Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“Here it is,” said Dukhey. “It’s on this boat, Chachaji. Look, I’ve cooked the meal and kept it ready.”

Dhona and the others went where he had pointed. And then, seating themselves, they waited to be fed. The food they were served was so fine, so ambrosial, that some began to say it was hardly credible. How could such a fine feast be a mere boy’s doing? Or, for that matter, any human being’s? Now, in undertones, they began to speculate. Had Bon Bibi perhaps taken a hand in his fate? “On his own the boy can’t find his way to the ghat. For sure Bon Bibi has taken him to heart.”

And so sat the men, talking in the dimming light, until the day had waned and dusk had turned to night. The others slept in their boats without care or qualm, but to fretful Dukhey sleep was proscribed, haraam. He could not close his eyes for fear and worry. “They’ll be off tomorrow,” he thought, “abandoning me. I’ll be left behind, as the demon’s shikar; Dokkhin Rai will hunt me in his tiger avatar.”

Hour after hour he sat bewailing his plight; not a single wink of sleep blessed his eyes that night. The other men slept in peace, happily replete; not till daybreak did they wake after night’s retreat. Standing amidst the ships, Dhona said to his men, “Undo the moorings: it’s time to be off again.” Six boats were unloosed at Dhona Mouley’s behest. Only one stayed where it was, apart from the rest.

“Why are you waiting?” said Dhona. “Come on, let’s go.”

“There’s no wood to cook with,” they said. “We need some more.”

Dhona turned to Dukhey when the crew had spoken. “Go and fetch some firewood; there’s not enough for these men.”

“Oh, Chachaji,” said Dukhey, “please don’t give me this chore. Why not send someone else? I don’t want to go ashore. There’s no lack of men here: ask another to rise. Why is it me that you must always tyrannize?”

“You’ve sat on my boat,” said Dhona, “and eaten your fill; yet when I make a request you defy my will? Right in my face you fling this stinging reply: ‘I won’t go ashore, I won’t even try.’ I’m hurt by these insults, this insolence and pride.”

“Chachaji,” said Dukhey, “it’s for you to decide. Of your pact with the deva, I’m not unaware. I know that he wants you to leave me right here. While the demon devours me in a tiger’s guise, you’ll go home rich, carrying this fabulous prize. Back in the village, you’ll go to see my mother. ‘What could I do?’ you’ll say. ‘He met a tiger.’ When you first came to our home, what a tale you spun; on the strength of that, she gave you her only son. Your sacred pledge you’re now going to dishonor; you’ll send me away and be off within the hour. When the news reaches my home, when my mother hears, her life will be over and she’ll choke on her tears.”

“You’re a sly one,” said Dhona, “an expert in deceit. Getting you to obey is a singular feat. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll do as I say, or I’ll just kick you off — you’ll have to go either way.”

“Wasn’t it only for this that you brought me along? You knew I’d die while you grew rich and strong. So then why so much slander, why so much abuse? If the tiger takes me, what do you have to lose? Now salaam chacha, I touch your feet,” said Dukhey. “Point me in the right direction, show me the way.”

Raising a finger, Dhona pointed to the forest. Dukhey stepped off, sorrow swelling in his breast. And even as he crossed the deep mud of the banks, back on the boats they were pulling in the planks.

Then, in his heart’s silence, Dhona began to say, “Listen, Dokkhin Rai: now I’ve given you Dukhey. For the wrongs of the past, deva please forgive me. I wash my hands; now it’s all up to Bon Bibi.”

Away they sailed, and when the boy saw that they’d left, he could move no more; he was utterly bereft. It was then from afar that the demon saw Dukhey. Dhona had kept his word; he had left him his prey. Long had he hungered for this muchawaited prize; in an instant he assumed his tiger disguise. “How long has it been since human flesh came my way? Now bliss awaits me in the shape of this boy Dukhey.”

On the far mudbank Dukhey caught sight of the beast: “That tiger is the demon and I’m to be his feast.”

Raising its head, the tiger reared its immense back; its jowls filled like sails as it sprang to attack. The boy’s life took wing on seeing this fearsome sight. “O Ma, Bon Bibi, deliver me from this plight. Where are you O Mother? Why’re you keeping away? If you don’t come now, it’ll mean the end for Dukhey.”

With these words on his lips, Dukhey lost consciousness. But Bon Bibi, far away, had heard his cry of distress. “I heard the child call,” she said to Shah Jongoli. “The demon will kill him, brother. Quick, come with me. That devil’s desires have outrun him of late; his appetites have grown, they’re like a flood in spate. We can’t let the boy vanish into that vast maw.” In the blink of an eye they crossed to the far shore.

When Bon Bibi saw Dukhey lying motionless, she took him to her lap with a gentle caress. There lay his body, unmoving and dust-defiled, while the world’s mother strove to rouse the inert child. Then Shah Jongoli knelt beside Dukhey’s still form, and breathed life into him with the ism-e-aazam.

Roused to anger, Bibi spoke to Shah Jongoli, “It’s time to cure this demon of his deviltry. Brother, strike him a blow that will fill him with dread.”

Picking up his staff, Shah Jongoli ran ahead. So eager was he to carry out his command that he struck the tiger with the flat of his hand. The demon reeled, so great was the force of the blow, and in panic fled south as fast as he could go.

WHEN SHE REACHED the end, Piya went to sit in the middle of the boat, and before long Fokir came to sit beside her, as she knew he would. His hands were on the gunwale, so she put her palm on his wrist. “Sing,” she said. “Bon Bibi — Dukhey — Dokkhin Rai. Sing.”

He hesistated momentarily before yielding to her plea. Tilting back his head, he began to chant, and suddenly the language and the music were all around her, flowing like a river, and all of it made sense; she understood it all. Although the sound of the voice was Fokir’s, the meaning was Kanai’s, and in the depths of her heart she knew she would always be torn between the one and the other.

She turned over the last sheet in the sheaf of pages Kanai had given her and saw a postscript on the back. It said, “And in case you should wonder about the value of this, here is what Rilke says.”

Look, we don’t love like flowers

with only one season behind us; when we love,

a sap older than memory rises in our arms. O girl,

it’s like this: inside us we haven’t loved just some one

in the future, but a fermenting tribe; not just one

child, but fathers, cradled inside us like ruins

of mountains, the dry riverbed

of former mothers, yes, and all that

soundless landscape under its clouded

or clear destiny — girl, all this came before you.

THE HEAT OF THE NIGHT was such that Kanai had to get up and open the door of his cabin to let in some air. Returning to his bunk, he left the door ajar, and found that the gap had given him a view of a slice of the surroundings. The moon was bright enough to eke shadows from the trees on Garjontola, creating dark patches on the silvery surface of the water. A wedge of moonlight had even crept into the cabin, illuminating the heap of mud-soaked clothes Kanai had discarded the day before.

Sleep was slow in coming and what there was of it was anything but restful: time and again Kanai was shaken awake by his dreams. At four in the morning he gave up the struggle and got out of his bunk. Pulling his lungi tight around his waist, he stepped out on deck and found, to his surprise, that Horen was already seated there, on one of the two armchairs. He was watching the river with his chin resting on his fists. At Kanai’s approach he raised his head and glanced over his shoulder. “So you couldn’t sleep either?” he said.