The Hungry Tide (50 page)

She guessed that Fokir had come to the same conclusion, for it soon became clear that he was looking for a place to anchor the boat for the night. A likely spot showed itself just as the last glow of daylight was fading from the sky — a stretch of water where a small channel flowed, at a right angle, into a wider one. At this time, with the water at its height, even the narrower channel looked like a river of substantial size, but Piya knew that when the tide turned it would shrink to a comfortable creek. The land on every side was thickly forested and the failing light gave the mangroves the look of a solid barricade of greenery.

There was a patch of relatively calm water where the channels met, and it was here that Fokir dropped anchor. Before doing so, he made a gesture that took in their surroundings and told Piya the name of the place: Gerafitola.

Once the boat was at anchor, Piya noticed that the moon had risen. It was almost perfectly spherical, except for a thin shaving missing on one side. Around it was a halo with a faint copper tint. The moist, unmoving air seemed to have a magnifying effect, for this moon was larger and brighter than any she could ever remember seeing.

As she was taking in the sight, Fokir crawled through the boat's hood and came to sit beside her; raising a finger, he traced an arc on the darkening purple backdrop of the sky. When Piya shook her head to tell him she saw nothing there, he gestured to her to look more closely. Again his finger described an arc, circling around and over the moon. Now, as her eyes grew accustomed to the silvery light, she saw a faint spectrum of colored light: it seemed to hang in the air for an instant and then it was gone. She glanced at Fokir to ask if he had seen it too, and he gave her an affirmative nod. Then his finger traced another arc in the sky, a vast one this time, spanning the horizon, and it dawned on her that he was thinking of a rainbow of some kind. Was that what he had shown her, a rainbow made by the moon? He gave her an earnest nod and she nodded too — she had seen it after all, or at least glimpsed it, so what did it matter that she had never heard of such a phenomenon before?

Piya's eyes strayed from the moon and the shadows of the forest and then fell to the currents playing on the river's surface: it was as if a hand hidden in the water's depths were writing a message to her in the cursive script of ripples, eddies and turbulence. She remembered a snatch of something Kanai had said about Moyna — something about the unseen flow of the water and the visible play of the wind. Did he, Fokir, understand what it meant to be the kind of person who could inspire and hold such constancy, especially when it was overlaid with so much pain and so many difficulties? What could she, Piya, offer him that would amount to even a small part of what he already had?

They sat unmoving, like animals who had been paralyzed by the intensity of their awareness of each other. When their eyes met again it was as if he knew at a glance what she was thinking. He reached for her hand and held it between his, and then, without looking in her direction again, he moved off to the stern and began to kindle a fire in his portable stove.

When the meal was ready, he offered her a plate of rice and spiced potatoes. She could not bring herself to decline it, for the plate seemed like an offering, a valedictory gesture. It was as if their shared glimpse of the lunar rainbow had somehow broken something that had existed between them, as if something had ended, leaving behind a pain of a kind that could not be understood because it had never had a name. Afterward, when the stove and the utensils had been put away, Piya took one of Fokir's blankets and went to her usual place in the bow, while he retreated to the shelter of the hood.

She remembered the letter Kanai had given her and took it out of her backpack. It would be good to have the distraction — she needed to think of something else. Fokir saw her peering at the envelope in the moonlight, and he passed her a matchbox and a candle. She lit the wick and placed the candle on the boat's prow, using its own drippings to fasten it in its place. The night was so still and airless that the flame held perfectly steady.

Tearing open the envelope, she began to read.

Dearest Piya:

What does it mean when a man wants to give a woman something that is beyond price — a gift that she, and perhaps only she, will ever truly value?

This is not a purely rhetorical question. It is inspired by a genuine perplexity, for I have never known this impulse before. For someone like me, a man whose chief concerns have always been with the here and now — and, let us admit it, with myself for the most part — this is new ground, uncharted terrain. The emotions that have generated this impulse are of a shocking novelty. Would it be true then to say that I have never been in love before? I had always prided myself on the breadth and comprehensiveness of my experience of the world: I had loved, I once liked to say, in six languages. That seems now like the boast of a time very long past. At Garjontola I learned how little I know of myself and of the world.

Suffice it to say then that I have never before known what it was to want to ensure someone's happiness, even if it should come at the cost of my own.

Yesterday it dawned on me that I have it in my power to give you something that no one else can. You asked me what Fokir was singing and I said I couldn't translate it; it was too difficult. And this was no more than the truth, for in those words there was a history that is not just his own but also of this place, the tide country. I said to you the other day that there are people who live their lives through poetry. My uncle was one such, and, dreamer that he was, he knew how to recognize others of his kind. In his notebook he tells a story of an occasion when Fokir, at the age of five, recited from memory many of the cantos that comprise a tide country legend: the story of Bon Bibi, the forest's protectress. To be specific, he remembered a part of the story in which one of its central figures, a poor boy called Dukhey, is betrayed by Dhona, a ship's captain, and is offered to the tiger-demon, Dokkhin Rai.

My uncle was amazed by this feat, because then, as now, Fokir did not know how to read or write. But Nirmal recognized also that for this boy those words were much more than a part of a legend: it was the story that gave this land its life. That was the song you heard on Fokir's lips yesterday. It lives in him and in some way, perhaps, it still plays a part in making him the person he is. This is my gift to you, this story that is also a song, these words that are a part of Fokir. Such flaws as there are in my rendition of it I do not regret, for perhaps they will prevent me from fading from sight, as a good translator should. For once, I shall be glad if my imperfections render me visible.

From the epic of the tide country, as told by Abdur-Rahim:
Bon Bibir Karamoti orthat Bon Bibi Johuranama
— The Miracles of Bon Bibi or The Narrative of Her Glory.

THE STORY OF DUKHEY'S REDEMPTION

The next day at dawn, Dhona spoke to all his men. “Let's turn and go back to Kedokhali again.”

From his perch Dokkhin Rai watched the ships setting sail. He thought, “Ah, he's decided to follow this trail.”

So to Kedokhali went the demon
deva,
gathering his followers from near and afar. His honeybees came swarming; they numbered in
lakhs.
He ordered them all to yield their honey and wax. The forest was filled with the buzzing of bees as the swarms set to work, hanging their hives from trees.

Soon, on his boat, Dhona sighted Kedokhali. His heart filled with joy at the thought of all he would see. After his men had beached their ships on the shore, he said, “Come, let us look for beehives once more.” To the forest they went, Dhona leading the way; and there they were, not just one, but an amazing array. When they turned back at last, gladness lightened Dhona's head. After much food and drink he went off to his bed; but late at night he began once more to dream. Suddenly Dokkhin Rai appeared, his eyes agleam. “The time,” said the demon, “is at hand for our tryst; be sure to say my name when you go to the forest. Although the bees will leave at the sound of my name, do not think that the honey is all yours to claim. And there is one more thing I must tell you about: however large your party, let there be no doubt. Let no man touch the hives that hang in the jungle — your sailors must only look and marvel. The bees will open the hives and carry the combs; they'll load them on your boats for you to take to your homes. But remember, on Dukhey we've made a bargain; he must be left behind when you board your sampan. Take care! Beware! I want no excuse or pretext — or it will be your life that's in jeopardy next.”

With these words the deva vanished into the night, while Dhona slept on till the first crack of daylight. He spoke to his men at the first
namaaz
of the day: “We must go to the forest, all except Dukhey.”

When the boy learned he was to be left behind, he cried out aloud, “
Chacha,
I must speak my mind.” Wiping the tears from his cheek with an unsteady hand, he said, “I know it's all going just as you'd planned. Do you think I don't know of your deal with the deva? You're going to sail home, leaving me here forever.”

“Who told you this?” said Dhona, feigning a laugh. “Wherever did you hear such a tale and a half ?”

Leaving Dukhey to cook dinner, Dhona led the way; in the forest they were met by a dazzling display. Though they whispered and marveled, not one of the men dared touch the hives till the deva's name was spoken. At the sound of those words the bees began to swarm, and a demon host came flying, raising a storm. Hearing their lord's name, they rushed into the forest, to load Dhona's boats and to speed him on his quest.

Then said Dokkhin Rai, “Look, Dhona, watch my power; my army will load your boats within the hour.” He spoke to the demons and ghostly
ganas,
the
dainis,
the
pishaches
and all the
rakshasas.
They made the honey into a portable hoard and took it to the boats, carrying it on board. When all was ready, Dokkhin Rai said, “My job's done. Your boats are full to the brim, every single one.”

Dhona went to the boats and with his own eyes saw: they were all loaded and could not take any more. Then said the deva, “Here's a still better reward: empty your boats and throw the honey overboard. With a rich load of wax I'll fill your boats instead; it'll freshen your fortune and bring luck on your head. Forget the honey — your kismet is much better; take the wax instead, you'll see, it'll make you richer.”

So into the river Dhona poured his honey, and so that creek came to be known as Madhu Khali. And the place where Dhona chose to pour his cargo, there the brackish tides turned sweet and mellow.

Then it was time for a new and richer hoard. “Now listen to what I say,” said the demon-lord. “When you sell this, you'll see I've given you a boon; you'll live like a king and it'll bring you good fortune. But don't forget to leave the boy; be warned, listen; recall how this began — Dukhey was the reason. Don't try any tricks or attempt any ruse; I'll drown you in the Ganga and all your ships you'll lose.”

With these words he left, vanishing beyond appeal. In the meantime Dukhey sat in the boat, trying to cook a meal. But the firewood was wet and the pots would not boil — tears were the result of his unrewarded toil. Then he spoke a name, his voice muted by sorrow, and Bon Bibi heard him in distant Bhurukundo. In the blink of an eye she crossed the divide; she spoke to the child, standing close by his side. “Why did you call me?” she said. “What's happened to you?”

“I'm in trouble,” said he. “I don't know what to do. Chacha told me to prepare a meal for tonight, but the kindling's all wet and the fire won't light.”

“All will be well,” she said. “Don't worry in the least. With the help of the Lord, I will make you a feast.”

With these words of kindness she gave him reassurance; then raising her hand, she passed it over his pans. And such was her
barkot,
so strong her benediction, that the pots filled instantly with rice and with
saalan.
This was a feast that needed neither fire nor heat; she said to the boy, “Look! They'll have plenty to eat!”

But Dukhey, still fearful, importuned her once more. “Dhona'll set sail tomorrow, leaving me ashore. Mother of the earth, tell me: who'll save me then?”

“My child,” said Bon Bibi, “do not fear this demon. He cannot kill you; he's not of so fine a fettle that he'd survive a blow of my brother's metal.”

With these last words, Bon Bibi took leave of Dukhey, and soon enough Dhona returned from his foray. His first words to the boy were “Here, Dukhey, tell me: where's our food? Where have you put it, on which dinghy?”

“Here it is,” said Dukhey. “It's on this boat, Chachaji. Look, I've cooked the meal and kept it ready.”

Dhona and the others went where he had pointed. And then, seating themselves, they waited to be fed. The food they were served was so fine, so ambrosial, that some began to say it was hardly credible. How could such a fine feast be a mere boy's doing? Or, for that matter, any human being's? Now, in undertones, they began to speculate. Had Bon Bibi perhaps taken a hand in his fate? “On his own the boy can't find his way to the ghat. For sure Bon Bibi has taken him to heart.”

And so sat the men, talking in the dimming light, until the day had waned and dusk had turned to night. The others slept in their boats without care or qualm, but to fretful Dukhey sleep was proscribed,
haraam.
He could not close his eyes for fear and worry. “They'll be off tomorrow,” he thought, “abandoning me. I'll be left behind, as the demon's
shikar;
Dokkhin Rai will hunt me in his tiger avatar.”

Hour after hour he sat bewailing his plight; not a single wink of sleep blessed his eyes that night. The other men slept in peace, happily replete; not till daybreak did they wake after night's retreat. Standing amidst the ships, Dhona said to his men, “Undo the moorings: it's time to be off again.” Six boats were unloosed at Dhona Mouley's behest. Only one stayed where it was, apart from the rest.