Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

On the morning of Nilima’s departure, I went to the jetty to see her off, and just before leaving she said, “Nirmal, remember what I said to you about Morichjhãpi. Remember.”

The boat sailed away and I went up to my study. With my schoolmaster’s duties at an end, time hung heavy on my hands. I opened my notebooks for the first time in many years, thinking that perhaps I would write something. I had long thought of compiling a book about the tide country, a volume that would include all I knew, all the facts I had gathered over these years.

For several days I sat at my desk, gazing at the mohona of the Raimangal in the distance. I remembered how, when I first came to Lusibari, the sky would be darkened by birds at sunset. Many years had passed since I’d seen such flights of birds. When I first noticed their absence, I thought they would soon come back but they had not. I remembered a time when at low tide the mudbanks would turn scarlet with millions of swarming crabs. That color began to fade long ago and now it is never seen anymore. Where had they gone, I wondered, those millions of swarming crabs, those birds?

Age teaches you to recognize the signs of death. You do not see them suddenly; you become aware of them very slowly over a period of many, many years. Now it was as if I could see those signs everywhere, not just in myself but in this place that I had lived in for almost thirty years. The birds were vanishing, the fish were dwindling and from day to day the land was being reclaimed by the sea. What would it take to submerge the tide country? Not much — a minuscule change in the level of the sea would be enough.

As I contemplated this prospect, it seemed to me that this might not be such a terrible outcome. These islands had seen so much suffering, so much hardship and poverty, so many catastrophes, so many failed dreams, that perhaps humankind would not be ill served by their loss.

Then I thought of Morichjhãpi: what I saw as a vale of tears was for others truly more precious than gold. I remembered the story Kusum had told me, of her exile and how she had dreamed of returning to this place, of seeing once more these rich fields of mud, these trembling tides; I thought of all the others who had come with her to Morichjhãpi and of all they had braved to find their way there. In what way could I ever do justice to this place? What could I write of it that would equal the power of their longing and their dreams? What indeed would be the form of the lines? Even this I could not resolve: would they flow, as the rivers did, or would they follow rhythms, as did the tides?

I put my books aside and went to stand on the roof, to gaze across the waters. The sight was almost unbearable to me at that moment; I felt myself torn between my wife and the woman who had become the muse I’d never had; between the quiet persistence of everyday change and the heady excitement of revolution — between prose and poetry.

Most haunting of all, was I overreaching myself even in conceiving of these confusions? What had I ever done to earn the right to address such questions?

I had reached the point where, as the Poet says, we tell ourselves

Maybe what’s left

for us is some tree on a hillside we can look at

day after day…

and the perverse affection of a habit

that liked us so much it never let go.

NEAR THE END of the day, when the sun was dipping toward the Bidya’s mohona, Piya decided to take advantage of Kanai’s invitation: she went up to the roof of the Guest House and knocked on the door of the study.

“Ké?” He blinked as he opened the door and she had the impression that she had woken him from a trance.

“Did I disturb you?”

“No. Not really.”

“I thought I’d take in the sunset.”

“Good idea — I’m glad you came up.” He put away the cardboard-covered book he was holding and went to join her by the parapet. In the distance the sky and the mohona were aflame with the colors of the setting sun.

“It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” said Kanai.

“It is.”

Kanai proceeded to point out Lusibari’s sights: the village maidan, the Hamilton House, the school, the hospital and so on. By the end of the recital they had done a turn around the roof and were facing in the direction of the path they had followed that morning, looking toward the staff quarters of the Lusibari Hospital. Piya knew they were both thinking about the morning’s meeting.

“I’m glad it went well today,” she said.

“Did you think it went well?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “At least Fokir agreed to go on this expedition. In the beginning I didn’t think he would.”

“I didn’t know what to think, frankly,” Kanai said. “He’s such a peculiar, sulky fellow. One doesn’t know what to expect.”

“Believe me,” said Piya, “he’s very different when he’s out on the water.”

“But are you sure you’ll be all right with him?” said Kanai. “For several days?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She was aware of a certain awkwardness in discussing Fokir with him, especially because she could tell that he was still smarting from the silent snub of the morning. Quietly she said, “Tell me about Fokir’s mother. What was she like?”

Kanai stopped to consider this. “Fokir looks a lot like her,” he said. “But it’s hard to see any other resemblance. Kusum was spirited, tough, full of fun and laughter. Not like him at all.”

“And what happened to her?”

“It’s a long story,” said Kanai, “and I don’t know all of it. All I can tell you is that she was killed in some kind of confrontation with the police.”

Piya caught her breath. “How did that happen?”

“She’d joined a group of refugees who’d occupied an island nearby. The land belonged to the government, so there was a standoff and many people died. That was in 1979 — Fokir must have been five or six. But Horen Naskor took him in after his mother’s death: he’s been a father to him ever since.”

“So Fokir wasn’t born here?”

“No,” said Kanai. “He was born in Bihar — his parents were living there at the time. His mother came back here when his father died.”

Piya remembered the family she had imagined for Fokir: the parents she had given him and the many siblings. She was shamed by her lack of insight. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common, then,” she said. “Fokir and me.”

“What?”

“Growing up without a mother.”

“Did you lose your mother when you were little?” said Kanai.

“I wasn’t as little as he was,” said Piya. “My mother died of cancer when I was twelve. But actually I felt I’d lost her long before.”

“Why?”

“Because she’d kind of cut herself off from us — my dad and me. She was a depressive, you see — and her condition got worse over the years.”

“It must have been very hard for you,” said Kanai.

“Not as hard as it was for her,” said Piya. “She was like an orchid in a way, frail and beautiful and dependent on the love and labor of many, many people. She was the kind of person who should never have strayed too far from home. In Seattle she had no one — no friends, no servants, no job, no life. My father, on the other hand, was the perfect immigrant — driven, hardworking, successful. He was busy getting on with his career, and I was absorbed in the usual kid stuff. I guess my mother kind of fell through the cracks. At some point she just gave up.”

Kanai put his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

There was a catch in his voice that surprised Piya: she had judged him to be too self-absorbed to pay much attention to other people. Yet his sympathy now seemed genuine.