The Hungry Tide (26 page)

“And do you know how you can tell that the Sindhu and the Ganga were once conjoined?”

“How, Saar?”

“Because of the shushuk, the river dolphin. This creature of the sea was the legacy left to the twins by their mother, Tethys. The rivers nurtured it and made it their own. Nowhere else in the world is the shushuk to be found but in the twin rivers, the Ganga and the Sindhu.”

And if their interest wandered, I would tell them, in the end, a love story, about a king called Shantanu and how, on the banks of the great river, he spotted a woman of dazzling beauty. This was, of course, none other than the Ganga herself, but the king had no knowledge of this. On the banks of rivers even the most temperate men lose their heads. King Shantanu fell in love wholly, madly; he promised the river goddess that he would grant her whatever she wanted; if she chose even to drown her own children, he would not stand in her way.

A single besotted moment beside a river, and thus was launched a
parva
of the
Mahabharata.

Why should a schoolmaster deny that which even the old mythmakers acknowledge? Love flows deep in rivers.

“Children, this is the lesson; hear it in the words of the Poet:

“To sing about someone you love is one thing; but, oh, the blood's hidden guilty river-god is something else.”

LANDFALL

A
T THE START,
with the currents flowing in the wrong direction and Fokir laboring alone at the oars, the going was painfully slow. Piya was not surprised when after an hour of rowing she checked the boat's position on the GPS and found that they had traveled only two miles. It struck her then, belatedly, that Fokir might have yet another pair of oars. On signaling the question, she was glad to discover he did: they were stowed underfoot in the boat's bilges.

The oars were no less crudely crafted than the boat itself — they consisted of two oblong pieces of wood nailed awkwardly to a couple of shorn mangrove branches. There were no oarlocks on the gunwales and the handles had to be engaged in little protrusions of wood. When Piya dipped the oars in the water the current twisted them around and nearly tore them from her grip. It took her a while to grow used to the feel of them, but with two of them rowing the pace quickened.

As the hours wore on, Piya found it increasingly difficult to keep going: a crop of blisters appeared on her hands, and her face and neck seemed marbled with salt. Toward sunset she pulled in her oars and yielded to the temptation to ask how much longer it would be before they arrived at their destination. “Lusibari?”

Fokir had been rowing almost without a break since morning, but she was still unable to see any signs of tiredness in him. Now, pausing briefly to glance over his shoulder, he pointed to a tongue of land just visible in the distance: its deforested shoreline marked it out from the other islands in the vicinity. It was heartening to have the place finally within sight, but Piya knew it would be a while yet before they made landfall, and she was right.

By the time they had moored the boat and collected their things, the sun had set and darkness was closing in. Fokir picked up one of her backpacks while she carried the other, and they set off in single file with Tutul in the lead. Piya's attention was focused on keeping the two of them in sight, and she took nothing in of the surroundings until Fokir came to an abrupt halt and pointed ahead. “Mashima,” he said, and she saw he was gesturing toward a flight of steps that led up to a closed door.

Was this it? She was wondering what to do next when he lifted the backpack off his shoulders and handed it to her. Then both he and the boy withdrew a little — Fokir with his catch of crabs rolled in a length of netting, and Tutul with a bundle of clothes balanced on his head. Fokir motioned to her again to step up to the door and Piya sensed now, from the incline of their bodies, that they were poised to turn away, leaving her where she was. Suddenly she was panicstricken. “Wait!” she cried. “Where are you going?”

She had envisaged many possibilities, but not this — not that they would just walk away with nothing said, not even a goodbye. Nor had it occurred to her that the prospect of their departure would result in such an icy feeling of abandonment.

“Wait. Just a minute.”

Somewhere in the distance a generator was switched on, and a flood of light came pouring out of a nearby window. Piya's eyes had grown unaccustomed to electricity and she was momentarily blinded by the bright, flat light. Blinking, she dug her fists into her face, and when she opened her eyes again they were gone, both of them, Fokir and the boy.

She remembered that she hadn't given Fokir any money for bringing her here. How would she ever find him again? She didn't know where he lived — she didn't even know his full name. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she shouted into the darkness, “Fokir!”

“Ké?” The answer was spoken in a woman's voice, and it came not from ahead of her but from behind. Then the door swung open and Piya found herself facing a small, elderly woman with wispy hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. “Ké?”

Collecting herself quickly, Piya went up the steps. “Please excuse me. I don't know if I've come to the right place. I'm looking for Mashima.” She said this in a rush, not knowing whether she would be understood or not.

There was an awkward moment during which Piya felt herself to be subjected to a shrewd and searching scrutiny: the gold-rimmed glasses rose and fell as they took in her salt-streaked face and muddy cotton pants. Then, to her great relief, she heard a voice say, in soft, fluting English, “You are indeed in the right place. But tell me — who are you? Do I know you?”

“No,” said Piya. “You don't know me. My name is Piyali Roy. I met your nephew on the train.”

“Kanai?”

“Yes. Kanai. He invited me to visit.”

“Well, do come in. Kanai will be down any minute.” She stepped aside to let Piya through. “How did you find your way here? Surely you didn't come alone?”

“No,” said Piya. “I'd never have been able to find you on my own.”

“Then who brought you? I didn't see anyone outside.”

“They left just as you opened the door —” Before Piya could say any more, the door swung open and Kanai stepped into the doorway, squinting in surprise. “Piya? Is that you?”

“Yes. It is.”

“So you made it after all.”

“That's right.”

“Good!” He gave her a broad smile. He hadn't expected to see her quite so soon and was flattered as well as pleased: it seemed like a good augury. “Well, you've had an eventful trip.” He looked her up and down, taking in her mud-splattered clothes. “How did you get here?”

“In a rowboat.”

“A rowboat?”

“Yes,” said Piya. “You see, I had an accident soon after I met you.”

In a few short sentences, Piya told them about the events that had led to her fall from the launch. “And then the fisherman jumped in after me — I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't. I'd swallowed a lot of water but he managed to get me back into the boat. But after that I decided it wasn't safe to get back in the launch with that guard. So I took a chance and asked the fisherman if he knew Mashima. It turned out he did, so I said I'd pay him if he brought me to Lusibari. We would have been here sooner but we had some unexpected encounters.”

“With what?”

“First we met up with some dolphins,” said Piya. “Then this morning we had a brush with a crocodile.”

“Upon my word!” said Nilima. “No injuries I hope.”

“No,” said Piya. “But there could have been. He fought it off with an oar — it was incredible.”

“My goodness!” said Nilima. “And who was this man? Did he tell you his name?”

“Sure,” said Piya. “His name's Fokir.”

“Fokir?” cried Nilima. “Do you mean Fokir Mandol by any chance?”

“He didn't tell me his last name.”

“Was there a little boy with him?” said Nilima.

“Yes, there was,” said Piya. “Tutul.”

“That's him.” Nilima directed a glance in Kanai's direction. “So that's where he was.”

“Were people looking for them?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “Fokir's wife, Moyna, works at the hospital here and she's been half out of her mind with worry.”

“Oh?” said Piya. “It's probably my fault. I kept them out there longer than they'd have stayed.”

“Well,” said Nilima, pursing her lips. “As long as they're back now — no harm done.”

“I hope not,” said Piya. “I'd hate to think I'd gotten him into some kind of trouble. He saved my life, you know. And it wasn't just that — he also led me straight to a pod of dolphins.”

“Is that so?” said Kanai. “But how did he know you were looking for dolphins?”

“I showed him a picture, a flashcard,” Piya said. “And that was all it took. He led me straight to the dolphins. In a way, that fall was the luckiest thing that could have happened to me — I'd never have found the dolphins on my own. I really need to see him again. I've got to pay him, for one thing.”

“Don't worry about that,” said Nilima. “They live nearby, in the Trust's quarters. Kanai will take you there tomorrow morning.”

Piya turned to him. “It'd be great if you could.”

“Yes,” said Kanai, “of course I will. But that can wait. For the time being, we've got to get you settled so you can change and rest up.”

Piya had given no thought to what would happen next, and now, with the euphoria of her arrival beginning to fade, she was suddenly aware of a weighty backlog of fatigue. “Settled?” she said, looking around. “Where?”

“Here,” said Kanai. “Or rather, upstairs.”

She was discomfited to think he had assumed she would stay with him. “Are there any hotels around here?”

“I'm afraid not,” said Nilima. “But there's a guest house upstairs with three empty rooms. You're very welcome to stay there. There's no one in it but Kanai. And if he bothers you, just come down and let me know.”

Piya smiled. “I'll be fine — I know how to look after myself.” But she was glad the invitation had come from Mashima: somehow it made it easier to accept. “Thank you,” she said. “I'd really appreciate a good night's rest. Are you sure I won't be in your way if I stay a couple of days?”

“Stay as long as you like,” said Nilima. “Kanai will show you around.”

“Come on,” said Kanai, reaching for one of her backpacks. “It's this way.” He led her upstairs and, after pointing out the kitchen and bathroom, unlatched a door and switched on a fluorescent light. The bedroom was no different from his own: there were two narrow beds in it, each equipped with its own mosquito net. The replastered cement walls were blotchy with damp spots and cracks, left behind by the last monsoon. On the far side was a barred window that looked out over the rice fields that adjoined the Trust's compound.

“Will this do?” said Kanai, depositing her backpack on one of the beds.

Piya stepped in and looked around. Although bare in appearance, the room was comfortable enough: the sheets were clean and there was even a towel lying neatly folded at the foot of the bed. By the window stood a desk and a straight-backed chair. The door, she was glad to note, had a sturdy latch that could be attached from the inside.

“This is more than I expected,” Piya said. “Thanks so much.”

Kanai shook his head. “You don't have to thank me,” he said. “It'll be nice to have you here. I was getting a bit lonely on my own.”

She didn't know what to make of this, so she gave him a neutral smile.

“Anyway, I'll leave you to settle in,” said Kanai. “I'll be upstairs in my uncle's study. Knock if you need anything.”

A FEAST

A
ny excuse to return to Morichjhãpi would have sufficed, but none could have been better than that which Horen presented me. I had, in the meanwhile, arranged for his son's admission, so it happened that I often ran into him in the school's vicinity.

“Saar,” Horen said one day, “I have news from Morichjhãpi. There's to be a big feast there. Kusum said you should come.”

I was astonished. “A feast? What kind of feast?”

“They've invited many people from Kolkata — writers, intellectuals, journalists. They want to tell them about the island and all they have achieved.”

This explained everything: once again I was impressed by the acumen of the settlers' leadership. Clearly they had decided their best defense was to enlist the support of public opinion and this was to be a step in that direction. Of course I had to go. Horen said we would leave in the morning and I told him I would be ready.

When I got back home, Nilima took one look at me and said, “What's the matter? Why've you got that look on your face?”

Why
wa
s
i
t
I'
d
neve
r
spoke
n
t
o
Nilim
a
abou
t
Morichjhãp
i
before
?
Perhap
s
i
n
m
y
hear
t I
kne
w
sh
e
woul
d
no
t
shar
e
m
y
enthusiasm
;
perhap
s I
kne
w
sh
e
woul
d
se
e
m
y
excitemen
t
abou
t
thei
r
projec
t
a
s a
betraya
l
o
f
he
r
ow
n
effort
s
i
n
Lusibari
.
I
n
an
y
event
,
thes
e
fear
s
wer
e
soo
n
confirmed
. I
describe
d
a
s
bes
t I
coul
d
th
e
dram
a
o
f
th
e
settlers
'
arrival
; I
tol
d
he
r
abou
t
th
e
ques
t
tha
t
ha
d
brough
t
the
m
fro
m
thei
r
banishmen
t
i
n
centra
l
Indi
a
t
o
th
e edge
o
f
th
e
tid
e
country
; I
explaine
d
thei
r
plans
,
thei
r
progra
m
fo
r
buildin
g a
ne
w
futur
e
fo
r
themselves
,
thei
r
determinatio
n
t
o
creat
e a
ne
w
lan
d
i
n
whic
h
t
o
live
.