Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“Don’t you believe it,” Nilima said scornfully. “These attacks have been going on for centuries — they were happening even when the population here was a fraction of what it is today. Look.” Standing on tiptoe, she pulled a file off a shelf and carried it to her desk. “Look over here — do you see that number?”

Kanai looked down at the page and saw that the tip of her finger was pointing to a numeral: 4,218.

“Look at that figure, Kanai,” Nilima said. “That’s the number of people who were killed by tigers in lower Bengal in a six-year period — between the years 1860 and 1866. The figures were compiled by J. Fayrer — he was the English naturalist who coined the phrase ‘Royal Bengal Tiger.’ Think of it, Kanai — over four thousand human beings killed. That’s almost two people every day for six years! What would the number add up to over a century?”

“Tens of thousands.” Kanai frowned as he looked down at the page. “It’s hard to believe.”

“Unfortunately,” said Nilima, “it’s all too true.”

“And why do you think it happens this way?” Kanai said. “What’s behind this?”

Nilima sat at her desk and sighed. “I’ve heard so many theories, Kanai. I just wish I knew which to believe.”

The one thing everyone agreed on, Nilima said, was that the tide country’s tigers were different from those elsewhere. In other habitats, tigers attacked human beings only in abnormal circumstances: if they happened to be crippled or were otherwise unable to hunt down any other kind of prey. But this was not true of the tide country’s tigers; even young and healthy animals were known to attack human beings. Some said that this propensity came from the peculiar conditions of the tidal ecology, in which large parts of the forest were subjected to daily submersions. The theory went that this raised the animals’ threshold of aggression by washing away their scent markings and confusing their territorial instincts. This was about as convincing a theory as Nilima had ever heard, but the trouble was that even if it was true, there was nothing that could be done about it.

With every few years came some new theory and some yet more ingenious solution. In the 1980s a German naturalist had suggested that the tigers’ preference for human flesh was somehow connected with the shortage of fresh water in the Sundarbans. This idea had been received with great enthusiasm by the Forest Department, and several pools had been excavated to provide the tigers with fresh water.

“Just imagine that,” said Nilima. “They were providing water for tigers! In a place where nobody thinks twice about human beings going thirsty!”

The digging was in vain, however. The pools had made no difference. The attacks continued as before.

“Then there was the electric-shock idea,” said Nilima, with laughter shining in her eyes.

Someone had decided that tigers could be conditioned with the methods Pavlov had used on his dogs. Clay models of human beings had been rigged up with wires and connected to car batteries. These contraptions were distributed all over the islands. For a while they seemed to be working and there was much jubilation. “But then the attacks started again. The tigers ignored the clay models and carried on as before.”

Another time, a forester came up with another, equally ingenious idea: what if people wore masks on the backs of their heads? Tigers always attacked humans from behind, the reasoning went, so they would shy away if they found themselves looking at a pair of painted eyes. This idea too was taken up with great enthusiasm. Many masks were made and distributed; word was put out that a wonderful new experiment was being tried in the Sundarbans. There was something so picturesque about the idea that it caught the public imagination: television cameras descended, filmmakers made films.

The tigers, alas, refused to cooperate: “Evidently they had no difficulty in discriminating between masks and faces.”

“So are you saying the tigers are actually able to think these things through?” said Kanai.

“I don’t know, Kanai,” Nilima said. “I’ve lived here for over fifty years and I’ve never seen a tiger. Nor do I want to. I’ve come to believe what people say in these parts: that if you see a tiger, the chances are you won’t live to tell the tale. That’s why I’m telling you, Kanai, you can’t go into the jungle on a whim. Before you go you should ask yourself whether you really need to.”

“But I’m not planning to go into the jungle at all,” Kanai replied. “I’m going to be on the bhotbhoti, well removed from any harm.”

“And you think a bhotbhoti is going to keep you from harm?”

“We’ll be out on the water, well away from shore. What can happen there?”

“Kanai, let me tell you something. Nine years ago, a tiger killed a young girl right here in Lusibari. They found later that it had swum all the way across the Bidya’s mohona and back again. Do you know how far that is?”

“No.”

“Three and a half miles each way. And that’s not unusual: they’ve been known to swim as much as eight miles at a stretch. So don’t for a moment imagine that the water will give you any safety. Boats and bhotbhotis are attacked all the time — even in midstream. It happens several times each year.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Nilima nodded. “And if you don’t believe me, just take a close look at any of the Forest Department’s boats. You’ll see they’re like floating fortresses. Their windows have steel bars as thick as my wrist. And that’s despite the fact that forest guards carry arms. Tell me, does your bhotbhoti have bars on its windows?”

Kanai scratched his head. “I don’t remember.”

“There you are,” Nilima said. “You didn’t even notice. I don’t think you understand what you’re getting into. Leave aside the animals — those boats and bhotbhotis are more dangerous than anything in the jungle. Every month we hear of one or two going down.”

“There’s no reason for you to worry,” said Kanai. “I won’t take any risks.”

“But Kanai, don’t you see? To our way of thinking, you are the risk. The others are going because they need to — but not you. You’re going on a whim, a kheyal. You don’t have any pressing reason to go.”

“That’s not true; I do have a reason —” Kanai had spoken without thinking and cut himself off in midsentence.

“Kanai?” said Nilima. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

“Oh, it’s just —” He could not think of what to say next and hung his head.

She looked at him shrewdly. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? Piya?”

Kanai looked away in silence, and she said, with a bitterness he had never heard in her voice before, “You’re all the same, you men. Who can blame the tigers when predators like you pass for human beings?”

She took hold of Kanai’s elbow and led him to the door. “Be careful, Kanai — just be careful.”

After we had spent a half hour with the dolphins, Horen began to row toward the shore of Garjontola. As we were drawing closer, Horen looked at me with a mischievous smile. “Saar,” he said, “now the time to go ashore is at hand. Tell me, Saar, bhoi ta ter paisen? Do you feel the fear?”

“The fear?” I said. “What do you mean, Horen? Why should I be afraid? Aren’t you with me?”

“Because it’s the fear that protects you, Saar; it’s what keeps you alive. Without it the danger doubles.”

“So are you afraid, then, Horen?”

“Yes, Saar,” he said. “Look at me. Don’t you see the fear on my face?”

And now that I looked more closely, it was true that I could see something out of the ordinary on his face — an alertness, a gravity, a sharpening of the eyes. The tension was of a kind that communicated itself readily: it didn’t take long before I could say to Horen, truthfully, that I was just as afraid as he was.