The Hungry Tide (5 page)

“Stop!” Nilima clapped her hands over her ears. “Please don't talk about it, Kanai. I can't bear to remember all that. That's why I wanted you to deal with this packet of his. I just don't have the strength to revisit all of that.”

“Of course,” said Kanai remorsefully. “I know it's hard for you. I won't mention it.”

Then too, Kanai remembered, there had been a long wait on the embankment. Not because of the tides or the mud, but because of a simple lack of boats heading in the right direction. He had sat with Nilima in a tea stall while Nirmal was sent to stand atop the embankment to watch for boats.

Nirmal, Kanai remembered, had not been very effective at keeping watch. On his most recent visit to a bookshop, in Calcutta, he had bought a copy of a Bangla translation of Rainer Maria Rilke's
Duino Elegies
— the translator, Buddhadeva Basu, was a poet he had once known. All the while he was meant to be watching for a boat, Nirmal's attention had kept returning to his recent acquisition. For fear of Nilima he hadn't dared to open the book. Instead, he had held it aslant across his chest, and stolen glances whenever he could.

Fortunately for them, they had not had to depend on Nirmal to find a boat. Someone had come to their rescue of his own accord. “
Aré
Mashima! You here?” Before they could look around, a young man had come running up the embankment to touch Nilima's feet.

“Is it Horen?” Nilima had said, squinting closely at his face. “Horen Naskor? Is it you?”

“Yes, Mashima, it's me.” He was squat of build and heavily muscled, his face broad and flat, with eyes permanently narrowed against the sun. He was dressed in a threadbare lungi and a mud-stained vest.

“And what are you doing in Canning, Horen?” Nilima said.

“
Jongol korté geslam,
I went to ‘do jungle' yesterday, Mashima,” Horen replied, “and Bon Bibi granted me enough honey to fill two bottles. I came here to sell them.”

At this point Kanai had whispered into Nilima's ear, “Who is Bon Bibi?”

“The goddess of the forest,” Nilima had whispered back. “In these parts, people believe she rules over all the animals of the jungle.”

“
O?
” Kanai had been astonished to think that a grown-up, a big strong man at that, could entertain such an idea. He had been unable to suppress the snort of laughter that rose to his lips.

“Kanai!” Nilima had been quick to scold. “Don't act like you know everything. You're not in Calcutta now.”

Kanai's laugh had caught Horen's attention too, and he had stooped to bring their faces level. “And who is this, Mashima?”

“My nephew — my sister's son,” Nilima had explained. “He got into trouble in school so his parents sent him here to teach him a lesson.”

“You should send him over to me, Mashima,” Horen had said with a smile. “I have three children of my own, and my oldest is not much smaller than him. I know what has to be done to teach a boy a lesson.”

“Do you hear that, Kanai?” Mashima had said. “That's what I'll do if there's any nonsense from you — I'll send you to live with Horen.”

This prospect had instantly sobered Kanai, removing the smile from his face. He was greatly relieved when Horen turned away from him to reach for Nilima's luggage.

“So, Mashima, are you waiting for a boat?”

“Yes, Horen. We've been sitting here a long time.”

“No more sitting, Mashima!” Horen had said, hefting one of her bags onto his shoulders. “My own boat is here — I'll take all of you home.”

Nilima had made a few unconvincing protests. “But it's out of your way, Horen, isn't it?”

“Not far,” Horen had said. “And you've done so much for Kusum. Why can't I do this? You just wait here — I'll bring the boat around.”

With that he had gone hurrying away along the embankment. After he was out of earshot, Kanai had said to Nilima, “Who is that man? And what was he talking about? Who is Kusum?”

Horen was a fisherman, Nilima had explained, and he lived on an island called Satjelia, not far from Lusibari. He was younger than he looked, probably not yet twenty, but like many other tide country boys, he had been married off early — at the age of fourteen in his case. This was why he was already a father of three while still in his teens.

As for Kusum, she was a girl from his village, a fifteen-year-old, whom he had put into the care of the Women's Union in Lusibari. Her father had died while foraging for firewood and her mother, without other means of support, had been forced to look for a job in the city. “It wasn't safe for her on her own,” Nilima had said. “All kinds of people tried to take advantage of her. Someone was even trying to sell her off. If Horen hadn't rescued her who knows what might have happened?”

This had piqued Kanai's interest. “Why?” he had said. “What might have happened?”

Nilima's eyes had grown sad, as they tended to do when she was reminded of those of the world's ills she was powerless to remedy. “She might have been forced to lose her self-respect and honor; it happens often enough to poor girls who're caught in that kind of situation.”

“Oh?” For all his precocity Kanai was unable to unravel the precise implications of Nilima's euphemisms — yet he had understood enough of their meaning for his breath to quicken.

“And where is this girl now?” he had said. “In Lusibari,” Nilima had replied. “You'll meet her. Our Women's Union is still looking after her.”

The conversation had ended, Kanai remembered, with his sprinting up the embankment to stand beside Nirmal. Kanai had scanned the river with eager eyes, looking for Horen's boat. Till then the prospect of going to Lusibari had inspired nothing other than bored resentment, but the prospect of meeting this Kusum was something to look forward to.

THE LAUNCH

D
EEP IN THE INTERIOR
of Canning's bazaar Piya had come to a halt at the gates of the Forest Department's offices. Because of the circumstances of her work she had, over the years, developed a reluctant familiarity with the officialdom of forests and fisheries. She had been expecting a grimy bureaucratic honeycomb and was taken aback to find herself looking at a small, brightly painted bungalow. Still, before stepping up to the entrance she steeled herself for what promised to be a very long day.

As it turned out, her experience was not quite as grim as she had anticipated. It did indeed take a full hour of waiting before she could even make her way past the first doorkeeper, but once she was inside her progress was unexpectedly swift. Thanks to her uncle's influence, she was led almost immediately into the presence of a harried but obliging senior ranger. After a polite exchange she was handed over to a subordinate, who led her down a number of corridors, through cubicles of diminishing size. In between were long intervals of drinking tea, waiting, and staring at walls blotched with red paan stains. But, apace or not, the paperwork did proceed and within a mere four hours of her entry into the building she was in possession of all the necessary documents.

It was only then, just as she was about to march out of the office, giddy with joy at her triumph, that she learned that the procedures weren't quite over yet — the last remaining requirement for her survey was that she be accompanied by a forest guard. Her face fell in dismay for she knew from previous experience that official escorts were always a hindrance and sometimes needed more attention than the survey itself; she would have far preferred to travel on her own, with only a boatman or pilot for company. But it was quickly made clear that this was not an option. In fact, a guard had already been assigned to her, a man who knew the route and would help with the hiring of a boat and all the other arrangements. She dropped the matter without further demur. It was good enough that she had got her papers so quickly — better not try her luck too far.

The guard, dressed in a starched khaki uniform, proved to be a small ferret-faced man. He greeted her with a deferential smile and his appearance provided no cause for misgiving — not until he produced a leather bandolier and a rifle. The sight of the weapon induced her to make her way back down the corridors to ask if the gun was really necessary. The answer was yes, it was; regulations required it because her route would take her through the tiger reserve. There was always the possibility of an attack.

There was nothing more to be said. Shouldering her backpacks, she followed the guard out of the bungalow.

They had not gone far before the guard's demeanor began to change. Where he had been almost obsequious before, he now became quite officious, herding her ahead without any explanation of where they were going or why. In a short while she found herself at a teashop on the embankment, meeting with a man of vaguely thuggish appearance. The man's name, so far as she could tell, was Mejda: he was squat of build and there were many shiny chains and amulets hanging beneath his large, fleshy face. Neither he nor the guard spoke English but it was explained to her through intermediaries that Mej-da owned a launch that was available for hire: he was a seasoned guide who knew the area better than anyone else.

She asked to see the launch and was told that that would not be possible — it was anchored some distance away and they would have to take a boat to get to it. On inquiring about the price she was quoted a clearly excessive figure. She knew now that this was a setup and she was being cheated. She made a desultory effort to find other boat owners, but the sight of Mej-da and the guard scared them off. No one would approach her.

At this point she knew she was faced with a choice. She could either go back to lodge a complaint at the Forest Department's office or she could agree to the proposed arrangement and get started on her survey. After having spent most of the day in that office, she could not bear to think of returning. She gave in and agreed to hire Mej-da's launch.

On the way to the launch, remorse set in. Perhaps she was judging these men too harshly? Perhaps they really did possess great funds of local knowledge? In any event, there was no harm in seeing if they could be of help. In one of her backpacks she had a display card she had chosen especially for this survey. It pictured the two species of river dolphin known to inhabit these waters — the Gangetic dolphin and the Irrawaddy dolphin. The drawings were copied from a monograph that dated back to 1878. They were not the best or most lifelike pictures she had ever come across (she knew of innumerable more accurate or more realistic photographs and diagrams), but for some reason she'd always had good luck with these drawings: they seemed to make the animals more recognizable than other, more realistic representations.

In the past, on other rivers, display cards like these had sometimes been of great help in gathering information. When communication was possible, she would show them to fishermen and boatmen and ask questions about sightings, abundance, behavior, seasonal distribution and so on. When there was no one to translate she would hold up the cards and wait for a response. This often worked; they would recognize the animal and point her to places where they were commonly seen. But as a rule only the most observant and experienced fishermen were able to make the connection between the pictures and the animals they represented. Relatively few had ever seen the whole, living creature, and their view of it was generally restricted to a momentary glimpse of a blowhole or a dorsal fin. This being so, it was not unusual for the cards to elicit unexpected reactions — but never before had this illustration provoked a response as strange as the one she got from Mej-da. First he turned the card around and looked at the picture upside down. Then, pointing to the illustration of the Gangetic dolphin he asked if it was a bird. She understood him because he used the English word: “Bird? Bird?”

Piya was so startled that she looked at the picture again, with fresh eyes, wondering what he might be thinking of. The mystery was resolved when he stabbed a finger at the animal's long snout with its twin rows of needle-like teeth. Like an optical illusion, the picture seemed to change shape as she looked at it; she had the feeling that she was looking at it through his eyes. She understood how the mistake might be possible, given the animal's plump, dove-like body and its spoon-shaped bill, not unlike a heron's. And of course the Gangetic dolphin had no dorsal fin to speak of. But then the ludicrousness of the notion had hit her — the Gangetic dolphin a bird? She took the card back and put it away quickly, turning her face aside to hide her smile.

The smile lingered for the rest of the ride, vanishing only when her eyes alighted on Mej-da's launch — it was a decrepit diesel steamer that had been adapted for the tourist trade, with rows of plastic chairs lined up behind the wheelhouse, under a soot-blackened awning. She would have liked a skiff or a light fiberglass shell, outfitted with an outboard motor. Experience had taught her that this was the kind of boat of greatest use in river surveys. She began to regret the impulse that had led her to agree to this arrangement, but now it was too late to turn back.

As she walked up the gangplank, the stench of diesel fuel struck her like a slap in the face. There were some half-dozen or so young helpers tinkering with the engine. When they started it up, the volume was deafening, even up on deck. Then, to her surprise, Mej-da ordered all the helpers to leave the launch. Evidently the crew was to consist of no one other than himself and the guard. Why just these two and no one else? There was something about this that was not quite right. She watched in concern as the boys filed off the launch and her misgivings only deepened when Mej-da proceeded to enact a curious little pantomime, as if to welcome her onto his vessel. It so happened that he was dressed exactly as she was, in blue pants and a white shirt. She hadn't remarked on this herself, but the coincidence had evidently seized his interest. He made a series of gestures, pointing to himself and at her, providing a wordless inventory of the points of similarity in their appearance — their clothes, their skin color, the dark tint of their eyes and the cut of their short, curly hair. But the performance ended with a gesture both puzzling and peculiarly obscene. Bursting into laughter, he gesticulated in the direction of his tongue and his crotch. She looked away quickly, frowning, puzzled as to the meaning of this bizarre coda. It was not till later that she realized that this pairing of the organs of language and sex was intended as a commentary on the twin mysteries of their difference.