The Hungry Tide (39 page)

Horen's eyes flickered away from the water for an instant. “Yes,” Horen said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “Saar gave it to me, to keep for you.”

Kanai was deflated by the brevity of his response. Considering how often Horen figured in Nirmal's notes, he had expected that the sight of it would trigger, if not a flow of sentiment, certainly a few fond reminiscences.

“He mentions you several times,” Kanai said, hoping this would catch his interest. But Horen merely shrugged without taking his eyes off the water.

Kanai saw that he would have to work hard to get anything at all out of Horen. Was this reticence habitual, or was he just suspicious of outsiders? It was hard to tell.

“What happened to it?” Kanai persisted. “Where was it all these years?”

Horen cleared his throat. “It got lost,” he said.

“How?”

“I'll tell you, since you've asked,” Horen said. “After Saar gave it to me, I took it home and wrapped it in plastic and glued it together so that the damp wouldn't get into it. Then I put it in the sun, for the glue to dry. But one of the children — maybe Fokir — must have found it and thought it was a plaything. They hid it in the thatch and forgot, as children do. I looked everywhere for it, but it had disappeared. Then I forgot all about it.”

“So how did it turn up again?”

“I'm getting to that,” Horen said in his slow, deliberate voice. “Last year I had my old home torn down so that I could put up a new house made of brick and cement. That was when it was found. When they brought it to me I didn't know what to do. I didn't want to send it by post because I was sure the address wouldn't be good anymore. I didn't want to take it to Mashima either — it's been years since she's spoken to me. But I remembered that Moyna goes often to the Guest House, so I gave it to her. ‘Put it in Saar's old study,' I said. ‘They'll find it when it's time.' That's all that happened.”

He closed his mouth firmly as if to say that he had no more to offer on this subject.

THE
MEGHA
HAD BEEN
on the water for some three hours when Piya heard the engine skip a beat. She was still on effort, on the upper deck, but there had been no sightings since that one Gangetic dolphin earlier in the day, and this had only sharpened her eagerness to get to the Orcaella's pool: a breakdown now, when they were so close, would be a real setback. Without interrupting her vigil, she tuned her ears to the engine, listening keenly. To her relief, the machine quickly resumed its noisy rhythm.

The respite was short: fifteen minutes later there was another hiccup, followed by a hollow sputtering and a few tired coughs and then, all too suddenly, total silence. The engine died, leaving the
Megha
stranded in the middle of a mohona.

Piya guessed that the delay would be a long one and she was too disappointed even to ask questions. Knowing that the news would come to her soon enough, she stayed in position, scanning the wind-whipped water.

Presently, just as she had expected, Kanai came to stand beside her. “Bad news, Piya.”

“We're not going to make it today?”

“Probably not.”

Raising a hand, Kanai pointed across the mohona. There was a small village on the far shore, he explained, and Horen was confident that the
Megha
could make it there by coasting on the currents. He had relatives in the village and he knew of someone there who'd be able to fix the engine. If all went well, they might be ready to leave for Garjontola the next morning.

Piya pulled a face. “I guess we don't have many options at this point, do we?”

“No,” said Kanai. “We really don't.”

Horen, already in the wheelhouse, soon brought the bow around, to point in the direction of the distant village. In a while it became clear that the bhotbhoti had begun to drift across the mohona. Although the tide had turned and the currents were in their favor, their progress was painfully slow. By the time their destination came into view the day was all but over.

The village they were heading for was not directly on the mohona's banks: it stood in a more sheltered location, on the banks of a channel about a mile wide. With the tide at a low ebb, the riverbank now towered high above the water and nothing of the village was visible from the deck; all that could be seen was the crest of the embankment, where knots of people had gathered, as if to await the
Megha
's arrival. As the bhotbhoti edged closer, a few men were seen wading into the mud, waving their arms in welcome. In response, Horen leaned over the rail and shouted to them through cupped hands. A short while later a boat came cannoning down the mudbank and pulled up alongside. There were two men inside, one of whom was introduced as Horen's relative, a fisherman who lived in the nearby village; the other was his friend, a part-time mechanic. There was an extended round of introductions and greetings and then Horen disappeared below deck with the visitors. Soon the bhotbhoti's timbers began to ring to the sound of the mechanic's tools. The sun went down to the accompaniment of much banging and hammering.

A little later, the twilight was pierced by an anguished animal sound: a frantic, pain-filled lowing that brought both Kanai and Piya racing out of their cabins, flashlights in hand.

The same thought had come to both of them. “An attack, you think?” said Piya.

“Can't tell.”

Kanai leaned over the rail to shout a question to Horen, below deck. The hammering fell silent for a second and then a burst of loud laughter came echoing up.

“What's the deal?” said Piya.

“I asked if there had been an attack,” said Kanai with a smile, “and they said it was just a water buffalo giving birth.”

“How do they know?” said Piya.

“They know because the buffalo belongs to Horen's relative,” said Kanai. “He lives right by the embankment — over there.”

Piya laughed. “I guess we were being a little too jumpy.” Knitting her fingers together, she did a long stretch and followed this with a yawn. “I think I'll go to bed early today.”

“Again?” said Kanai sharply. Then, as if to conceal his disappointment, he said, “No dinner?”

“I'll have a nutrition bar,” said Piya. “That'll keep me going till tomorrow. What about you: are you going to stay up late?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “I'm going to eat dinner, as most mortals do. Then I'm going to stay up and finish reading my uncle's notebook.”

“Are you close to the end now?”

“Yes,” said Kanai. “Close enough.”

ALIVE

I
was still unwell when we returned to Lusibari, and Nilima put the blame for this purely on Horen: “It's your fault,” she said to him. “You're the one who's been taking him to Morichjhãpi. Now look at the state he's in.”

And it was true I was not well — my head was filled with dreams, visions, fears. Long days went by when I could not get out of my bed: all I did was lie awake and read Rilke in English and Bangla.

To me she spoke more gently: “Didn't I tell you not to go? Didn't I tell you it would come to this? If you want to do something useful, why don't you help with the Trust, with the hospital? There's so much to be done; why won't you do it right here in Lusibari? Why must you go to Morichjhãpi?”

“You don't understand, Nilima.”

“Why, Nirmal?” she said. “Tell me, because I've heard rumors. Everybody is speaking of it. Does it have something to do with Kusum?”

“How can you say that, Nilima? Have I ever given you cause for suspicion before?”

Now Nilima began to cry. “Nirmal, that's not what people say. There are ugly rumors afloat.”

“Nilima, it's beneath you to believe in these rumors.”

“Then bring Kusum here; tell her to work for the Trust. And you can do the same.”

How could I explain to her that there was nothing I could do for the Trust that many others could not do better? I would be no more than a hand pushing a pen, a machine, a mechanical toy. But as for Morichjhãpi, Rilke himself had shown me what I could do. In one verse I had found a message written for my eyes only, filled with hidden meaning.When the time came I would receive a sign and then I would know what I had to do. For the Poet himself had told me:

This
is the time for what can be said
. Here is its count
ry. Speak and testify . . .

Days, weeks went by and there came again a time when I felt well enough to leave my bed to go up to my study. I spent my mornings and afternoons there: long swaths of empty time spent gazing at the mohona as it filled and emptied, filled and emptied, day after day, as untiring as the earth itself.

One day I headed down a little earlier than usual after my afternoon rest. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Nilima's voice, speaking to someone in the Guest House. I knew who it was, for I had spoken to him briefly the night before. He was a doctor, a visiting psychiatrist from Calcutta. Now Nilima was telling him she was very afraid — for me. She had heard of something that was sure to upset me; she wanted to know how best I could be shielded from learning of it.

“And what news is this?” the doctor said.

“It won't mean anything to you, Daktar-babu,” Nilima said. “It has to do with an island called Morichjhãpi, which has been occupied by refugees from Bangladesh. They simply will not leave, and now I believe the government in Calcutta is going to take very strong action to evict them.”

“Oh, these refugees!” said the doctor. “Such a nuisance. But of what concern is this to your husband? Does he know anyone on that island? What are they to him and he to them?”

I
hear
d
Nilim
a
hesitat
e
an
d
clea
r
he
r
throat
.
“Doctor
,
yo
u
don'
t
understand,
”
sh
e
said
.
“Eve
r
sinc
e
hi
s
retirement
,
m
y
husband
,
havin
g
littl
e
els
e
t
o
do
,
ha
s
chose
n
t
o
involv
e
himsel
f
i
n
th
e
fat
e
o
f
thes
e
settler
s
i
n
Morich
jhãpi.
H
e
doe
s
no
t
believ
e
tha
t a
governmen
t
suc
h
a
s
th
e
on
e
w
e
hav
e
no
w
woul
d
ac
t
agains
t
them
.
H
e
i
s
a
n
ol
d
leftist
,
yo
u
see
,
an
d
unlik
e
man
y
such
,
h
e
trul
y
believe
d
i
n
thos
e
ideals
;
man
y
o
f
th
e
me
n
wh
o
ar
e
no
w
i
n
powe
r
wer
e
hi
s
friend
s
an
d
comrades
.
M
y
husban
d
i
s
no
t a
practica
l
man
;
hi
s
experienc
e
o
f
th
e
worl
d
i
s
ver
y
limited
.
H
e
doe
s
no
t
understan
d
tha
t
whe
n a
part
y
come
s
t
o
power
,
i
t
mus
t
govern
;
i
t
i
s
subjec
t
t
o
certai
n
compulsions
. I
a
m
afrai
d
tha
t
i
f
h
e
learn
s
o
f
wha
t
i
s
goin
g
t
o
happen
,
h
e
wil
l
no
t
b
e
abl
e
t
o
cop
e
wit
h
th
e
disillusionmen
t —
i
t
wil
l
b
e
mor
e
tha
n
h
e
ca
n
bear.
”

“It's best not to let him know,” the doctor said. “There's no telling what he might do.”

“Tell me, Doctor,” Nilima said, “do you think it would be best to sedate him for a few days?”

“Yes,” said the doctor. “I think that might be wise.”

I did not need to listen anymore. I went to my study and threw a few things into my jhola. Then I crept silently downstairs and went hurrying to the village. Fortunately there was a ferry waiting and it took me straight to Satjelia, where I went to look for Horen.

“We have to go, Horen,” I said to him. “I've heard there's going to be an attack on Morichjhãpi.”

He knew more than I did; he had heard rumors that busloads of outsiders were assembling in the villages around the island; they were people such as had never before been seen in the tide country, hardened men from the cities, criminals, gangsters. Morichjhãpi was now completely encircled by police boats; it was all but impossible to get in or out.

“Horen,” I said, “we have to try to bring Kusum and Fokir to safety. No one knows those waters better than you do. Is there any way you can get us there?”