The Honeyman and the Hunter

by Neil Grant

  They turn to leave.

  A roar explodes from the jungle. The temple bricks chatter like teeth. The roar inside his gut is an earthquake. The crooks of his arms ache. He looks at Gita, hugging her own chest. The backs of his knees burn with fear. His breath quickens and blood drums in his ears. His heart rattles. His mouth fills with dust.

  The tiger steps into the clearing. Each paw is the size of Rudra’s head. As they meet the ground, huge curled claws flex out. The animal snarls, whiskers a spray of white above the shocking pink tongue, teeth yellow and curved like slivered moons.

  It moves forward and, with each step, the world trembles. Rudra is frozen on the temple steps.

  He feels the world slipping from him. Smells the tiger’s musk, the pant of its breath. Its muzzle is pulled back and teeth exposed.

  This all begun long before Rudra was born. His two great-grandfathers – one a tiger victim, the other a tiger killer.

  He falls to his knees in front of the great tiger; bows his head. Flattens his body on the ground. Submits. The tiger’s breath pours over him like hot sea. It roars and the world is skun of light and sound. Rudra falls into the abyss.

  He feels a cool hand on the back of his neck. ‘What are you doing?’ It is Gita.

  He is lying on the ground, his left cheek flat on the twigs and earth. ‘The tiger—’ Nothing further will come.

  ‘What tiger?’

  Rudra looks around him. The temple is at peace. The skull is resting on the altar, a chunk of fading light through the ruined doorway. Soft rain is falling.

  ‘I saw it. I saw the tiger.’

  ‘We must go or we will see many tigers.’ Gita takes him by the hand and leads him from the temple grounds.

  Malo is silent when they get to the boat. It is too dark to navigate the river and the tide has swung against them. They bed down for the night, the boat’s deck hard beneath the thin straw mat. In the forest, tigers are hunting.

  When the grey dawn arrives, Gita makes breakfast. Rudra eats slowly as if tasting everything for the first time – the charred wheat of the roti, each spice in the cha a bright pixel on his tongue.

  Malo says something and Gita translates.

  ‘He says Bonbibi kept us safe. That we are lucky she was with us because there are many tigers. He says we should get back to Gosaba before Dokkhin Rai wakes up and wants his breakfast.’

  They are moored in the middle of the river, as far from the tiger forest as they can be. As if reading his thoughts, Gita says, ‘Sundarbans tigers must swim for hours to cheat the tides.’

  She moves to the stern and washes the cooking pot in the water, breaking the dhal crust from the rim with her fingernails. The flecks of food float across the river’s calm surface, attracting small fish.

  Malo shouts, nearly making Gita drops the pot in the water. She rattles a response, clearly angry at almost losing their cooking pot. Malo sucks his teeth and, stomping to the bow, pulls up the anchor.

  ‘What was that about?’ asks Rudra.

  ‘Village talk.’

  ‘What was he saying?’

  ‘That I disrespect Dokkhin Rai by washing my pot by his forest, in his water. That he will be angry.’ Gita shakes her head. ‘Tigers do not care about such things.’

  They enter the Bidyadhari River just as the tide begins its rush back in. Rudra can see it happen before his eyes – the mud being consumed, monkeys hunting crabs, gingerly picking their way back to the safety of the trees. This tide helps to carry the boat back to Gosaba. And again, Malo barely has to row; only correcting their course with a decisive tug or push on the oar.

  Rudra cannot believe it is over. That he has laid his grandmother’s ashes in her homeland. And that he has completed something that his great-grandfather set in motion over sixty years ago. The skull is finally back where it belongs. It is over. No more dreams of death. He can return to Patonga and his old life. Cord Solace is as tough as they come; he will surely recover from his near drowning. And maybe, just maybe, Rudra will go back on the boat until the end of the season. Make his dad proud, then work things out from there.

  24

  THEY ARRIVE BACK IN GOSABA IN TIME for lunch. Raj is there to greet them and sets off to let Aunty Bansari know he is safe. Rudra follows Malo and Gita to their small mud house by the river. They sit on the floor kneading balls of rice and dhal and popping them into their mouths. Rudra looks around the single room – two charpoy beds, a small dung-fired stove, in one corner a long spear with dark, polished handle.

  ‘What’s that for?’ he asks Gita, nodding at the spear.

  She shrugs. ‘It is a long-ago thing. We do not use it anymore. Now it is just for looking.’

  ‘Is it your father’s?’

  ‘It is his father’s father’s, maybe more. We call it Tiger Killer. But really it is only a spear.’

  They go back to their food for a while, scooping food from their aluminium plates.

  ‘When will you leave Gosaba?’ Rudra asks.

  ‘When I have the money for college I will go to Kolkata. Maybe after this prawn season.’

  ‘Do you think you might come to Australia one day?’

  She smiles. ‘Australia is very far.’ They continue eating for a while before she asks, ‘When will you go to Australia?’

  ‘I need to leave for Kolkata tomorrow. My flight is the next day.’

  Gita seems annoyed. ‘So today we could have taken the skull to Netidhopani?’

  ‘I couldn’t risk being caught on the river and missing my flight.’

  ‘You speak of risk? What of our lives?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Gita. My dad is sick and my mum – I need to get back to her.’

  She gives him a head waggle that could mean she forgives him, or thinks he is an idiot, or possibly both.

  ‘I need to call Australia now. Is there somewhere to do that?’

  ‘The man who runs the phone place likes a very long lunch. It is better if you wait two hours minimum.’

  When they finish eating Gita gathers the tin plates and the cooking pot and together they wash them, flicking water at each other with their fingers. When Malo stretches out on his charpoy, Rudra asks Gita, ‘We have a while until I can make my call home. Are you still going to teach me how to pull the prawn nets?’

  ‘The village boys will laugh,’ she says.

  ‘I can take it,’ says Rudra.

  They cross the bund, carrying Gita’s prawn net and a plastic tub to hold the meen. When they are waist deep in the river, Gita shows Rudra how to hook the straps over his shoulders. The mud is slippery and Rudra has to claw his toes into it for purchase. He strains into the net and pulls it in one long pass, parallel to the riverbank.

  ‘Again,’ says Gita. A clutch of young boys have gathered to watch. He takes another long pass, closer in this time, feeling the net bump across the bottom. The boys are laughing and pointing, making comments in rapid Bangla.

  ‘They are saying you will make a good wife,’ calls Gita. ‘That your husband won’t have to collect honey. They ask how much will be your dowry.’

  ‘You cannot afford me,’ shouts Rudra. Putting his head down, he drags another pass of the river. When he makes it level with Gita again, he is out of breath. He unhooks his straps and, choking the net as near the frame as he can, drags it to the bank.

  Gita empties the net into the tub of clear water. The prawn seeds are transparent, as thin as straws.

  ‘It is very many,’ says Gita.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Not really – it is very few.’ She sees his shoulders slump. ‘But it is okay, they are quite big and full of health.’

  ‘Where do you sell them?’ asks Rudra.

  ‘You will see the dealers when we walk home. They work for groups who farm the prawns and sell them when they are fat. It is dangerous business. Many have guns. There is poisoning of ponds. Everything is dangerous here.’

  ‘Even pulling nets?’

  Gita looks at him as if he is ma
d. ‘Yes, it is dangerous. Very, very much. Some crocodile. Some shark. Some woman dies from water disease.’ She washes the net back and forth in her tub to release the last of the prawn seeds. ‘It is very dangerous being a meendhara.’

  ‘What does Malo think about what you do?’

  ‘Sometimes he is not happy. But when the money comes it is better.’ She lowers her voice. ‘You cannot eat happiness.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘His brothers, my uncles, they are not fishers. They are honeymen. They say we are bringing bad luck to the Sundarbans. They say prawn seed collecting is stealing and we have no respect for Bonbibi. They say that is why men get killed by tigers. Because the forest is angry.’

  ‘And you don’t believe that?’

  ‘These men know nothing.’

  They take turns pulling the net for the rest of the afternoon. It is hard work and Rudra’s calves ache from walking in the mud.

  They see a boat preparing to leave. Four men jump on board. They have bundles tied with string.

  ‘Isn’t that Malo?’ Rudra points at one of the men on the boat.

  Gita nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is he going fishing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What then?’

  She seems embarrassed. ‘They are blackworkers. Woodcutters. They are going to the forest.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit late in the day? You and your father told me how dangerous it is in the forest at night.’

  ‘Yes, but the forestry department do not work at night.’

  ‘Why is Malo going? He’s a fisherman.’

  ‘There are not so many fish these days. He needs the money.’

  ‘Who is that guy?’ Rudra nods to an old man whom the others are helping into the boat. He doesn’t look able to swing an axe.

  ‘He is a bauliya. I don’t know the English.’

  ‘A shaman.’

  ‘You have bauliya in Australia?

  ‘No, but my didima told me about them.’

  Rudra walks to the boat. ‘Can I talk to the bauliya?’ he asks Gita.

  ‘What do you want to ask him?’

  ‘About what he does.’

  She talks to the bauliya, then turns to Rudra and says, ‘He wants that you would pay.’

  Rudra pulls out a fifty-rupee note and hands it to the man. The man speaks a few slow words. He holds Rudra’s gaze as he talks, then looks to Gita to translate.

  ‘He says he keeps the party safe.’

  ‘How does he do it?’

  ‘Magic.’

  ‘Can he show me?’

  ‘No.’ Gita takes Rudra’s arm. ‘He cannot show you. For that you have to go to the jungle. Maybe he keeps a bit of sundari wood under his tongue. Or puffs his breath on the forest earth. This doesn’t work. Many blackworkers worship Kali now. She is better for violent jobs like poaching and woodcutting.’

  ‘And collecting meen?’

  ‘Yes. Bonbibi is old news. I have been already telling you this.’

  They turn to go but the old man calls them back. He pulls a red cord from his bag and begins to tie it round Gita’s bicep. ‘Na,’ she says. ‘You should have this, Rudra. You need protection more than me.’ She takes the thread from the bauliya and, looping it twice around Rudra’s arm, knots it tightly.

  Across the river, storm clouds gather. Tongues of lightning lick the far bank.

  ‘The rain is coming,’ says Gita and they gather the net and the tub full of meen and climb back over the bund to the village.

  Immediately, they are accosted by an aggressive dealer who fires rapid Bangla at Gita and sneers at Rudra through his fake Ray-Bans. He smooths a thick, oiled moustache with his forefinger and thumb and indicates to Gita to put her tub on the ground. Rudra wonders if this is the man who bought his didima’s house. He immediately dislikes him.

  Bending over, the dealer stirs the meen until they are a whirling mass. He rattles off some words, then stands up, shaking his head. Gita silently picks up her tub and begins walking away. The man is furious. He shouts at her. But Gita ignores him.

  As Rudra catches up, he asks, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘He thinks because I am young, because I am a woman, he can cheat me. I can get double what he offers. The meen are out of season, there are big needs – Kolkata and abroad.

  ‘Even so, the price is not like before. Now there are hatchery places in Orissa and Andhra Pradesh. The money is going and I must earn rupees so I can leave this place.’

  The man catches up and grabs Gita by the elbow. She shrugs him off and lets fly with a string of Bangla. The man is clearly caught unawares. He swallows and smiles. He wrings his thick hands and talk softly to her. But Gita turns from him again. He calls after her and, this time, whatever he says makes a difference because Gita places her tub back on the ground.

  The man calls over a boy with another tub of water. Gita squats on her haunches and, bringing a white cockleshell from her sari, begins scooping meen from one tub to the other. Rudra can see her lips mouthing silent numbers. The dealer stands over her, growling instructions. She flicks the blood-coloured, dead meen onto the path. It takes her half an hour to count them and by the time she is finished, rain has started to dot the dirt around them. The dealer mutters at the sky and hands over some filthy hundred-rupee notes.

  Placing the tub over her head as a rain hat, Gita motions for Rudra to follow. They run down the path to her father’s house as the rain turns the dust to mud. Laughing like children, they enter the house.

  Raj emerges from the small mud hut in which he has been renting floor space. He smells of cow dung smoke but his hair is still immaculately combed and his shirt is well-pressed and whiter than ever. Rudra doesn’t know how he manages these small everyday miracles.

  It turns out he has been busy arranging ferry tickets and their connecting train. He has also called ahead to the Beamish. This last task caused him some grief. He relays the conversation to Rudra, playing both parts as they walk to the Public Call Office.

  ‘Madam Ursu, she says: Raj – I don’t know such a person. I do remember a boy called Rudra and he is welcome at the Beamish Hotel.

  ‘Raj says: We are catching the train from Canning tomorrow. Please have one room for Rudra Solace.

  ‘Madam Ursu says: I do not take bookings from servants.

  ‘Raj says: ‘I am not a servant, I am a guide. You do not know someone called Raj. This is a new person.’ Raj finishes triumphantly, ‘I play her at her own game.’

  The PCO is no more than a tin-roofed shack with an ancient rotary dial telephone. The owner examines the piece of paper Rudra hands him, then carefully spins the number into the machine. He passes the receiver and Rudra listens to the ringtone, imagining it echoing in the hallway of their house in Patonga.

  A day has passed since Didima’s ashes were scattered at Baghchara and the skull was returned to Netidhopani.

  He counts forward the five-and-a-half-hour time difference. It will be night in Patonga. The fishing boats may be at sea. All but Paper Tiger. His father’s boat will be at anchor – holding a vigil for Cord Solace in his hospital bed.

  The phone rings out. He tries again. Nothing. He calls Maggs’s number and after three rings, it is picked up.

  ‘Yo.’

  ‘Maggs.’

  ‘Rudra?’

  ‘It’s me. I’m calling from India.’

  Rudra can feel the nine thousand kilometres of copper that strings them together. The warbling seethe of the ocean, the echo and crackle of the empty desert.

  ‘How is it?’ Maggs asks. ‘Did you get my pyjama suit?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Did you see a tiger?’

  ‘I’m not sure … Maybe … Almost.’

  ‘Cool. Did you drop the skull?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You still having them crazy dreams?’

  ‘They’re gone. I met a girl, Maggs.’

  ‘She cute?’

  ‘She’s a prawn fisher.’


  ‘That’ll make your old man happy.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘So you getting married?’

  ‘Idiot.’

  ‘My dad had an accident.’

  ‘I hope the stains come out.’

  ‘Stop being a fool. He fell into the water.’

  ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘I don’t know. My mum flew home to be with him.’

  ‘Shit. That’s pretty big.’

  ‘There’s been a whole lot of bigness about this summer.’

  ‘It’ll be one to remember, alright.’ The line goes quiet and Rudra looks at the earpiece of the old phone as if it is responsible. Suddenly, Magg’s voice breaks back in. ‘I guess I’ll see you when you get home.’

  ‘I’ll be hopping on a plane day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you then.’

  ‘I missed you, mate.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry you.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  In Bansari’s house, mildew crawls from under the beds. Fat raindrops peck at the tin roof. It begins to leak and Bansari rotates her cooking pots in a complicated choreography across the floor, catching the drops. When the generator fails, there are kerosene lamps, sputtering out a yellow light that falters in the dark corners.

  Rudra tries to read but the light is so poor that his eyes begin to hurt. He yawns his goodnights and goes to brush his teeth. Raj has been allowed to stay tonight. He is singing Bollywood hits quietly to himself as Rudra shuts the bedroom door.

  The darkness is complete. It even swallows sound, burping back the tallow honk of frogs. The thinnest blade of light under the door allows that there is still a world. That and Raj’s song and the rain. Rudra feels his thoughts circling like the meen in Gita’s tub. Tomorrow he will be starting the journey towards home. And, as he thinks of what that means, he is suddenly immensely tired. He closes his eyes against the dark and tonight, he knows, he shall not dream of tigers.