by Sue Perkins
Life is precarious on the Sundarbans, its residents living on a sliver of land barely above sea level. The fishermen feel this pinch more than most. The river is no longer yielding the catches it used to so now they gamble with their lives, venturing beyond the licensed fishing areas into the protected forests of the Bengal tiger reserve. The rewards are great: vast hauls of crab and snakes. The potential risks, however, are horrendous.
To highlight the hazardous existence of the Sundarban people, we had arranged to meet a widow whose husband had been killed while venturing into the tiger reserve. I am not quite sure how it happened, but due to some awful mistake in the translation process, it became clear on our arrival that this woman was still very much in the whirlwind of shock. It turned out she had not lost her husband six months ago, as we’d been led to believe, but just a few weeks previously. She was still reeling with the trauma, and faintly rocking forwards and back, as if her core was so shattered by grief she could be buffeted by every gust of wind that hit her frame.
There was no way we were going to interview her. I ended up just holding her. She leant into my shoulder, almost burying her head in my armpit, and I put my arms around her and rocked her as she sobbed. I held her and held her until her body stopped vibrating and the sun fell and her daughters called her in for her evening meal.
We took a boat out to the reserve to see where the fishermen felt desperate enough to stray. Our boat, however, wasn’t a tiny wooden vessel like theirs, low to the water and susceptible to a tiger attack: ours was a larger, sturdier affair.
I travelled out with a crew of government agents tasked with maintaining the perimeter fence of the tiger sanctuary. On first glance, they looked like something out of Dad’s Army, with their tin helmets and knackered batons. I stared across to the mud flat and wondered what my chances would be.
I didn’t need to wonder for long: their leader made it abundantly clear.
ME: What would happen if you walked across that mud flat?
LEADER: You would get eaten. Three seconds.
He looked me up and down.
LEADER: You? Maybe two.
There was relish in his voice. I wondered if he made a habit of calculating the exact time it would take a predator to bring down a tourist – and if, indeed, he had put a clock on his own mortality. Everyone needs a hobby, I guess.
The brigade left the safety of the boat and hopped onto the bank. They were wearing safari shorts and wellies. The wet earth sucked at their feet, plunging them deep into the mud, each boot buried a good twelve inches deep. You couldn’t run here, even if you tried. You would just sink into the clutches of the sandy soil and await the inevitable.
The men seemed remarkably unfazed, all things considered – going about their work with minimum fuss. One produced an old rifle with a chipped wooden butt and trained it on an area of perimeter fencing. He began shouting at his co-workers. His crew pottered round the fence, checking it for holes, and shouted back when they found one.
ME: Listen, I know I’m not an animal expert, but is that a good idea? The shouting?
Their captain merely shrugged his shoulders.
ME: Only … might it alert the tigers?
My voice was drowned out by more shouting and some laughter, as one of the men went inside the reservation to check the camera traps. I guess his mate with the rifle was supposed to protect him, but he was too busy screaming at a co-worker, the muzzle pointing, rather unhelpfully, skywards.
I can only assume that the tigers were full and simply couldn’t be bothered to venture out for another kill. But I stayed put on the boat, just in case.
Ganga Sagar is the largest of the Sundarban Sagar islands and, mercifully, tiger-free. It is a place of Hindu pilgrimage, and home, on 14 January each year, to one of the largest human gatherings on the planet.
On this day, over two million Hindus come to the water’s edge to take a dip at the confluence of the Ganges and the Bay of Bengal in a festival known as the Ganga Sagar Mela. The year we visited, it was designated a Green Mela, an eco-initiative attempting to curb the devastating littering of the site which occurs when the pilgrims descend. It was a great idea but, having witnessed it first hand, I am not sure it achieved what those in advertising like to call ‘brand penetration’.
There were plenty of signs up, for sure. It was just that no one seemed to read them. There were thousands of Portaloos too, with men and women in high-vis jackets explaining to the rural visitors how to use one. No one wanted to, preferring to use Mother Nature as their bathroom. The tannoys, slung from every pole on the island, blared forth environmental messages, but no one was listening.
There’s a reason Hindu visitors disregard all attempts to clean up the river. It’s not a case of stupidity – far from it. It’s a case of faith. Hindus believe that the Ganges is their mother – Ma Ganga. The mother will provide, the mother is strong, and you cannot hurt the mother because she lives for ever. When we drop a plastic bottle into the ocean, we know the consequences. When a devout Hindu does the same, even if he or she is fully cognizant of the environmental catastrophe the planet is facing, there is the unflinching belief that nothing, nothing, can ever damage the eternal parent. To even suggest such a thing could cause offence.
Boatloads of pilgrims arrived on the island from all over India, but mainly, it seemed, Gujarat. Extended families gathered together and shared food from the vast vats of dal and rice cooking over open fires. Above them sat large vinyl signs saying, ‘No Fires’, and a diagram of a flame with a cross over it. Nope, they’re still not listening. As dusk fell and the temperature dropped, over two million people huddled under their saris and shivered in their kurtas, waiting for the sun to rise and give them some much-needed warmth.
We were staying in a government block in the middle of the throng, a single-storey concrete cube with overhead strip-lighting that took you, with the flick of a switch, from darkness to the full Wembley Stadium. Even the cockroaches stopped in their tracks when the fluoros reached full capacity, so dazzling were the lumens on display.
We had been told that the most auspicious time to enter the water was 05:17 a.m. However, being tourists, we assumed we knew better, and decided we’d start filming around 07:30 a.m. I got into bed around 1 a.m. and turned the bedroom floodlight off.
At that point, just as my head hit the pillow, the tannoys kicked in again. Every few minutes there would be the whine of feedback and another muffled bellow emerging from the speakers that surrounded us. I lay there for an hour, vainly trying to kip, before turning the lights back on again. Catherine, our fabulous producer, was wide awake, as were the entire crew. We might as well put our pants on and get out there.
Outside, on the main drag, it was like a grungy Glastonbury – balls of beige street food bounced around in vats of oil, trinkets were for sale, families were singing. We turned left and followed the strong stench of marijuana until we came across a row of naga sadhus, naked men in little huts, covered with ash and ganja’d out of their minds.
Each priest sat there, proudly displaying his dusty junk. It was a veritable boulevard of bollocks, a sack smorgasbord. In one hand they held some peacock feathers, which they would smash down over your head by way of a blessing. Their other hand was open and extended in that classic religious gesture – give me money.
We wandered all night, greeting strangers, sharing food with families. By the time we made it to the beach it was just after 5 a.m. and dawn was about to break. Next to me were thousands upon thousands of pilgrims, all barefoot. Some came with their grandparents, some held little children, and a surprising number had even brought their cows all the way here for a blessing.
I took off my shoes and socks and walked towards the water with them. A gentle lap, meniscus deep, started to spread over the cold sand.
I hadn’t known what to expect. Frankly, I get twitchy when someone puts a windbreak down within a hundred metres of me so I’d been a little anxious at the thought of sharing a bea
ch with such a vast throng. But I didn’t feel claustrophobic. I felt strangely clear. Free. Elated. And ready for a dip.
I began to experience a strange sensation, almost out of body. I looked at my watch. It was exactly 5.17 a.m. The sky was a baby pink. To my left, low on the horizon, was the sun, and to my right, in perfect alignment with it, a full moon. They cast a direct line across the sky, with all of us as the central point. It was the first time I had truly inhabited what the word ‘auspicious’ meant. How lucky I am. How truly lucky.
It was time for me to give my final piece to camera. As always, I hadn’t planned what to say, but something came out that seemed to wrap things up. What was more important to me was what I didn’t say: the understanding that this place had given me over the course of this pilgrimage – an understanding that was just for me, and not for television.
Grief doesn’t have a narrative arc. It doesn’t fit the media storyboard. I didn’t arrive on a mountain, devastated and shocked, and then move to a place of resolution, by an ocean, some four months later. The truth is, I didn’t get over my dad dying. You don’t. Your heart keeps its own clock. It doesn’t care for hours and minutes; for the fake lines of measurement, which the outside life uses to calculate success, age or achievement.
The heart has a tempo all of its own, curious and unique. It isn’t linear, it loops back and forth – it can inhabit multiple spaces, all at once. In my heart, it is always 3.30 p.m. on the final day of March. My hand is on your chest and I can feel that final, gentle pulse under my palm. It is always the summer of 1975 and I have mumps and you are making up a bedtime story about a hyperactive squirrel, which doesn’t quite make sense. In my heart, you are always happy and sad, well and ill, alive and dead. You are all things, in all times and places, good and bad, in my heart for ever. My beloved dad.
You don’t get beyond this place. Ever. This is your place now.
Grief has no final piece to camera. There is no pithy up-sum. It doesn’t come as a realization or a learning. It is just there, as black is there, and you learn to accommodate it. One day, you may even take its hand and acknowledge you are no longer strangers. Then you’ll go on. Different. Damaged.
But you go on.
I am home. My suitcase wheels turn for the last time and find rest in the thick hall carpet.
I walk upstairs to the bathroom. The heated tiles warm my bare feet. I lean my face against the flat, smooth plaster and switch on the light. I switch it off again. And on. And off. I stare at the cleanliness of it all. The order. I know it is quiet, but I can’t make out the silence yet. My ears are still full of India.
Anna comes and finds me – finds a mad woman, with hair that smells of planes, standing there switching the lights on and off.
ANNA: What the hell are you doing, Bug?
She calls me Bug.
ME: Look at it. Isn’t it wonderful?
Isn’t all of this just wonderful?
Acknowledgements
Since these are the acknowledgments, I have waived my natural aversion to lists.
Thanks and love to:
Ann Perkins, Croydon’s very own prepper. Thanks for making us apocalypse-ready, Mum.
David, who can rustle up a twelve-course buffet with less than five minutes’ notice.
Michelle, who has had to take on the role of eldest child since the actual oldest child is an incompetent oaf.
My in-laws, Pete and Lynne, for wine and song.
And my incredible nieces, Ellie and Anna.
I love you all. You’re nuts, but I love you.
My darling chums, you know who you are – I’m so lucky to have you.
The Giedroyc family.
Emma and Georgie, for being there where it really mattered. I’m sorry I’ve repaid you by routinely whipping your arses at poker.
Kate Barsby, for characteristic brilliance with the cover artwork.
Debi Allen, my friend and agent, who saw me shouting in a hot room in Edinburgh in 2006 and decided to take a chance on me.
My US manager, Marcia McManus, for her resolute belief that, despite the fact that I am a myopic forty-nine-year-old woman, with a paunch, I will one day crack America.
Charlene McManus, Jess Molloy, Emily Harris, Linda Kay and Jessica Lax. Without you, I would never know where to go, when to go and how on earth to get there. Please never leave me. I’ve forgotten how to do life when you’re not around.
Louise Moore, for her faith and persistence. I’m sorry I don’t understand the nature of a deadline.
Rowland White, for deft stewardship and lengthy lunches. Now that’s the way I like to work.
All the Michael Joseph team; especially Bea, Ariel, and Hazel for making sure everything was porepr;y speelchecked and in its place.
Thanks to Roy McMillan, the audiobook producer, for his sweetness and his sensitivity; and for enduring four days in a locked box with me, listening to my stomach gurgle.
Charlotte Moore, for opening the doors on a whole new world.
Clare Paterson and Lucy Carter for their wisdom and care.
Steve, Vicky, Matt and Olly and all who worked on the shows at Indus and Folk. I hope I have done our fantastic adventures justice.
The families of the Mekong and the Ganges who let me into their homes and their lives.
The staff of the NHS who work so tirelessly, and in such straightened circumstances, to help us when we need it most. Special thanks to Dr Jones, the palliative care gang at West Cornwall and Mr Talbot and his team at Treliske.
Tig, for reminding me that joy comes when you least expect it.
The Richardson family, and in particular their magnificent daughter,
Anna, whom I love.
How to help:
If you’d like to sponsor a child in Kolkata, visit:
https://www.thehopefoundation.org.uk
You can donate to the wonderful book boat in Laos here: http://www.communitylearninginternational.org/projects/the-book-boat/
x
THE BEGINNING
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MICHAEL JOSEPH
UK | USA | Canada | Ireland | Australia
India | New Zealand | South Africa
Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published 2018
Copyright © Sue Perkins, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Jacket design by Kate Barsby
The documentaries mentioned in this book are The Mekong River with Sue Perkins, and Kolkata with Sue Perkins, both produced by Indus Films, and The Ganges with Sue Perkins, produced by Folk Films. All broadcast by the BBC.
ISBN: 978-1-405-93815-0
INTRODUCTION
fn1 I am unaware of the global outreach of the Pimm’s brand, but I am reliably informed the other two ingredients are readily available in South East Asia.
1. JOURNEYS PAST
fn1 Mum had never been to Spain before, so I’d be interested to know what she was comparing it with.
fn2 Once, in Menorca, I got dared to jump off a vertical cliff face some thirty metres above the sea. I did. As the saying goes, how you fall doesn’t matter. It’s how you land. I hit the water at an odd angle and shattered my coccyx.
4. THAT NOO-DLE THAT YOU DO SO WELL
fn1 At this point in my life I measured everything in packets of Marlboro Lights.
5. I WANT TO BE YOU
fn1 My mum possesses 1950s America levels of paranoia. Kim Jong-un levels of p
aranoia. She lives in an almost permanent high-tensile state of red alert. In the winter just gone, there was an article about raisin shortages. She went to Morrisons and bought SEVEN KILOS of them. Why? Because her friend Margaret likes to make fruit cakes. Go figure.
6. I DON’T LIKE MONDAYS
fn1 I am not qualified:
1. I am a child myself.
2. I have no qualities that would inspire or motivate a young person.
3. I have attention issues, which means my mind is even more likely to wander during a lesson than my pupils’ …
7. KAMPONG PHLUK
fn1 I know, this is the perfect name for a monk, right? With a name like Om he was never going to be anything else.
fn2 Not literally. I meant in his earlier life. In his previous life, he was a goose.
8. PIGGY IN THE MIDDLE
fn1 Claire was the brilliant director on this second shoot. She is super bright and super cool. She once told me that she had never seen someone attack a buffet with as much vigour as I did. I took that as a compliment.
9. PLEASE RELEASE ME
fn1 I managed this until the end of the day, then spent the whole evening thinking about it.
11. THE PIG OF KRATIE
fn1 A breakdown of this ‘study’ reveals 10 per cent Renaissance Literature, 10 per cent Greek Tragedy, 40 per cent gossip, 35 per cent scones, 5 per cent marijuana.
