Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“Do you remember me, Horen-da?” said Kanai, joining his hands in greeting. “I’m Saar’s nephew.”

“Of course,” said Horen matter-of-factly. “You came here as a punishment in 1970. It was the year of the great Agunmukha cyclone — but you left before that, I think.”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “And how are your children? You had three then, I remember.”

“They have grown children of their own now,” said Horen. “Look, here’s one of them.” Horen beckoned to a lanky teenager who was dressed in jeans and a smart blue T-shirt. “His name is Nogen and he’s just out of school. He’s going to be on our crew.”

“Good.” Kanai turned to introduce Piya. “And this is the scientist who wants to hire the bhotbhoti: Shrimati Piyali Roy.”

Horen bobbed his head in greeting to Piya. “Come,” he said, pulling up his lungi. “My bhotbhoti’s waiting.”

Following him up the embankment, Piya and Kanai saw that he was pointing to a vessel anchored off the sandspit that served as Lusibari’s jetty. Painted in white lettering on its bow was the legend MV MEGHA.

At first sight there was little to recommend the vessel: it sat awkwardly in the water and its hull had the bruised and dented look of a tin toy. But Horen was proud of it and spoke of its merits at some length. The Megha had carried a great number of passengers, he said to Kanai, and none had ever had cause for complaint. He proceeded to recount many tales about the picnickers he had taken to Pakhiraloy and the bridegrooms and borjatris he had ferried to weddings. These stories were not hard to believe, for despite its general decrepitude the boat was clearly intended to cater to large, if huddled, numbers. The lower deck was a cavernous space crisscrossed with wooden benches and curtained with sheets of yellow tarpaulin; the galley and the engine room were located at opposite ends of this space. On top of this was a small upper deck, with a wheelhouse and two tiny cabins. Over the stern hung a tin-walled toilet. This was the head, and, being little more than a hole in the floor, it was reasonably clean.

“She’s not much to look at,” Kanai admitted, “but she might be just right for us. You and I could each have a cabin on the upper deck, and that would keep us away from the noise and fumes.”

“And what about Fokir?” said Piya.

“He’d be on the lower deck,” said Kanai, “along with Horen and the helper he’s bringing with him — his fifteen-year-old grandson, I believe.”

“Is that going to be the whole crew?” said Piya. “Just the two of them?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “We’re not going to be crowded for space.”

Piya gave the Megha a doubtful look. “It isn’t the research ship of my dreams,” she said. “But I could live with it. Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t get how this old tub is going to follow the dolphins. I can’t see it going into all those shallow creeks.”

Kanai relayed Piya’s question to Horen and then translated the answer for her benefit: Fokir’s boat would be accompanying them on the journey; the Megha would tow it all the way, and on reaching their destination the bhotbhoti would stay at anchor while Piya and Fokir tracked the dolphins in the boat.

“Really?” This was what Piya had been hoping to hear. “I guess Fokir was ahead of me on this one.”

“What do you think?” said Kanai. “Will it work?”

“Yes,” said Piya. “It’s a great idea. It’ll be much easier to follow the dolphins in his boat.”

With Kanai translating, the bhotbhoti’s terms were quickly agreed upon. Although Piya would not allow Kanai to contribute to the rental, she agreed to split the costs of the journey’s provisions. They handed over a sum of money for Horen to buy rice, dal, oil, tea, bottled water, a couple of chickens and, specifically for Piya, a plentiful supply of powdered milk.

“It’s so exciting,” said Piya as they headed back to the Guest House. “I can’t wait to leave. I’d better get all my laundry done this morning.”

“And I’d better go and tell my aunt I’m going to be away for a couple of days,” said Kanai. “I don’t know how she’s going to take it.”

NILIMA’S DOOR WAS open and Kanai entered to find her sitting at her desk, sipping a cup of tea. Her smile of greeting turned quickly into a curious frown. “What’s the matter-ré Kanai? Is something wrong?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong,” said Kanai awkwardly. “I just wanted to tell you, Mashima, that I’m going to be away for a few days.”

“You’re going away?” she said. “But you’ve only just come.”

“I know,” said Kanai. “I hope you won’t mind. But Piya’s hired a bhotbhoti to track her dolphins. She needs someone to translate.”

“Oh, I see!” said Nilima, in English, drawing out the words. “So you’re going with her, then?”

Knowing how precious Nirmal’s memory was to her, Kanai said gently, “And I thought I would take the notebook along with me. If it’s all right with you?”

“You’ll be careful with it, won’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much have you read?”

“I’m well into it,” said Kanai. “I’ll be done by the time I get back.”

“All right, then. I won’t ask you any more about it now,” Nilima said. “But tell me this, Kanai. Where exactly are you going?”

Kanai scratched his head. The fact was, he didn’t know and had not thought to ask. But a habitual unwillingness to acknowledge ignorance led him to pick the name of a river at random: “I think we’ll be going down the Tarobãki River — into the forest.”

“So you’re heading into the jungle?” said Nilima, looking him over speculatively.

“I suppose so,” Kanai said uncertainly.

Nilima rose from her desk and came to stand in front of him. “Kanai, I hope you’ve thought this over properly.”

“Yes, of course I have,” said Kanai, feeling suddenly like a schoolboy.

“No, I don’t think you have, Kanai,” said Nilima with her hands on her hips. “And I don’t blame you. I know that for outsiders it’s very hard to conceive of the dangers.”

“The tigers, you mean?” Kanai said. A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Why would a tiger pick me when it could have a tasty young morsel like Piya?”

“Kanai,” scolded Nilima, “this is not a joke. I know that in this day and age, in the twenty-first century, it’s difficult for you to imagine yourself being attacked by a tiger. The trouble is that over here it’s not in the least bit out of the ordinary. It happens several times each week.”

“As often as that?” said Kanai.

“Yes. More,” said Nilima. “Look, I’ll show you something.” She took hold of Kanai’s elbow and led him across the room to one of the many stacks of shelves that lined the walls. “Look,” she said, pointing to a sheaf of files, “I’ve been keeping unofficial records for years, based on word-of-mouth reports. My belief is that over a hundred people are killed by tigers here each year. And, mind you, I’m just talking about the Indian part of the Sundarbans. If you include the Bangladesh side, the figure is probably twice that. If you put the figures together, it means that a human being is killed by a tiger every other day in the Sundarbans — at the very least.”

Kanai raised his eyebrows. “I knew there were killings,” he said, “but I never thought there were as many as that.”

“That’s the trouble,” said Nilima. “Nobody knows exactly how many killings there are. None of the figures are reliable. But of this I’m sure: there are many more deaths than the authorities admit.”

Kanai scratched his head. “This must be a recent trend,” he said. “Perhaps it has something to do with overpopulation, or encroachment on the habitat, or something like that?”