Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

The candle had rolled into a corner and although the flame was out, Kanai saw that the wick was still glowing. “Quick.” Falling to his knees, he lunged for the candle. “Pinch out the wick or it’ll set fire to the kerosene. The whole place will burn down.”

He took the candle out of Moyna’s hands and squeezed the glowing wick between finger and thumb. “It’s all right — it’s out now. We just have to sweep up the glass.”

“I’ll do it, Kanai-babu,” she said.

“It’ll be quicker if we both do it.” Kneeling beside her, Kanai began to brush his hands gingerly over the floor.

“Why did you let your dinner get cold, Kanai-babu?” Moyna said. “Why didn’t you eat?”

“I was busy getting ready for tomorrow,” Kanai said. “You know we’re leaving early in the morning? I’m going too.”

“Yes,” said Moyna, “I heard. And I’m glad you’re going, Kanaibabu.”

“Why?” said Kanai. “Are you tired of bringing me my meals?”

“No,” she said. “It’s not that.”

“Then?”

“I’m just glad that you’ll be there, Kanai-babu; that they won’t be alone.”

“Who?”

“The two of them.” Her voice was suddenly serious.

“You mean Fokir and Piya?”

“Who else, Kanai-babu? I was really relieved when I heard you were going to be with them. To tell you the truth, I was hoping you would talk to him a little.”

“To Fokir? Talk about what?”

“About her — the American,” Moyna said. “Maybe you could explain to him that she’s only here for a few days — that she’s going to be gone soon.”

“But he knows that, doesn’t he?”

He could hear her sari rustling in the darkness as she pulled it tightly around herself. “It would be good for him to hear it from you, Kanai-babu. Who knows what he’s begun to expect — especially when she’s giving him so much money? Maybe you could speak with her too — just to explain she would do him harm if she made him forget himself.”

“But why me, Moyna?” Kanai said. “What can I say?”

“Kanai-babu, there’s no one else who knows how to speak to both of them — to her and to him. It’s you who stands between them: whatever they say to each other will go through your ears and your lips. But for you neither of them will know what is in the mind of the other. Their words will be in your hands and you can make them mean what you will.”

“I don’t understand, Moyna,” Kanai said, frowning. “What are you saying? What exactly are you afraid of?”

“She’s a woman, Kanai-babu.” Moyna’s voice sank to a whisper. “And he’s a man.”

Kanai glared at her in the dark. “I’m a man too, Moyna,” he said. “If she had to choose between me and Fokir, who do you think it would be?”

Moyna’s reply was noncommittal and slow in coming: “How am I to know what she has in her heart, Kanai-babu?”

Her hesitation provoked Kanai. “And you, Moyna? Whom would you choose, if you could?”

Moyna said quietly, “What are you asking, Kanai-babu? Fokir is my husband.”

“But you’re such a bright, capable girl, Moyna,” said Kanai insistently. “Why don’t you forget about Fokir? Can’t you see that as long as you’re with him you’ll never be able to achieve anything?”

“He’s my son’s father, Kanai-babu,” Moyna said. “I can’t turn my back on him. If I do, what will become of him?”

Kanai laughed. “Moyna, it’s true he’s your husband — but then why can’t you talk to him yourself? Why do you want me to do it for you?”

“It’s because he’s my husband that I can’t talk to him, Kanai-babu,” Moyna said quietly. “Only a stranger can put such things into words.”

“Why should it be easier for a stranger than for you?”

“Because words are just air, Kanai-babu,” Moyna said. “When the wind blows on the water, you see ripples and waves, but the real river lies beneath, unseen and unheard. You can’t blow on the water’s surface from below, Kanai-babu. Only someone who’s outside can do that, someone like you.”

Kanai laughed again. “Words may be air, Moyna, but you have a nice way with them.”

He stood up and went to the desk. “Tell me, Moyna, don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to be with a different kind of man? Aren’t you ever curious?”

He had said it in a light, mocking way, and this time he succeeded in provoking her.

She rose angrily to her feet. “Kanai-babu, you’re making a fool of me, aren’t you? You want me to say yes and then you’ll laugh in my face. You’ll tell everybody what I said. I may be a village girl, Kanaibabu, but I’m not so foolish as to answer a question like that. I can see that you play this game with every woman who crosses your path.”

This struck home and he flinched. “Don’t be angry, Moyna,” he said. “I didn’t mean any harm.”

He heard her sari rustling as she rose to her feet and pulled the door open. Then, in the darkness, he heard her say, “Kanai-babu, I hope it goes well for you with the American. It’ll be better for all of us that way.”

The siege went on for many days and we were powerless to affect the outcome. All we heard were rumors: that despite careful rationing, food had run out and the settlers had been reduced to eating grass. The police had destroyed the tube wells and there was no potable water left; the settlers were drinking from puddles and ponds and an epidemic of cholera had broken out.

One of the settlers managed to get through the police cordon by swimming across the Gãral River — an amazing feat in its own right. But not content with that, the young man had somehow made his way to Calcutta, where he talked at length to the newspapers. A furor erupted, citizens’ groups filed petitions, questions were asked in the legislature, and finally the High Court ruled that barricading the settlers was illegal; the siege would have to be lifted.

The settlers, it seemed, had won a notable victory. The day after the news reached us, I saw Horen waiting near the bãdh. Neither he nor I needed to say anything: I packed my jhola and went down to his boat. We set off.

There was a lightness in our hearts now; we thought we would find the people of Morichjhãpi celebrating, in a spirit of vindication. But such was not the case: on getting there we saw that the siege had taken a terrible toll. And even though it had been lifted now, the police were not gone; they continued to patrol the island, urging the settlers to abandon their homes.

It was terrible to see Kusum: her bones protruded from her skin, like the ribs of a drum, and she was too weak to rise from her mat. Fokir, young as he was, appeared to have weathered the siege in better health and it was he who was looking after his mother.

Summing up the situation, I assumed that Kusum had starved herself in order to feed Fokir. But the truth was not quite so simple. For much of the time, Kusum had kept Fokir indoors, fearing to let him out because of the swarming police. But from time to time he had managed to go outside and catch a few crabs and fish. These, at Kusum’s insistence, he had mainly eaten himself, while she had subsisted on a kind of wild green known as jadu-palong. Palatable enough at first, these leaves had proved deadly in the end, for they had caused severe dysentery. That, on top of the lack of proper nutrition, had been terribly debilitating.

Fortunately, we had taken the precaution of buying some essential provisions on the way — rice, dal, oil — and we now occupied ourselves in storing these in Kusum’s dwelling. But Kusum would have none of it. She roused herself from her mat and hefted some of the bags on her shoulders. Fokir and Horen were made to pick up the others.