The Hungry Tide (34 page)

“What was that?” I cried. “Where did it come from? Where did it go?”

“Look,” said little Fokir, pointing in the other direction, “over there.”

I turned to see another of these creatures, rolling through the water. This time I also caught a glimpse of a small triangular fin. Although I had never before seen this animal, I knew it had to be a dolphin; yet it was clearly not the shushuk I was accustomed to seeing in our waters, for those had no fins on their backs.

“What is it?” I said. “Is it some kind of shushuk?”

It was Kusum's turn to smile. “I have my own name for them,” she said. “I call them Bon Bibi's messengers.” The triumph was hers now; I could not deny it to her.

All the time our boat was at that spot, the creatures kept breaking the water around us. What held them there? What made them linger? I could not imagine. Then there came a moment when one of them broke the surface with its head and looked right at me. Now I saw why Kusum found it so easy to believe that these animals were something other than what they were. For where she had seen a sign of Bon Bibi, I saw instead the gaze of the Poet. It was as if he were saying to me:

some mute animal

raising its calm eyes and seeing through us,

and through us. This is destiny…

THE
MEGHA

I
N THE MORNING
Piya and Kanai hired a cycle-van to take them across the island to look at the bhotbhoti Fokir had arranged. On the way, as they rattled down the brick-paved path that led to the village, Piya said, “Tell me about the owner of this boat. Did you say you knew him?”

“I met him when I came here as a boy,” said Kanai. “His name is Horen Naskor. I can't really claim to know him, but he was close to my uncle.”

“And what's his relation to Fokir?”

“Oh, he's like an adopted parent,” said Kanai. “Fokir lived with him after his mother died.”

Horen was waiting at the foot of the embankment with Fokir at his side. Kanai recognized him at once: he was squat and wide-bodied, just as he remembered, but his chest seemed even broader now than before because of the substantial paunch that had burgeoned beneath it. With age the folds of Horen's face had deepened so that his eyes seemed almost to have disappeared. Yet it was clear that the years had also added stature to his presence, for his demeanor was now that of a patriarch, a man who commanded the respect of all who knew him. His clothes too were those of a man of some means: his striped lungi was starched and carefully ironed and his white shirt was spotlessly clean. On his wrist was a heavy watch with a metal strap, and sunglasses could be seen protruding from his shirt pocket.

“Do you remember me, Horen-da?” said Kanai, joining his hands in greeting. “I'm Saar's nephew.”

“Of course,” said Horen matter-of-factly. “You came here as a punishment in 1970. It was the year of the great Agunmukha cyclone — but you left before that, I think.”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “And how are your children? You had three then, I remember.”

“They have grown children of their own now,” said Horen. “Look, here's one of them.” Horen beckoned to a lanky teenager who was dressed in jeans and a smart blue T-shirt. “His name is Nogen and he's just out of school. He's going to be on our crew.”

“Good.” Kanai turned to introduce Piya. “And this is the scientist who wants to hire the bhotbhoti: Shrimati Piyali Roy.”

Horen bobbed his head in greeting to Piya. “Come,” he said, pulling up his lungi. “My bhotbhoti's waiting.”

Following him up the embankment, Piya and Kanai saw that he was pointing to a vessel anchored off the sandspit that served as Lusibari's jetty. Painted in white lettering on its bow was the legend
MV MEGHA.

At first sight there was little to recommend the vessel: it sat awkwardly in the water and its hull had the bruised and dented look of a tin toy. But Horen was proud of it and spoke of its merits at some length. The
Megha
had carried a great number of passengers, he said to Kanai, and none had ever had cause for complaint. He proceeded to recount many tales about the picnickers he had taken to Pakhiraloy and the bridegrooms and
borjatris
he had ferried to weddings. These stories were not hard to believe, for despite its general decrepitude the boat was clearly intended to cater to large, if huddled, numbers. The lower deck was a cavernous space crisscrossed with wooden benches and curtained with sheets of yellow tarpaulin; the galley and the engine room were located at opposite ends of this space. On top of this was a small upper deck, with a wheelhouse and two tiny cabins. Over the stern hung a tin-walled toilet. This was the head, and, being little more than a hole in the floor, it was reasonably clean.

“She's not much to look at,” Kanai admitted, “but she might be just right for us. You and I could each have a cabin on the upper deck, and that would keep us away from the noise and fumes.”

“And what about Fokir?” said Piya.

“He'd be on the lower deck,” said Kanai, “along with Horen and the helper he's bringing with him — his fifteen-year-old grandson, I believe.”

“Is that going to be the whole crew?” said Piya. “Just the two of them?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “We're not going to be crowded for space.”

Piya gave the
Megha
a doubtful look. “It isn't the research ship of my dreams,” she said. “But I could live with it. Except for one thing.”

“What's that?”

“I don't get how this old tub is going to follow the dolphins. I can't see it going into all those shallow creeks.”

Kanai relayed Piya's question to Horen and then translated the answer for her benefit: Fokir's boat would be accompanying them on the journey; the
Megha
would tow it all the way, and on reaching their destination the bhotbhoti would stay at anchor while Piya and Fokir tracked the dolphins in the boat.

“Really?” This was what Piya had been hoping to hear. “I guess Fokir was ahead of me on this one.”

“What do you think?” said Kanai. “Will it work?”

“Yes,” said Piya. “It's a great idea. It'll be much easier to follow the dolphins in his boat.”

With Kanai translating, the bhotbhoti's terms were quickly agreed upon. Although Piya would not allow Kanai to contribute to the rental, she agreed to split the costs of the journey's provisions. They handed over a sum of money for Horen to buy rice, dal, oil, tea, bottled water, a couple of chickens and, specifically for Piya, a plentiful supply of powdered milk.

“It's so exciting,” said Piya as they headed back to the Guest House. “I can't wait to leave. I'd better get all my laundry done this morning.”

“And I'd better go and tell my aunt I'm going to be away for a couple of days,” said Kanai. “I don't know how she's going to take it.”

NILIMA'S DOOR WAS
open and Kanai entered to find her sitting at her desk, sipping a cup of tea. Her smile of greeting turned quickly into a curious frown. “What's the matter-ré Kanai? Is something wrong?”

“No, there's nothing wrong,” said Kanai awkwardly. “I just wanted to tell you, Mashima, that I'm going to be away for a few days.”

“You're going away?” she said. “But you've only just come.”

“I know,” said Kanai. “I hope you won't mind. But Piya's hired a bhotbhoti to track her dolphins. She needs someone to translate.”

“Oh, I see!” said Nilima, in English, drawing out the words. “So you're going with her, then?”

Knowing how precious Nirmal's memory was to her, Kanai said gently, “And I thought I would take the notebook along with me. If it's all right with you?”

“You'll be careful with it, won't you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much have you read?”

“I'm well into it,” said Kanai. “I'll be done by the time I get back.”

“All right, then. I won't ask you any more about it now,” Nilima said. “But tell me this, Kanai. Where exactly are you going?”

Kanai scratched his head. The fact was, he didn't know and had not thought to ask. But a habitual unwillingness to acknowledge ignorance led him to pick the name of a river at random: “I think we'll be going down the Tarobãki River — into the forest.”

“So you're heading into the jungle?” said Nilima, looking him over speculatively.

“I suppose so,” Kanai said uncertainly.

Nilima rose from her desk and came to stand in front of him. “Kanai, I hope you've thought this over properly.”

“Yes, of course I have,” said Kanai, feeling suddenly like a schoolboy.

“No, I don't think you have, Kanai,” said Nilima with her hands on her hips. “And I don't blame you. I know that for outsiders it's very hard to conceive of the dangers.”

“The tigers, you mean?” Kanai said. A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Why would a tiger pick me when it could have a tasty young morsel like Piya?”

“Kanai,” scolded Nilima, “this is not a joke. I know that in this day and age, in the twenty-first century, it's difficult for you to imagine yourself being attacked by a tiger. The trouble is that over here it's not in the least bit out of the ordinary. It happens several times each week.”

“As often as that?” said Kanai.

“Yes. More,” said Nilima. “Look, I'll show you something.” She took hold of Kanai's elbow and led him across the room to one of the many stacks of shelves that lined the walls. “Look,” she said, pointing to a sheaf of files, “I've been keeping unofficial records for years, based on word-of-mouth reports. My belief is that over a hundred people are killed by tigers here each year. And, mind you, I'm just talking about the Indian part of the Sundarbans. If you include the Bangladesh side, the figure is probably twice that. If you put the figures together, it means that a human being is killed by a tiger every other day in the Sundarbans — at the very least.”

Kanai raised his eyebrows. “I knew there were killings,” he said, “but I never thought there were as many as that.”

“That's the trouble,” said Nilima. “Nobody knows exactly how many killings there are. None of the figures are reliable. But of this I'm sure: there are many more deaths than the authorities admit.”

Kanai scratched his head. “This must be a recent trend,” he said. “Perhaps it has something to do with overpopulation, or encroachment on the habitat, or something like that?”

“Don't you believe it,” Nilima said scornfully. “These attacks have been going on for centuries — they were happening even when the population here was a fraction of what it is today. Look.” Standing on tiptoe, she pulled a file off a shelf and carried it to her desk. “Look over here — do you see that number?”

Kanai looked down at the page and saw that the tip of her finger was pointing to a numeral: 4,218.

“Look at that figure, Kanai,” Nilima said. “That's the number of people who were killed by tigers in lower Bengal in a six-year period — between the years 1860 and 1866. The figures were compiled by J. Fayrer — he was the English naturalist who coined the phrase ‘Royal Bengal Tiger.' Think of it, Kanai — over four thousand human beings killed. That's almost two people every day for six years! What would the number add up to over a century?”

“Tens of thousands.” Kanai frowned as he looked down at the page. “It's hard to believe.”

“Unfortunately,” said Nilima, “it's all too true.”

“And why do you think it happens this way?” Kanai said. “What's behind this?”

Nilima sat at her desk and sighed. “I've heard so many theories, Kanai. I just wish I knew which to believe.”

The one thing everyone agreed on, Nilima said, was that the tide country's tigers were different from those elsewhere. In other habitats, tigers attacked human beings only in abnormal circumstances: if they happened to be crippled or were otherwise unable to hunt down any other kind of prey. But this was not true of the tide country's tigers; even young and healthy animals were known to attack human beings. Some said that this propensity came from the peculiar conditions of the tidal ecology, in which large parts of the forest were subjected to daily submersions. The theory went that this raised the animals' threshold of aggression by washing away their scent markings and confusing their territorial instincts. This was about as convincing a theory as Nilima had ever heard, but the trouble was that even if it was true, there was nothing that could be done about it.

With every few years came some new theory and some yet more ingenious solution. In the 1980s a German naturalist had suggested that the tigers' preference for human flesh was somehow connected with the shortage of fresh water in the Sundarbans. This idea had been received with great enthusiasm by the Forest Department, and several pools had been excavated to provide the tigers with fresh water.

“Just imagine that,” said Nilima. “They were providing water for tigers! In a place where nobody thinks twice about human beings going thirsty!”

The digging was in vain, however. The pools had made no difference. The attacks continued as before.

“Then there was the electric-shock idea,” said Nilima, with laughter shining in her eyes.

Someone had decided that tigers could be conditioned with the methods Pavlov had used on his dogs. Clay models of human beings had been rigged up with wires and connected to car batteries. These contraptions were distributed all over the islands. For a while they seemed to be working and there was much jubilation. “But then the attacks started again. The tigers ignored the clay models and carried on as before.”

Another time, a forester came up with another, equally ingenious idea: what if people wore masks on the backs of their heads? Tigers always attacked humans from behind, the reasoning went, so they would shy away if they found themselves looking at a pair of painted eyes. This idea too was taken up with great enthusiasm. Many masks were made and distributed; word was put out that a wonderful new experiment was being tried in the Sundarbans. There was something so picturesque about the idea that it caught the public imagination: television cameras descended, filmmakers made films.