The Hungry Tide (38 page)

Her words and the sight of her wasted face affected me so much — useless schoolmaster that I am — that my head reeled and I had to lie down on a mat.

LEAVING LUSIBARI

L
USIBARI WAS SHROUDED
in the usual dawn mist when Kanai walked down the path to the hospital. Early as it was, there was already a cycle-van waiting at the gate. Kanai led it back to the Guest House and, with the driver's help, he and Piya quickly loaded their baggage onto the van — Kanai's suitcase, Piya's two backpacks and a bundle of blankets and pillows they had borrowed from the Guest House.

They set off at a brisk pace and were soon at the outskirts of Lusibari village. They had almost reached the embankment when the driver spun around in his seat and pointed ahead. “Look, something's happening over there on the bãdh.”

Kanai and Piya were facing backward. Craning his neck, Kanai saw that a number of people had congregated on the crest of the embankment. They were absorbed in watching some sort of spectacle or contest taking place on the other side of the earthworks: many were cheering and calling out encouragement. Leaving their baggage on the van, Kanai and Piya went up to take a look.

The water was at a low ebb and the
Megha
was moored at the far end of the mudspit, alongside Fokir's boat. The boat was the focus of the crowd's attention: Fokir and Tutul were standing on it, along with Horen and his teenage grandson. They were tugging at a fishing line that was sizzling as it sliced through the water, turning in tight zigzag patterns.

The catch, Kanai learned, was a
shankor-machh,
a stingray. Now, as Piya and Kanai stood watching, a flat gray form broke from the water and went planing through the air. Fokir and the others hung on as if they were trying to hold down a giant kite. The men had gamchhas wrapped around their hands, and with all of them exerting their weight, they slowly began to prevail against the thrashing ray: the struggle ended with Fokir leaning over the side of the boat to plunge the tip of his machete-like daa into its head.

When the catch had been laid out on the shore, Kanai and Piya joined the crowd clustering around it. The ray was a good five feet from wingtip to wingtip, and its tail was about half as long again. Within minutes a fish seller had made a bid and Fokir had accepted. But before the catch could be carted off, Fokir raised his dá and with a single stroke cut off the tail. This he gave to Tutul, handing it over with some ceremony, as though it were a victor's spoils.

“What's Tutul going to do with that?” said Piya.

“He'll make a toy out of it, I suppose,” said Kanai. “In the old days landlords and zamindaris used those tails as whips, to punish unruly subjects: they sting like hell. But they make good toys too. I remember I had one as a boy.”

Just then, as Tutul was admiring his trophy, Moyna appeared before him, having pushed her way through the crowd. Taken by surprise, Tutul darted out of her reach and slipped behind his father. For fear of hurting the boy, Fokir raised his dripping dá above his head with both hands, to keep the blade out of his way. Now Tutul began to dance around his father, eluding his mother's grasp and drawing shouts of laughter from the crowd.

Moyna was dressed for duty, in her nurse's uniform, a blue-bordered white sari. But by the time she finally caught hold of Tutul, her starched sari was spattered with mud and her lips were trembling in humiliation. She turned on Fokir, who dropped his eyes and raised a knuckle to brush away a trickle of blood that had dripped from the dá onto his face.

“Didn't I tell you to take him straight to school?” she said to Fokir in a voice taut with fury. “And instead you brought him here?”

To the sound of a collective gasp from the crowd, Moyna wrung the stingray's tail out of her son's hand. Curling her arm, she flung the trophy into the river, where it was carried away by the current. The boy's face crumpled as his mother led him away. He stumbled after her with his eyes shut, as though he were trying to blind himself to his surroundings.

Moyna checked her step as she was passing Kanai, and their eyes met for an instant before she went running down the embankment. When she had left, Kanai turned around to find that Fokir's eyes were on him too, sizing him up — it was as if Fokir had noticed the wordless exchange between his wife and Kanai and was trying to guess its meaning.

Kanai was suddenly very uncomfortable. Spinning around on his heels, he said to Piya, “Come on. Let's start unloading our luggage.”

THE
MEGHA
PULLED
away from Lusibari with its engine alternately sputtering and hammering; in its wake came Fokir's boat, following fitfully as its tow rope slackened and tightened. To prevent accidental collisions, Fokir traveled in his boat rather than in the bhotbhoti: he had seated himself in the bow and was holding an oar in his hands so as to fend off the larger vessel in case it came too close to his own.

Kanai was on the upper deck, where two deep, wood-framed chairs had been placed near the wheelhouse, in the shade of a canvas awning. Although Nirmal's notebook was lying open on his lap, Kanai's eyes were on Piya: he was watching her make her preparations for the work of the day.

Piya had positioned herself to meet the wind and the sun headon, at the point where the deck tapered into a jutting prow. After garlanding herself with her binoculars, she proceeded to strap on her equipment belt with its dangling instruments. Only then did she take her stance and reach for her glasses, with her feet wide apart, swaying slightly on her legs. Although her eyes were unwavering in their focus on the water, Kanai could tell she was alert to everything happening around her, on the boat and on shore.

As the sun mounted in the sky, the glare off the water increased in intensity until it had all but erased the seam that separated the water from the sky. Despite his sunglasses, Kanai found it hard to keep his eyes on the river — yet Piya seemed to be troubled neither by the light nor by the gusting wind: with her knees flexed to absorb the shaking of the bhotbhoti, she seemed scarcely to notice its rolling as she pivoted from side to side. Her one concession to the conditions was a sun hat, which she had opened out and placed on her head. From his position in the shade, Kanai could see her only in outline and it struck him that her silhouette was not unlike that of a cowboy, with her holsters of equipment around her hips and her widebrimmed hat.

About midmorning there was a flurry of excitement when Fokir's voice was heard shouting from the boat. Signaling to Horen to cut the bhotbhoti's engine, Piya went running to the back of the deck. Kanai was quick to follow but by the time he had made his way aft the action was over.

“What happened?”

Piya was busy scribbling on a data sheet and didn't look up. “Fokir spotted a Gangetic dolphin,” she said. “It was about five hundred feet astern on the starboard side. But don't bother to look for it; you won't see it again. It's sounded.”

Kanai was conscious of a twinge of disappointment. “Have you seen any other dolphins today?”

“No,” she said cheerfully. “That was the only one. And frankly I'm not surprised, considering the noise we're making.”

“Do you think the bhotbhoti is scaring them off ?”

“Possibly,” said Piya. “Or it could be that they're just staying submerged until the sound fades. Like this one, for instance — it waited till we were past before it surfaced.”

“Do you think there are fewer dolphins than there used to be?”

“Oh yes,” said Piya. “It's known for sure that these waters once held large populations of marine mammals.”

“What's happened to them then?”

“There seems to have been some sort of drastic change in the habitat,” said Piya. “Some kind of dramatic deterioration.”

“Really?” said Kanai. “That was what my uncle felt too.”

“He was right,” said Piya grimly. “When marine mammals begin to disappear from an established habitat it means something's gone very, very wrong.”

“What could it be, do you think?”

“Where do I begin?” said Piya with a dry laugh. “Let's not go down that route or we'll end up in tears.”

Later, when Piya took a break to drink some water, he said, “Is that all you do then? Watch the water like that?”

She seated herself beside him and tipped back her bottle. “Yes,” she said. “There's a method to it, of course, but basically that's all I do — I watch the water. Whether I see anything or not, it's all grist for the mill: all of it's data.”

He grimaced, miming incomprehension. “Each to their own,” he said. “For myself, I have to say I wouldn't last a day doing what you do. I'd be bored out of my mind.”

Draining her bottle, she laughed again. “I can understand that,” she said. “But that's how it is in nature, you know: for a long time nothing happens, and then there's a burst of explosive activity and it's over in seconds. Very few people can adapt themselves to that kind of rhythm — one in a million, I'd say. That's why it was so amazing to come across someone like Fokir.”

“Amazing? Why?”

“You saw how he spotted that dolphin back there, didn't you?” said Piya. “It's like he's always watching the water — even without being aware of it. I've worked with many experienced fishermen before but I've never met anyone with such an incredible instinct. It's as if he can see right into the river's heart.”

Kanai took a moment to chew on this. “So do you think you're going to go on working with him?”

“I certainly hope he'll work with me again,” Piya said. “I think we could achieve a lot, working as a team.”

“It sounds as though you've got some kind of long-term plan.”

She nodded. “Yes, I do, actually. I'm thinking of a project that could keep me here for many years.”

“Right here? In this area?”

“Yes.”

“Really?” Kanai had assumed Piya's stay in India would be a brief one and he was surprised to learn she was already contemplating an extended stay — and not in a city, either, but of all places in the tide country, with all its discomforts and utter lack of amenities.

“Are you sure you'd be able to live in a place like this?” said Kanai.

“Sure.” She seemed puzzled he should think to ask this. “Why not?”

“And if you stayed, you'd be working with Fokir?”

She nodded. “I'd like to — but I guess it depends on him.”

“Is there anyone else you could work with?”

“It wouldn't be the same, Kanai,” Piya said. “Fokir's abilities as an observer are really extraordinary. I wish I could tell you what it was like to be with him these last few days — it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life.”

A sudden stab of envy provoked Kanai to make a mocking aside. “And all that while you couldn't understand a word he was saying, could you?”

“No,” she said with a nod of acknowledgment. “But you know what? There was so much in common between us it didn't matter.”

“Listen,” said Kanai in a flat, harsh voice. “You shouldn't deceive yourself, Piya: there wasn't anything in common between you then and there isn't now. Nothing. He's a fisherman and you're a scientist. What you see as fauna he sees as food. He's never sat in a chair, for heaven's sake. Can you imagine what he'd do if he was taken on a plane?” Kanai burst out laughing at the thought of Fokir walking down the aisle of a jet in his lungi and vest. “Piya, there's nothing in common between you at all. You're from different worlds, different planets. If you were about to be struck by a bolt of lightning, he'd have no way of letting you know.”

Here, as if on cue, Fokir suddenly made himself heard again, shouting over the hammering of the bhotbhoti's engine, “
Kumir!
”

“What was that?” Piya broke off and went running to the rear of the deck, and Kanai followed close on her heels.

Fokir was standing braced against his boat's hood, pointing downriver. “
Kumir!
”

“What did he see?” said Piya, raising her binoculars.

“A crocodile.”

Kanai felt compelled to underline the moral of this interruption. “You see, Piya,” he said, “if I hadn't been here to tell you, you'd have had no idea what he'd seen.”

Piya dropped her binoculars and turned to go back to the bow. “You've certainly made your point, Kanai,” she said frostily. “Thank you.”

“Wait,” Kanai called out after her. “Piya —” But she was gone and he had to swallow the apology that had come too late to his lips.

Minutes later, she was back in position with her binoculars fixed to her eyes, watching the water with a closeness of attention that reminded Kanai of a textual scholar poring over a yet undeciphered manuscript: it was as though she were puzzling over a codex that had been authored by the earth itself. He had almost forgotten what it meant to look at something so ardently — an immaterial thing, not a commodity nor a convenience nor an object of erotic interest. He remembered that he too had once concentrated his mind in this way; he too had peered into the unknown as if through an eyeglass — but the vistas he had been looking at lay deep in the interior of other languages. Those horizons had filled him with the desire to learn of the ways in which other realities were conjugated. And he remembered too the obstacles, the frustration, the sense that he would never be able to bend his mouth around those words, produce those sounds, put sentences together in the required way, a way that seemed to call for a recasting of the usual order of things. It was pure desire that had quickened his mind then and he could feel the thrill of it even now — except now that desire was incarnated in the woman who was standing before him in the bow, a language made flesh.

AN INTERRUPTION

K
ANAI HAD BEEN LOOKING
for an opportunity to speak to Horen about Nirmal's notebook, and he thought he had found it when the
Megha
entered a stretch of open water. He stepped up to the wheelhouse and held up the notebook. “Do you recognize this?” he said to Horen.