Amitav Ghosh - The Hungry Tide

“I went to Kolkata,” Piya said. “I stayed with my aunt and spent a lot of time on the Internet. You’ll be glad to know there was a terrific response.”

“Response? To what?”

“I sent out some letters explaining what happened during the cyclone and how Fokir had died. Some of my friends and colleagues took up the cause and circulated a chain letter to raise money for Moyna and Tutul. The response was better than we’d expected. The money’s not as much as I’d have liked, but it’s something: it’ll buy them a house of their own and maybe even provide a college education for Tutul.”

“Oh?” said Nilima, sitting up. “I’m glad to hear that, very glad indeed. I’m sure Moyna will be too.”

“But that’s not all,” said Piya.

“Really?” Nilima raised her eyebrows. “What else have you been up to?”

“I wrote up a report,” said Piya, “on my dolphin sightings in this area. It was very impressionistic, of course, since I’d lost all my data, but it sparked a lot of interest. I’ve had several offers of funding from conservation and environmental groups. But I didn’t want to go ahead without talking to you first.”

“Me?” cried Nilima. “What do I know about such matters?”

“You know a lot about the people who live here,” Piya said. “And for myself, I don’t want to do the kind of work that places the burden of conservation on those who can least afford it. If I was to take on a project here, I’d want it to be under the sponsorship of the Badabon Trust, so the local fishermen would be involved. And the Trust would benefit too. We’d share the funding.”

At the mention of funding, Nilima, ever pragmatic, began to pay closer attention. “Well, it’s certainly worth a thought,” she said, biting her lip. “But, Piya, have you considered the practical aspect of this? For instance, where would you live?”

Piya nodded. “I have an idea for that too,” she said. “I want to run it by you, to see what you think.”

“Go on.”

“I thought, if you were agreeable, that maybe I’d rent the upper floor of this house from you — the Guest House, in other words. I could really set myself up there, with computers and a small office. I’d need an office to keep track of the funds.”

Nilima smiled indulgently. Having had long experience in administration, she could tell that Piya had no idea of what she was getting into. “But, Piya,” she said gently, “to start something on that scale you’d need a staff, you’d need people to help. You can’t do it on your own.”

“Yes, I know,” Piya said. “I’ve thought about that too. My idea was that Moyna would manage that end of things — part-time of course, when she’s not on duty at the hospital. It would give her an additional source of income, and I’m sure she’d be able to handle the work. And it would be good for me too. She could maybe teach me some Bangla in exchange for some English.”

Nilima twisted her hands together, frowning, trying to anticipate every possible objection to Piya’s plan. “But, Piya, what about permits and visas and so on? You’re a foreigner, remember? I don’t know if it’ll be legally possible for you to stay here for an extended period of time.”

This, too, Piya took in her stride. “I spoke to my uncle about that,” she said. “He told me I’m eligible for a card that would allow me to stay on indefinitely — something about being a person of Indian origin. And as for the permits to do research, he said that if the Badabon Trust was willing to sponsor my work, he’d take care of the rest. He knows of some environmental groups in New Delhi that will intervene with the government.”

“My goodness! You really have thought of everything.” Nilima gave a bark of laughter. “I suppose you even have a name for this project of yours?” Nilima had meant this ironically, but when Piya gravely cleared her throat, she realized that the matter was no joke for the girl. “So you do have a name? Already?”

“I was thinking,” Piya said, “that we might name it after Fokir, since his data are going to be crucial to the project.”

“His data?” Nilima raised her eyebrows. “But I thought you’d lost all your data in the storm?”

Piya’s eyes brightened. “Not all of it,” she said. “I still have this.” She took her hand-held monitor out of her pocket and showed it to Nilima. “See, this is connected to the satellites of the Global Positioning System. On the day of the storm it was in my pocket. It was the only piece of equipment that survived.” At the touch of a button the screen flickered on. Piya tapped a key to access the memory. “All the routes that Fokir showed me are stored here. Look.” She pointed to a sinuous zigzag line that had appeared on the screen. “That was the route we took on the day before the storm. Fokir took the boat into every little creek and gully where he’d ever seen a dolphin. That one map represents decades of work and volumes of knowledge. It’s going to be the foundation of my own project. That’s why I think it should be named after him.”

“My goodness!” said Nilima. Her eyes strayed to the fragment of sky that was visible through the nearest window. “So you mean to say it’s all preserved up there?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Nilima fell silent as she pondered the mystery of Fokir and his boat, writing a log of their journeys and locking it away in the stars. Presently she reached for Piya’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re right,” she said. “It would be good to have a memorial for Fokir, on earth as well as in the heavens. But as for the details, you’ll have to give me a little time to think it through.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “Right now, my dear, what I need most is a cup of tea. Would you like one too?”

“Yes, I would,” said Piya. “Thank you.”

Nilima went into her kitchen and filled a kettle with water from a filter. She was pumping her kerosene stove when Piya put her head around the door.

“And what about Kanai?” said Piya. “Have you had any news from him?”

Nilima put a match to the stove and replaced the grill. “Yes, I have,” she said. “I got a letter from him just the other day.”

“And how is he?” said Piya.

Nilima laughed as she placed the kettle on the stove. “Oh, my dear!” she said. “He’s been almost as busy as you.”

“Is that so? What’s he been doing?”

“Let me see,” said Nilima, reaching for a teapot. “Where shall I begin? The most important thing is that he’s restructured his company so that he can take some time off. He wants to live in Kolkata for a while.”

“Really?” said Piya. “And what’s he going to do there?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Nilima said as she spooned some longhoarded Darjeeling tea leaves into the pot. “He told me he was going to write the story of Nirmal’s notebook — how it came into his hands, what was in it, and how it was lost. But what he means by that you can ask him yourself. He’ll be here in a day or two.”

“That soon?”

Nilima nodded. The kettle’s cover had begun to rattle, so she took it off the stove. Pouring a stream of boiling water into the teapot, she said, “And I hope you won’t mind if Kanai stays upstairs while he’s here — in the Guest House?”

Piya smiled. “No,” she said. “Not at all. In fact it’ll be good to have him home.”

Piya’s choice of words surprised Nilima so much that she dropped the spoon she was using to stir the tea leaves. “Did I hear you right?” she said, directing a startled glance at Piya. “Did you say ‘home’?”

Piya had said the word without thinking, but now, as she reflected on it, furrows appeared on her forehead.