Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

KANAI HAD BEEN LOOKING for an opportunity to speak to Horen about Nirmal’s notebook, and he thought he had found it when the Megha entered a stretch of open water. He stepped up to the wheelhouse and held up the notebook. “Do you recognize this?” he said to Horen.

Horen’s eyes flickered away from the water for an instant. “Yes,” Horen said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “Saar gave it to me, to keep for you.”

Kanai was deflated by the brevity of his response. Considering how often Horen figured in Nirmal’s notes, he had expected that the sight of it would trigger, if not a flow of sentiment, certainly a few fond reminiscences.

“He mentions you several times,” Kanai said, hoping this would catch his interest. But Horen merely shrugged without taking his eyes off the water.

Kanai saw that he would have to work hard to get anything at all out of Horen. Was this reticence habitual, or was he just suspicious of outsiders? It was hard to tell.

“What happened to it?” Kanai persisted. “Where was it all these years?”

Horen cleared his throat. “It got lost,” he said.

“How?”

“I’ll tell you, since you’ve asked,” Horen said. “After Saar gave it to me, I took it home and wrapped it in plastic and glued it together so that the damp wouldn’t get into it. Then I put it in the sun, for the glue to dry. But one of the children — maybe Fokir — must have found it and thought it was a plaything. They hid it in the thatch and forgot, as children do. I looked everywhere for it, but it had disappeared. Then I forgot all about it.”

“So how did it turn up again?”

“I’m getting to that,” Horen said in his slow, deliberate voice. “Last year I had my old home torn down so that I could put up a new house made of brick and cement. That was when it was found. When they brought it to me I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to send it by post because I was sure the address wouldn’t be good anymore. I didn’t want to take it to Mashima either — it’s been years since she’s spoken to me. But I remembered that Moyna goes often to the Guest House, so I gave it to her. ‘Put it in Saar’s old study,’ I said. ‘They’ll find it when it’s time.’ That’s all that happened.”

He closed his mouth firmly as if to say that he had no more to offer on this subject.

THE MEGHA HAD BEEN on the water for some three hours when Piya heard the engine skip a beat. She was still on effort, on the upper deck, but there had been no sightings since that one Gangetic dolphin earlier in the day, and this had only sharpened her eagerness to get to the Orcaella’s pool: a breakdown now, when they were so close, would be a real setback. Without interrupting her vigil, she tuned her ears to the engine, listening keenly. To her relief, the machine quickly resumed its noisy rhythm.

The respite was short: fifteen minutes later there was another hiccup, followed by a hollow sputtering and a few tired coughs and then, all too suddenly, total silence. The engine died, leaving the Megha stranded in the middle of a mohona.

Piya guessed that the delay would be a long one and she was too disappointed even to ask questions. Knowing that the news would come to her soon enough, she stayed in position, scanning the wind-whipped water.

Presently, just as she had expected, Kanai came to stand beside her. “Bad news, Piya.”

“We’re not going to make it today?”

“Probably not.”

Raising a hand, Kanai pointed across the mohona. There was a small village on the far shore, he explained, and Horen was confident that the Megha could make it there by coasting on the currents. He had relatives in the village and he knew of someone there who’d be able to fix the engine. If all went well, they might be ready to leave for Garjontola the next morning.

Piya pulled a face. “I guess we don’t have many options at this point, do we?”

“No,” said Kanai. “We really don’t.”

Horen, already in the wheelhouse, soon brought the bow around, to point in the direction of the distant village. In a while it became clear that the bhotbhoti had begun to drift across the mohona. Although the tide had turned and the currents were in their favor, their progress was painfully slow. By the time their destination came into view the day was all but over.

The village they were heading for was not directly on the mohona’s banks: it stood in a more sheltered location, on the banks of a channel about a mile wide. With the tide at a low ebb, the riverbank now towered high above the water and nothing of the village was visible from the deck; all that could be seen was the crest of the embankment, where knots of people had gathered, as if to await the Megha ’s arrival. As the bhotbhoti edged closer, a few men were seen wading into the mud, waving their arms in welcome. In response, Horen leaned over the rail and shouted to them through cupped hands. A short while later a boat came cannoning down the mudbank and pulled up alongside. There were two men inside, one of whom was introduced as Horen’s relative, a fisherman who lived in the nearby village; the other was his friend, a part-time mechanic. There was an extended round of introductions and greetings and then Horen disappeared below deck with the visitors. Soon the bhotbhoti’s timbers began to ring to the sound of the mechanic’s tools. The sun went down to the accompaniment of much banging and hammering.

A little later, the twilight was pierced by an anguished animal sound: a frantic, pain-filled lowing that brought both Kanai and Piya racing out of their cabins, flashlights in hand.

The same thought had come to both of them. “An attack, you think?” said Piya.

“Can’t tell.”

Kanai leaned over the rail to shout a question to Horen, below deck. The hammering fell silent for a second and then a burst of loud laughter came echoing up.

“What’s the deal?” said Piya.

“I asked if there had been an attack,” said Kanai with a smile, “and they said it was just a water buffalo giving birth.”

“How do they know?” said Piya.

“They know because the buffalo belongs to Horen’s relative,” said Kanai. “He lives right by the embankment — over there.”

Piya laughed. “I guess we were being a little too jumpy.” Knitting her fingers together, she did a long stretch and followed this with a yawn. “I think I’ll go to bed early today.”

“Again?” said Kanai sharply. Then, as if to conceal his disappointment, he said, “No dinner?”

“I’ll have a nutrition bar,” said Piya. “That’ll keep me going till tomorrow. What about you: are you going to stay up late?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “I’m going to eat dinner, as most mortals do. Then I’m going to stay up and finish reading my uncle’s notebook.”

“Are you close to the end now?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “Close enough.”

I was still unwell when we returned to Lusibari, and Nilima put the blame for this purely on Horen: “It’s your fault,” she said to him. “You’re the one who’s been taking him to Morichjhãpi. Now look at the state he’s in.”

And it was true I was not well — my head was filled with dreams, visions, fears. Long days went by when I could not get out of my bed: all I did was lie awake and read Rilke in English and Bangla.

To me she spoke more gently: “Didn’t I tell you not to go? Didn’t I tell you it would come to this? If you want to do something useful, why don’t you help with the Trust, with the hospital? There’s so much to be done; why won’t you do it right here in Lusibari? Why must you go to Morichjhãpi?”