Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“You don’t understand, Nilima.”

“Why, Nirmal?” she said. “Tell me, because I’ve heard rumors. Everybody is speaking of it. Does it have something to do with Kusum?”

“How can you say that, Nilima? Have I ever given you cause for suspicion before?”

Now Nilima began to cry. “Nirmal, that’s not what people say. There are ugly rumors afloat.”

“Nilima, it’s beneath you to believe in these rumors.”

“Then bring Kusum here; tell her to work for the Trust. And you can do the same.”

How could I explain to her that there was nothing I could do for the Trust that many others could not do better? I would be no more than a hand pushing a pen, a machine, a mechanical toy. But as for Morichjhãpi, Rilke himself had shown me what I could do. In one verse I had found a message written for my eyes only, filled with hidden meaning.When the time came I would receive a sign and then I would know what I had to do. For the Poet himself had told me:

This is the time for what can be said . Here is its count ry. Speak and testify. .

Days, weeks went by and there came again a time when I felt well enough to leave my bed to go up to my study. I spent my mornings and afternoons there: long swaths of empty time spent gazing at the mohona as it filled and emptied, filled and emptied, day after day, as untiring as the earth itself.

One day I headed down a little earlier than usual after my afternoon rest. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Nilima’s voice, speaking to someone in the Guest House. I knew who it was, for I had spoken to him briefly the night before. He was a doctor, a visiting psychiatrist from Calcutta. Now Nilima was telling him she was very afraid — for me. She had heard of something that was sure to upset me; she wanted to know how best I could be shielded from learning of it.

“And what news is this?” the doctor said.

“It won’t mean anything to you, Daktar-babu,” Nilima said. “It has to do with an island called Morichjhãpi, which has been occupied by refugees from Bangladesh. They simply will not leave, and now I believe the government in Calcutta is going to take very strong action to evict them.”

“Oh, these refugees!” said the doctor. “Such a nuisance. But of what concern is this to your husband? Does he know anyone on that island? What are they to him and he to them?”

I heard Nilima hesitate and clear her throat. “Doctor, you don’t understand,” she said. “Ever since his retirement, my husband, having little else to do, has chosen to involve himself in the fate of these settlers in Morichjhãpi. He does not believe that a government such as the one we have now would act against them. He is an old leftist, you see, and unlike many such, he truly believed in those ideals; many of the men who are now in power were his friends and comrades. My husband is not a practical man; his experience of the world is very limited. He does not understand that when a party comes to power, it must govern; it is subject to certain compulsions. I am afraid that if he learns of what is going to happen, he will not be able to cope with the disillusionment — it will be more than he can bear.”

“It’s best not to let him know,” the doctor said. “There’s no telling what he might do.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” Nilima said, “do you think it would be best to sedate him for a few days?”

“Yes,” said the doctor. “I think that might be wise.”

I did not need to listen anymore. I went to my study and threw a few things into my jhola. Then I crept silently downstairs and went hurrying to the village. Fortunately there was a ferry waiting and it took me straight to Satjelia, where I went to look for Horen.

“We have to go, Horen,” I said to him. “I’ve heard there’s going to be an attack on Morichjhãpi.”

He knew more than I did; he had heard rumors that busloads of outsiders were assembling in the villages around the island; they were people such as had never before been seen in the tide country, hardened men from the cities, criminals, gangsters. Morichjhãpi was now completely encircled by police boats; it was all but impossible to get in or out.

“Horen,” I said, “we have to try to bring Kusum and Fokir to safety. No one knows those waters better than you do. Is there any way you can get us there?”

He thought about this for a minute. “There’s no moon tonight,” he said. “It might be possible. We can try.”

We set off as night was approaching and took along a fair quantity of food and fresh water. Soon it was dark and I could see nothing, but somehow Horen kept our boat moving. We went slowly, staying close to the banks, and spoke in low voices.

“Where are we now, Horen?” I said.

He knew our position exactly. “We’ve left the Gãral and we’re slipping into the Jhilla. We’re not far now; soon you’ll see the police boats.” And within a few minutes we saw them, roaring by, sweeping the river with their searchlights: first one, then another, then another. For a while we hid close to the riverbank, and Horen gauged the intervals between the passage of the patrol boats. Then we cast off again, and sure enough, by starting and stopping between the patrols we were able to slip through the cordon.

“We’re there,” said Horen as the boat thrust its nose into the mud. “This is Morichjhãpi.” Between the two of us, we dragged the boat deep into the mangroves, where it couldn’t be seen from the water. The police had already sunk all the settlers’ boats, Horen told me. We took care to hide ours well and then, picking up the food and water we had brought, made our way quietly along the shore until we came to Kusum’s dwelling.

We were amazed to find her still in good spirits. We spent the rest of the night trying to persuade her to leave, but she paid no heed.

“Where will I go?” she said simply. “There’s no other place I want to be.”

We told her about the rumors, the men gathering in the surrounding villages, preparing for the impending assault. Horen had seen them; they had come by the busload. “What will they do?” she said. “There are still more than ten thousand of us here. It’s just a question of keeping faith.”

“But what about Fokir?” I said. “Suppose something happens? What will become of him?”

“Yes.” Horen added his voice to mine. “If you won’t leave, let me take him away for a few days. After things settle down, I’ll bring him back.”

It was clear she had already thought about this. “All right,” she said. “That’s how we’ll do it, then: Take Fokir back with you. Keep him with you in Satjelia for a few days. When this wind passes, bring him back.”

By this time day had broken and it was too late to leave. “We’ll have to wait till tonight,” Horen said, “so that we can slip past the police boats in the dark.”

It was time now for me to spring my surprise. “Horen,” I said. “I am staying. .”

They were amazed and disbelieving: they kept asking me why I wished to remain, but I evaded their questions. There was so much I could have told them: about the medicines that awaited me in Lusibari, about Nilima’s conversation with the doctor, about the emptiness of the days I had spent in my study. But none of that seemed of the least importance. The truth was that my reason for staying was very simple. I took out this notebook and said, “I have to stay because there’s something I must write.”