai, he looked away without answering his question. Kanai glared at him for a moment, then shuffled his feet and went back to his chair.

“What was that about?” said Piya.

“I was just trying to break the ice,” said Kanai. “I told him I knew his mother.”

“His mother? You know her?”

“I did,” said Kanai. “She’s dead now. I met her when I came here as a boy.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“I tried to,” said Kanai with a smile. “But he gave me pretty short shrift.”

Piya nodded. She hadn’t understood what had passed between the two men, but there was no mistaking the condescension in Kanai’s voice as he was speaking to Fokir: it was the kind of tone in which someone might address a dimwitted waiter, at once jocular and hectoring. It didn’t surprise her that Fokir had responded with what was his instinctive mode of defense: silence.

“Let’s leave him where he is,” Piya said. “Maybe we should just get started.”

“I’m ready.”

“Please tell him this.”

With Kanai translating, Piya explained to Fokir that she was doing research on the species of dolphin that frequented the Garjontola pool. After these past two days, she said, it had become clear to her, as it evidently was to him, that the dolphins left the pool to forage when the water was running high during the day. Now she wanted to trace their routes and map the patterns of their movement. The best way to do this, she had decided, was for her to return to Garjontola with him. They would take a bigger boat, a motorboat if possible; they would anchor near the pool and Fokir would help her survey the dolphins’ daily migrations. The expedition would last a few days — maybe four or five, depending on what they found. She would pay all expenses, of course — the rent for the boat, the provisions and all that — and she would also pay Fokir a salary plus a per diem. On top of that, if all went well there’d be a bonus at the end; all told, he would stand to make about three hundred U.S. dollars.