Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

The moon had risen over Garjontola now and in its waxing light the island’s glowing sparks had faded and become almost invisible. Piya stared at the dimming lights, trying to remember how magical they had seemed just a few minutes before. “It was beautiful while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

When Kanai answered, his voice sounded just as constricted as her own. “My uncle would have said that it was like a tide country mirage.”

AT DAWN, when Piya stepped out of her cabin, the Megha was so thickly shrouded in fog that she could see neither its stern nor its bow. On her way to the foredeck she all but fell over Kanai, who was sitting in a chair with a pad on his knees and a lantern by his side.

“Up already?”

“Yes.” He gave her a tired smile. “Actually, I’ve been up for hours.”

“How come?”

“I’ve been working on something,” he said.

“So early?” She could not conceal her surprise. “It must be important to get you out of bed at that hour of night.”

“It is important,” he said. “In fact, it’s for you — a present. I wanted to have it done before we each went our own way.”

“A present for me?” she said. “Can you tell me what it is?”

He gave her a deprecatory smile and made a face. “You’ll see when it’s finished.”

“So it’s not done yet?”

“No,” he said. “But it will be by the time we’re ready to be off.”

“OK, I’ll be back.” She went to her cabin to change, and by the time she had brushed her teeth and had a quick breakfast of bananas and Ovaltine, Horen was already in the wheelhouse and Fokir was in his boat, preparing to cast off its mooring. She handed Fokir the backpack in which she had placed her equipment, a couple of bottles of water and a few nutrition bars. Then she went to the foredeck and found Kanai still seated in his chair.

“So is it done yet?” she said.

“Yes.” Rising to his feet, he handed her a large manila envelope. “Here it is.”

She took it from him and turned it over in her hands. “You still won’t tell me what it is?”

“I’d like it to be a surprise.” He looked down at the deck and shuffled his feet. “And if you should want to let me know what you think of it, you’ll find my address on the back of the envelope. I hope you’ll write.”

“Of course I’ll write, Kanai,” she said. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“I hope so.”

She would have given him a peck on the cheek if she hadn’t known that Horen’s eyes were boring into her back. “Take care,” she said.

“And you too, Piya — take care and good luck.”

THE FOG HUNG so heavy on the water that it seemed to slow the currents with its weight. When Fokir dipped in his oars, the boat slipped easily forward, with the fog frothing around its bow like whipped milk. A few strokes of the oars was all it took to carry the boat out of sight of the Megha: the vessel vanished into the mist within minutes.

As the boat headed downriver, Piya glanced at the envelope Kanai had given her — she could tell from its size that there were several sheets of paper inside. She decided against opening the letter right away; instead, reaching into her backpack, she tucked the envelope inside and pulled out her GPS receiver. After taking a reading of the boat’s position, she allowed herself to succumb to the dreamy quiet of the fog.

Over the past couple of days her body had become attuned to the shuddering and noise of the diesel-powered bhotbhoti: this boat’s silence was a comforting contrast. Now, as she looked around herself, examining the texture of the boat’s wood and the ashen color of its thatch, it seemed to Piya that she was seeing these things properly for the first time. She ran her fingers over the plywood strips that covered the boat’s deck and tried to decipher the smudged lettering stamped on some of them; she looked at the speckled gray sheet of plastic that had once been a U.S. mailbag and remembered how much it had startled her when she first recognized it for what it was. It was strange that these ordinary things had seemed almost magical at that moment, when she was lying on this deck, trying to recover from the experience of almost drowning. Looking at these discarded odds and ends in the light of another day, she saw it was not the boat but her own eyes that had infused them with that element of enchantment. Now they looked as plain and as reassuringly familiar as anything she had ever thought of as belonging in a home.

Piya shook her head to clear it of daydreams. Rising to a crouch, she signaled to Fokir to pass her the other pair of oars. She had no definite idea of where he was taking her, but she guessed he was going to explore one of the routes the dolphins took when they went to forage. The flood tide had peaked an hour or so before and the Garjontola pool was still empty of dolphins. Fokir seemed to know where to find them.

The currents were in their favor and, with two pairs of oars between them, they made short work of the rowing. It was not long before Fokir motioned to Piya to let her know they had reached their destination. For a couple of minutes he allowed the boat to drift and then, leaning over the side, he threw out his anchor and paid out the line.

The fog had thinned now and Piya saw that the boat was positioned so as to command a view of the entrance to a broad creek. Fokir pointed several times to the creek’s mouth, as if to assure her that the dolphins would soon be coming toward them from that direction. Piya took another GPS reading before raising her binoculars to her eyes. She found they had come some five miles since they had parted from the Megha at Garjontola.

At the start Fokir watched the creek in a casual, almost negligent way — he seemed to have no doubt in his mind that the dolphins would soon come at them from this direction. But when two hours had passed without a sighting, he seemed less certain of his ground, and his attitude began to change, confidence yielding slowly to a bemused doubt.

They stayed on watch in the same place for another couple of hours, but again, despite the near-perfect visibility, there was no sign of the dolphins. Meanwhile, the tide had ebbed and the day had grown steadily hotter with the sun’s ascent. Piya’s shirt was damp with sweat. Thinking back, Piya could not remember any other time since her arrival when the temperature had been so high so early in the day.

Shortly after midday, with the tide running low, Fokir pulled in the anchor, a signal that they were about to move on. At first Piya thought he had given up the watch and was planning to head back to Garjontola. But when she reached for her oars, Fokir shook his head. He pointed to the mouth of the creek they had been watching all morning and motioned to her to stay on alert with her binoculars. He turned the boat into the creek and, after a couple of hundred yards, made another turn, into a still narrower channel.

It was only after they had spent an hour winding between creeks and gullies that Fokir stopped to take stock of the stretch of water ahead: there was still no trace of a dolphin. With an impatient click of his tongue, he reached for his oars again and turned the boat in a new direction.

In a while, as the boat continued its passage, Piya took another GPS reading and discovered that they were still heading away from Garjontola. They had covered a distance of a little more than nine miles since the morning. Their progress, however, had been anything but direct: on the monitor, the line that traced their route looked like a strand of wool that had come unraveled from an old scarf.

The air was stagnant and heavy and the water’s surface was like glass, unscarred by the faintest touch of wind. Fokir was drenched in sweat, and the look of puzzlement on his face had been replaced by an expression of concern: after seven hours of watching the water they had seen nothing of any interest. Piya gestured to Fokir, urging him to stop and rest, but he paid no attention: he seemed to be intent on penetrating ever deeper into the tidal labyrinth.