Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“I managed OK over the last few days.”

“But you didn’t have a whole crew to deal with.”

She acknowledged the truth of this with a nod: she could see that there would be advantages to having him along. But her instincts told her to be careful: his presence might lead to trouble. Playing for time, she said, “But don’t you have stuff to do here?”

“Not really,” said Kanai. “I’m getting to the end of my uncle’s notebook — and it doesn’t necessarily have to be read right here. I could take it with me. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of this Guest House. I wouldn’t mind a little break.”

His eagerness was obvious and she was aware of a twinge of guilt: there was no denying that he had been very hospitable; she would feel more at ease about staying in the Guest House if she knew his generosity was not going to go unreciprocated.

“Well, then, sure,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re welcome to come along.”

He made a fist and punched it into his open palm. “Thank you!” But this display of enthusiasm seemed to cause him some embarrassment, for he added, affecting nonchalance, “I’ve always wanted to be on an expedition. It’s been an ambition of mine ever since I learned that my great-great-uncle was the translator on Younghusband’s expedition to Tibet.”

Putting away my book, I said to Kusum: “What is this place we’re going to? Why is it called Garjontola?”

“Because of the garjon tree, which grows in great abundance there.”

“Oh?” I had not made this connection: I’d thought that the name of the place came from the other meaning of the word garjon, “to roar.” “So it’s not because of a tiger’s cry?”

She laughed. “Maybe that too.”

“So why is it Garjontola we’re going to? Why there and nowhere else?”

“It’s because of my father, Saar,” Kusum said.

“Your father?”

“Yes. Once, many years ago, his life was saved on this island.”

“How? What happened?”

“All right, Saar, since you asked, I’ll tell you the story. I know you’ll probably laugh. You won’t believe me.

“It happened long, long ago, before I was born; fishing alone, my father was caught in a storm. The wind raged like a fiend and tore apart his boat; his hands fell on a log and somehow he stayed afloat. Swept by the current, he came to Garjontola; climbing a tree, he tied himself with his gamchha. Attached to the trunk, he held on against the gale till suddenly the wind stopped and a silence fell. The waves were quieted, the tree stood straight again, but there was no moon and not a thing could be seen.

“Now, in the dark of the night he heard a garjon; soon he caught the smell of the unnameable one. Terror seized his heart and he lost all consciousness; he’d have fallen if the gamchha hadn’t held him in place. He dreamed, in his oblivion, of Bon Bibi: ‘Fool!’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid; believe in me. This place you’ve come to, I value it as my own; if you’re good at heart, here you’ll never be alone.’

“‘When day breaks you’ll see it is time for low tide; cross the island and go to the northern side. Keep your eyes on the water; be patient and you’ll see: you’re not on your own; you’re not far from me. You’ll see my messengers, my ears and my eyes; they’ll keep you company till the waters rise. Then will you know that deliverance is at hand; a boat will pass by and take you back to your land.’”

Who could fail to be charmed by such a story, so well told? “I suppose you will tell me,” I said, smiling, “that this was exactly how it happened?”

“Why, yes, Saar, it did. And afterward my father came back and built a shrine to Bon Bibi on the island. For the rest of his life, every year we came here on this day, when it was time to do a puja for Bon Bibi.”

I laughed. “And the messengers? I suppose you will say that they were real too?”

“Why, yes, Saar,” she said. “They were. And even you will see them soon.”

“Even I?” I laughed louder still. “An unbelieving secularist? I too am to be granted this privilege?”

“Yes, Saar,” she persisted in the face of my skepticism. “Anyone can see Bon Bibi’s messengers if they know where to look.”

I took a little nap in the shade of my umbrella, and then woke to the sound of Kusum’s voice telling me we had arrived.

I’d been looking forward to the moment when I would be able to confound her credulousness. I sat quickly upright. It was low tide and we were becalmed in a stretch of still water; the shore was yet some distance away. There was nothing to be seen, no messengers nor any other divine manifestation. I could not help preening myself a little as I savored my triumph. “So where are they, Kusum,” I said, “these messengers of yours?”

“Wait, Saar. You’ll see them.”

Suddenly there was a sound like that of a man blowing his nose. I turned around in astonishment, just in time to see a patch of black skin disappearing into the water.

“What was that?” I cried. “Where did it come from? Where did it go?”

“Look,” said little Fokir, pointing in the other direction, “over there.”

I turned to see another of these creatures, rolling through the water. This time I also caught a glimpse of a small triangular fin. Although I had never before seen this animal, I knew it had to be a dolphin; yet it was clearly not the shushuk I was accustomed to seeing in our waters, for those had no fins on their backs.

“What is it?” I said. “Is it some kind of shushuk?”

It was Kusum’s turn to smile. “I have my own name for them,” she said. “I call them Bon Bibi’s messengers.” The triumph was hers now; I could not deny it to her.

All the time our boat was at that spot, the creatures kept breaking the water around us. What held them there? What made them linger? I could not imagine. Then there came a moment when one of them broke the surface with its head and looked right at me. Now I saw why Kusum found it so easy to believe that these animals were something other than what they were. For where she had seen a sign of Bon Bibi, I saw instead the gaze of the Poet. It was as if he were saying to me:

some mute animal

raising its calm eyes and seeing through us,

and through us. This is destiny…

IN THE MORNING Piya and Kanai hired a cycle-van to take them across the island to look at the bhotbhoti Fokir had arranged. On the way, as they rattled down the brick-paved path that led to the village, Piya said, “Tell me about the owner of this boat. Did you say you knew him?”

“I met him when I came here as a boy,” said Kanai. “His name is Horen Naskor. I can’t really claim to know him, but he was close to my uncle.”

“And what’s his relation to Fokir?”

“Oh, he’s like an adopted parent,” said Kanai. “Fokir lived with him after his mother died.”

Horen was waiting at the foot of the embankment with Fokir at his side. Kanai recognized him at once: he was squat and wide-bodied, just as he remembered, but his chest seemed even broader now than before because of the substantial paunch that had burgeoned beneath it. With age the folds of Horen’s face had deepened so that his eyes seemed almost to have disappeared. Yet it was clear that the years had also added stature to his presence, for his demeanor was now that of a patriarch, a man who commanded the respect of all who knew him. His clothes too were those of a man of some means: his striped lungi was starched and carefully ironed and his white shirt was spotlessly clean. On his wrist was a heavy watch with a metal strap, and sunglasses could be seen protruding from his shirt pocket.