Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

Suffice it to say then that I have never before known what it was to want to ensure someone’s happiness, even if it should come at the cost of my own.

Yesterday it dawned on me that I have it in my power to give you something that no one else can. You asked me what Fokir was singing and I said I couldn’t translate it; it was too difficult. And this was no more than the truth, for in those words there was a history that is not just his own but also of this place, the tide country. I said to you the other day that there are people who live their lives through poetry. My uncle was one such, and, dreamer that he was, he knew how to recognize others of his kind. In his notebook he tells a story of an occasion when Fokir, at the age of five, recited from memory many of the cantos that comprise a tide country legend: the story of Bon Bibi, the forest’s protectress. To be specific, he remembered a part of the story in which one of its central figures, a poor boy called Dukhey, is betrayed by Dhona, a ship’s captain, and is offered to the tiger-demon, Dokkhin Rai.

My uncle was amazed by this feat, because then, as now, Fokir did not know how to read or write. But Nirmal recognized also that for this boy those words were much more than a part of a legend: it was the story that gave this land its life. That was the song you heard on Fokir’s lips yesterday. It lives in him and in some way, perhaps, it still plays a part in making him the person he is. This is my gift to you, this story that is also a song, these words that are a part of Fokir. Such flaws as there are in my rendition of it I do not regret, for perhaps they will prevent me from fading from sight, as a good translator should. For once, I shall be glad if my imperfections render me visible.

From the epic of the tide country, as told by Abdur-Rahim: Bon Bibir Karamoti orthat Bon Bibi Johuranama — The Miracles of Bon Bibi or The Narrative of Her Glory.

THE STORY OF DUKHEY’S REDEMPTION

The next day at dawn, Dhona spoke to all his men. “Let’s turn and go back to Kedokhali again.”

From his perch Dokkhin Rai watched the ships setting sail. He thought, “Ah, he’s decided to follow this trail.”

So to Kedokhali went the demon deva, gathering his followers from near and afar. His honeybees came swarming; they numbered in lakhs. He ordered them all to yield their honey and wax. The forest was filled with the buzzing of bees as the swarms set to work, hanging their hives from trees.

Soon, on his boat, Dhona sighted Kedokhali. His heart filled with joy at the thought of all he would see. After his men had beached their ships on the shore, he said, “Come, let us look for beehives once more.” To the forest they went, Dhona leading the way; and there they were, not just one, but an amazing array. When they turned back at last, gladness lightened Dhona’s head. After much food and drink he went off to his bed; but late at night he began once more to dream. Suddenly Dokkhin Rai appeared, his eyes agleam. “The time,” said the demon, “is at hand for our tryst; be sure to say my name when you go to the forest. Although the bees will leave at the sound of my name, do not think that the honey is all yours to claim. And there is one more thing I must tell you about: however large your party, let there be no doubt. Let no man touch the hives that hang in the jungle — your sailors must only look and marvel. The bees will open the hives and carry the combs; they’ll load them on your boats for you to take to your homes. But remember, on Dukhey we’ve made a bargain; he must be left behind when you board your sampan. Take care! Beware! I want no excuse or pretext — or it will be your life that’s in jeopardy next.”

With these words the deva vanished into the night, while Dhona slept on till the first crack of daylight. He spoke to his men at the first namaaz of the day: “We must go to the forest, all except Dukhey.”

When the boy learned he was to be left behind, he cried out aloud, “ Chacha, I must speak my mind.” Wiping the tears from his cheek with an unsteady hand, he said, “I know it’s all going just as you’d planned. Do you think I don’t know of your deal with the deva? You’re going to sail home, leaving me here forever.”

“Who told you this?” said Dhona, feigning a laugh. “Wherever did you hear such a tale and a half?”

Leaving Dukhey to cook dinner, Dhona led the way; in the forest they were met by a dazzling display. Though they whispered and marveled, not one of the men dared touch the hives till the deva’s name was spoken. At the sound of those words the bees began to swarm, and a demon host came flying, raising a storm. Hearing their lord’s name, they rushed into the forest, to load Dhona’s boats and to speed him on his quest.

Then said Dokkhin Rai, “Look, Dhona, watch my power; my army will load your boats within the hour.” He spoke to the demons and ghostly ganas, the dainis, the pishaches and all the rakshasas. They made the honey into a portable hoard and took it to the boats, carrying it on board. When all was ready, Dokkhin Rai said, “My job’s done. Your boats are full to the brim, every single one.”

Dhona went to the boats and with his own eyes saw: they were all loaded and could not take any more. Then said the deva, “Here’s a still better reward: empty your boats and throw the honey overboard. With a rich load of wax I’ll fill your boats instead; it’ll freshen your fortune and bring luck on your head. Forget the honey — your kismet is much better; take the wax instead, you’ll see, it’ll make you richer.”

So into the river Dhona poured his honey, and so that creek came to be known as Madhu Khali. And the place where Dhona chose to pour his cargo, there the brackish tides turned sweet and mellow.

Then it was time for a new and richer hoard. “Now listen to what I say,” said the demon-lord. “When you sell this, you’ll see I’ve given you a boon; you’ll live like a king and it’ll bring you good fortune. But don’t forget to leave the boy; be warned, listen; recall how this began — Dukhey was the reason. Don’t try any tricks or attempt any ruse; I’ll drown you in the Ganga and all your ships you’ll lose.”

With these words he left, vanishing beyond appeal. In the meantime Dukhey sat in the boat, trying to cook a meal. But the firewood was wet and the pots would not boil — tears were the result of his unrewarded toil. Then he spoke a name, his voice muted by sorrow, and Bon Bibi heard him in distant Bhurukundo. In the blink of an eye she crossed the divide; she spoke to the child, standing close by his side. “Why did you call me?” she said. “What’s happened to you?”

“I’m in trouble,” said he. “I don’t know what to do. Chacha told me to prepare a meal for tonight, but the kindling’s all wet and the fire won’t light.”

“All will be well,” she said. “Don’t worry in the least. With the help of the Lord, I will make you a feast.”

With these words of kindness she gave him reassurance; then raising her hand, she passed it over his pans. And such was her barkot, so strong her benediction, that the pots filled instantly with rice and with saalan. This was a feast that needed neither fire nor heat; she said to the boy, “Look! They’ll have plenty to eat!”

But Dukhey, still fearful, importuned her once more. “Dhona’ll set sail tomorrow, leaving me ashore. Mother of the earth, tell me: who’ll save me then?”

“My child,” said Bon Bibi, “do not fear this demon. He cannot kill you; he’s not of so fine a fettle that he’d survive a blow of my brother’s metal.”

With these last words, Bon Bibi took leave of Dukhey, and soon enough Dhona returned from his foray. His first words to the boy were “Here, Dukhey, tell me: where’s our food? Where have you put it, on which dinghy?”