The Hungry Tide (23 page)

“Are we going to be finished off this time?” I said.

“No, Saar,” he said. “I've lived through much worse than this.”

“When?”

“In 1970, Saar, during the Agunmukha cyclone. If you had seen that, this would not seem like a storm at all. But that's too long a story to tell to you now. What's important for us at this minute is to go ashore.” He pointed to his right.

“Morichjhãpi, Saar. We can take shelter there until the storm subsides.”

There was nothing more to be said. With the wind behind us we were driven quickly to the shore. I helped Horen push his boat up the bank, and after he had secured it, he said, “Saar, we have to take shelter under a roof.”

“But where can we go, Horen?”

“Over there, Saar. I see a dwelling.”

Without another question I set off after him, running through the pounding rain. With water streaming down my glasses, it was all I could do to keep my eyes on Horen's back.

Soon we were at the door of a small shack — of the usual kind, made with bamboo and palm-leaf thatch. At the door, Horen shouted, “
Eijé — ké achhish?
Anybody home?”

The door sprang open and I stepped in. I was standing there blinking, wiping the rain from my glasses, when I heard someone say, “Saar? Is that you?”

I looked down and saw a young woman kneeling in front of me, touching my feet. That I could not identify her was no more a surprise than that she should know me: if you have been in one place long enough as a schoolteacher, then this happens with almost everyone you meet. Your pupils grow up and your memory fails to grow with them. Their new faces do not match the old.

“Saar,” she said, “it's Kusum.”

Of all the people I might have expected to meet in that place, she was surely the last. “Impossible.”

Now that my glasses were dry I noticed there was a small child hiding behind her. “And who is that?” I said.

“That's my son, Fokir.”

I reached out to pat his head but he darted away.

“He's very shy,” said Kusum with a laugh.

I noticed now that Horen had not entered the dwelling and I realized that this was probably as a show of respect to me. I was both pleased and annoyed. Who, after all, is so egalitarian as not to value the respect of another human being? Yet it seemed strange that he did not know of my aversion to servility.

I put my head around the door and saw him outside, waiting patiently in the pouring rain. “What's the matter with you, Horen?” I said. “Come inside. This is no time to be standing on ceremony.”

So Horen came in and there ensued a silence of the kind that often descends when people meet after a long time. “You?” said Kusum at last, and Horen answered with one of his customary mumbles. Then she pushed the boy forward and said, “Here is Fokir, my son.” Horen ran his hand through the boy's hair and said, “
Besh!
Good.”

“And what about your family?” she said. “Your children must be quite grown now.”

“My youngest is five,” said Horen, “and the oldest is fourteen.”

She smiled, as if to tease him: “Almost of an age to be married, then?”

“No,” said Horen with sudden vehemence. “I would not do to him what was done to me.”

I recount this only as an example of the way in which, even in extraordinary circumstances, people will often speak of the most inconsequential things.

“Look at you,” I said. “It's Kusum who's been away for all these years — and here we are talking about Horen and his children.”

There was a mat on the floor and I sat down. I asked where she had been and how she had ended up in Morichjhãpi.

“What can I tell you, Saar?” she said. “It would take too long to tell.”

The wind was howling outside and the rain was still pouring down. “There's nothing else to do now anyway,” I said. “So I'm ready to hear whatever you have to say.”

She laughed. “All right, Saar. How can I say no to you? I'll tell you how it happened.”

I remember that her voice changed as she was recounting her story; it assumed new rhythms and distinctive cadences. Is it merely a trick of memory? It doesn't matter: her words have come flooding back to me in a torrent. My pen will have to race to keep up: she is the muse and I am just a scribe.

“Where
wa
s
m
y
mother
? I
onl
y
kne
w
wha
t
I'
d
hear
d —
fro
m
Lusibar
i I
wen
t
a
s
i
f
t
o
th
e
dark
:
sh
e
ha
d
bee
n
taken
,
the
y
said
,
t
o a
tow
n
calle
d Dhanbad. I
aske
d a
fe
w
question
s
an
d
foun
d
ou
t
wher
e
t
o
go
;
switchin
g
fro
m
thi
s
trai
n
t
o
that
, I
mad
e
m
y
wa
y
there
.

“At the station it struck me: what would I do now? It was a mining town, the air was filled with smoke; the people were strangers, I'd never known their like; their words were like iron, they rang when they spoke; when their gaze turned on you, their eyes smoldered like coal. I was on my own, a girl dressed in a torn frock; I'd had no fear till then — now my courage ran dry.

“But I was fortunate, although I didn't know, a blessed power was watching: she showed me where to go. There was a man at the station selling
ghugni.
I spoke to him and found he was from the tide country! His house was in Basonti, his name was Rajen; his people were poor and he had left home as a boy. He had been lamed in Calcutta by a speeding bus; he'd started selling food in stations and on trains. Chance had brought him to Dhanbad, where he'd found a shack; it was in a
bosti
right beside the rail track. When he heard why I was there, he said he would help, but in the meanwhile what would I do with myself? ‘Come with me,' he said. ‘You will be fine in my shack. Like you, I'm on my own. There'll be room for us both.' I followed him there, along the graveled rail track. I was fearful when I entered: would I be safe? All night I lay awake and listened to the trains.

“Many days passed and he gave me no cause for shame; he was a good, kind man: how many such are there? It's true that some said, ‘Look who's with Rajen the lame' — I let them say what they wanted. What did I care?

“It was Rajen who brought me word of my mother; she was working in a place where truck drivers came, to sleep on
charpais
and buy women for the night. I went there with Rajen and in secret we met: I fell upon Ma, but couldn't bring myself to speak. For so long I'd been waiting, but now my heart broke: her body was wasted, her face thin and drawn. ‘Don't look, Kusum,' she said. ‘Don't touch me with your eyes; think of me as I was before your father died. I blame that Dilip; he's more demon than man. He said he'd find me work, and look where he brought me: to eat leaves at home would have been a better fate. He sold me, that
danob,
to others of his kind. This is no place for you, Kusum. You must go back. But stay a few days; come and see me once more.'

“We
wen
t
hom
e
tha
t
nigh
t
an
d
cam
e
bac
k a
wee
k
later
.
The
n
Raje
n
sai
d
somethin
g
tha
t
stoppe
d
ou
r
ver
y
breath
:
‘Le
t
Kusu
m
marr
y
me
;
le
t
he
r
b
e
m
y
wife
.
She'l
l
b
e
wit
h
m
e
forever
;
I'l
l
giv
e
he
r
m
y
life.
'
A
t
las
t I
sa
w
M
a
smile
:
wha
t
bette
r
new
s
coul
d
ther
e
be
?
‘Fortunat
e
Kusum
,
you'v
e
bee
n
blesse
d
b
y
Bo
n
Bibi.
'
‘You'l
l
com
e
too,
'
sai
d
Rajen
.
‘Ma
,
we'l
l
stea
l
yo
u
away
.
Thi
s
i
s no
plac
e
fo
r
you
;
you'l
l
di
e
i
f
yo
u
stay.
'
W
e
wen
t
bac
k
togethe
r
t
o
Rajen'
s
littl
e
shack
;
i
n
Ma'
s
presenc
e
w
e
wer
e
married
,
Raje
n
an
d
I
.
Wh
o
coul
d
hav
e
know
n
the
n
tha
t
thi
s
woul
d
b
e
Ma'
s
bidai?
To
se
e
m
e
wa
s
he
r
release
;
thre
e
month
s
late
r
sh
e
died
.
Tha
t
wa
s
he
r
fat
e —
nothin
g
coul
d
b
e
done
;
i
f
sh
e
ha
d
live
d
bu
t
tw
o
years
,
sh
e
woul
d
hav
e
see
n
Fokir
,
ou
r
son
.

“Many months passed and we spoke of coming back here: that place was not home; there was nothing for us there. Walking on iron, we longed for the touch of mud; encircled by rails, we dreamed of the Raimangal in flood. We dreamed of storm-tossed islands, straining at their anchors, and of the rivers that bound them in golden fetters. We thought of high tide and the mohonas mounting, of islands submerged like underwater clouds. By night we remembered, we talked and we dreamed — by day coal and metal were the stuff of our lives.

“Four years went by and then that life came to an end: a train began to move, with Rajen still unpaid. As the engine picked up speed he ran to keep up, then his bad leg crumpled and he made a misstep: he was pulled from the platform, thrown before the wheels. What can I say? He was taken before his time. He kept his word to me: he gave me his whole life. Never had I thought he would leave me like that, but at least I had Fokir, my son was his gift. Once again I thought of making my way back home; but now, with a child, I hadn't the courage on my own. Whom would I go to there? Whom would I ask for help? What if I couldn't make do and it came to the worst? What if I had to fall begging at Dilip's feet?

“Maybe Bon Bibi was keeping watch over me, for one night I heard tell of a great march to the east. They passed us next day — like ghosts, covered in dust, strung out in a line, shuffling beside the rail tracks. They had children on their shoulders, bundles on their backs. Where were they heading? From what city had they come? They were not from those parts; they were strangers to us. I saw someone stumble, a woman as old as Ma. I took her back home with the help of some others. I gave them food and water; I saw they needed rest. ‘Stay, sit,
raho behtho,
' I said. ‘Get back your strength.' Did you notice the words? See: I'd spoken in Hindi, but it was in Bangla they spoke back to me. I was amazed: the very same words, the same tongue! ‘Who are you?' I said. ‘Tell me, where are you headed?' ‘Listen, sister, we'll tell you. This is the story.

“‘Once
w
e
live
d
i
n
Bangladesh
,
i
n
Khuln
a
jila:
we're
tid
e
countr
y
people
,
fro
m
th
e
Sundarbans
'
edge
.
Whe
n
th
e
wa
r
brok
e
out
,
ou
r
villag
e
wa
s
burne
d
t
o
ash
;
w
e
crosse
d
th
e
border
,
ther
e
wa
s
nowher
e
els
e
t
o
go
.
W
e
wer
e
me
t
b
y
th
e
polic
e
an
d
take
n
away
;
i
n
buse
s
the
y
drov
e
u
s
t
o a
settlemen
t
camp
.
We'
d never
see
n
suc
h a
place
,
suc
h a
dr
y
emptiness
;
th
e
eart
h
wa
s
s
o
re
d
i
t
seeme
d
t
o
b
e
staine
d
wit
h
blood
.
Fo
r
thos
e
wh
o
live
d
there
,
tha
t
dus
t
wa
s
a
s
goo
d
a
s
gold
;
the
y
love
d
i
t
jus
t
a
s
w
e
lov
e
ou
r
tid
e
countr
y
mud
.
Bu
t
n
o
matte
r
ho
w
w
e
tried
,
w
e
couldn'
t
settl
e
there
:
river
s
ra
n
i
n
ou
r
heads
,
th
e
tide
s
wer
e
i
n
ou
r
blood
.
Ou
r
father
s
ha
d
onc
e
answere
d
Hamilton'
s
call
:
the
y
ha
d
wreste
d
th
e
estat
e
fro
m
th
e
swa
y
o
f
th
e
tides
.
Wha
t
they'
d
don
e
fo
r
another
,
couldn'
t
w
e
d
o
fo
r
ourselves
?
Ther
e
ar
e
man
y
suc
h
island
s
i
n
th
e
bhati
r
desh
.
W
e
sen
t
som
e
peopl
e
ahead
,
an
d
the
y
foun
d
th
e
righ
t
place
;
it'
s a
larg
e
empt
y
islan
d
calle
d
Morichjhãpi
.
Fo
r
month
s
w
e
prepared
,
w
e
sol
d
everythin
g
w
e
owned
.
Bu
t
th
e
polic
e
fel
l
o
n
u
s
th
e
momen
t
w
e
moved
.
The
y
swarme
d
o
n
th
e
trains
,
the
y
pu
t
block
s
o
n
th
e
roa
d —
bu
t
w
e
stil
l
woul
d
no
t
g
o
back
;
w
e
bega
n
t
o
walk.
'