by Amitav Ghosh
All of Horen’s attention was now fixed upon the winding, treacherous watercourse ahead and his words, which had been flowing freely for a while, now began to run dry. Not wanting to distract him I stepped out of the wheelhouse and went down to the steamer’s main deck.
I was standing in a gangway, gazing at the mangroves, when Tipu appeared beside me. The joint that he had showed me earlier was now stuck behind his ear; in his right hand he was holding a pair of binoculars.
‘Wanna take a peek Pops?’ he said, offering me the glasses. ‘I won’t charge ya nothin’, being that you’re not really a tourist.’
I ignored him, which only made him laugh.
‘You still mad at me Pops?’ he said, thrusting the binoculars into my hands. ‘Look, I was only yanking your chain.’
To refuse the offer would have seemed petulant, so I accepted with what little grace I could muster. I raised the glasses to my eyes and was trying to bring the lens into focus when the steamer rounded a bend; all of a sudden the end of the creek came into view, revealing an expanse of water that stretched almost to the horizon.
‘That over there is the Raimangal River,’ said Tipu. ‘Bangladesh is on the far bank.’
‘I can see it, but it’s just a blur.’
‘You ever been there Pops?’
I heard the whir of a lighter and caught the acrid smell of marijuana smoke.
‘I’ve been to Dhaka a couple of times,’ I said. ‘My family was from East Bengal, you know. They came over during Partition.’
Without missing a beat, Tipu said: ‘Yeah, sure I know. Your family was from Madaripur district, right?’
I lowered the glasses and stared at him. ‘How do you know that?’
‘I saw something you’d posted,’ he said, narrowing his eyes against the smoke of his reefer. ‘On your family chat group.’
‘What?’ I cried indignantly. ‘But that’s a private group, strictly by invitation only. How did you get access to it?’
‘Oh, I have my ways,’ he said, grinning, baring his barracuda-like teeth.
I glowered at him speechlessly, not knowing what to say.
He began to laugh.
‘It’s no big deal Pops. I handle some of Nilima’s social media accounts. She’s on your family chat group, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Yeah – anyways, that’s how I read about your grandparents being from Madaripur. I know that ’hood well.’
This came as yet another surprise. ‘You’ve been to Bangladesh? To Madaripur?’
My incredulity – and, no doubt, naiveté – drew another peal of laughter from him. ‘Sure! I’ve been there a coupla times. All you gotta do is cross this river – it’s easy if you know how. Wanna go?’
‘No!’ I said. ‘Not illegally anyway.’
He shrugged, with his reefer hanging off his lip. ‘So I guess you believe in passports and visas and shit like that?’
‘Believe?’ I retorted. ‘Passports aren’t a matter of belief.’
‘So why’d you sound so shocked then?’
‘Well…’
I realized then that he was right: I did indeed believe in passports, visas, permits, green cards and the like. For me these weren’t just pieces of paper or plastic; they possessed a certain kind of sacredness that attached also to the institutions that issued them. I thought of all the hours I had spent at passport and visa counters and the stark terror that an immigration officer’s frown could still send through me. I can’t deny that I felt a twinge of envy, not unmixed with resentment, for his blithe disregard for all of that.
‘But you’ve got a passport, haven’t you?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you spend some time in the US?’
‘Sure I did,’ he said. ‘And yeah, I did have a passport back then. But it expired and I haven’t renewed it. Who needs to spend all that time in government offices? There are easier ways of getting a passport, and if you’ve got the money you can choose whichever kind you want – Bangladeshi, Indian, Malaysian, Sri Lankan, you name it, they’ve all got a price. But if it’s just a matter of going over for a couple of days you don’t need any of that – all you have to do is cross the river and you’re in Bangladesh.’
‘But why do you need to go to Bangladesh anyway? I thought you worked for a call centre or something.’
‘A call centre?’ He recoiled, as though from a mortal insult. ‘What made you think I worked for a call centre?’
‘That’s what your mother said.’
‘Yeah, well, what does she know?’ he said with a dismissive snort. ‘Call centres are strictly for losers – I’d never work for one of those.’
I saw that he was nettled and couldn’t resist prodding him a bit. ‘So who do you work for then? Some drug kingpin somewhere, so you can smoke free weed?’
He shrugged this off with a derisory laugh. ‘Drugs? Jeez Pops, that’s no industry to be in – declining margins, shrinking profits, bad risk profile. No, that wouldn’t work for me at all. I like growth industries, like the one I’m in.’
‘And what would that be?’
‘The people-moving industry Pops,’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s already one of the world’s biggest and still growing fast. Turnover last year was in the billions. But I don’t suppose you know anything about that, do you?’
‘You’re right. I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘Let me put it this way,’ said Tipu. ‘My clients are people who need help finding a better life.’
At last I began to understand what he was getting at. ‘You mean migrants?’
‘Sure. People like you. Or like you musta been when you were my age.’
‘But I went abroad legally,’ I said. ‘What you’re talking about sounds like human trafficking.’
He laughed again. ‘Whoa there Pops – you sure like those big words! What I’m doing is I’m offering an essential service. In these parts, there’s a whole bunch of dirt-poor, illiterate people scratching out a living by fishing or farming or going into the jungle to collect bamboo and honey. Or at least that’s what they used to do. But now the fish catch is down, the land’s turning salty, and you can’t go into the jungle without bribing the forest guards. On top of that every other year you get hit by a storm that blows everything to pieces. So what are people supposed to do? What would anyone do? If you’re young you can’t just sit on your butt till you starve to death. Even the animals are moving – just ask Piya. If you’ve got any sense you’ll move and to do that you need someone who can help you find a way out.’
‘You mean someone like you?’ I said incredulously. ‘A kid sitting in some small town in the Sundarbans?’
‘Kids are good at some things Pops! And one of them is called the Internet. You know what that is, right?’
‘What does the Internet have to do with it?’
‘Everything Pops, everything.’ His voice was now insultingly patient, as though he were speaking to someone of limited intelligence. ‘The Internet is the migrants’ magic carpet; it’s their conveyor belt. It doesn’t matter whether they’re travelling by plane or bus or boat: it’s the Internet that moves the wetware – it’s that simple Pops.’
‘But wait a minute,’ I retorted. ‘Didn’t you just say that many of these people are dirt poor and illiterate? How do they go on the Net?’
‘Pops! It’s not the twentieth century any more. You don’t need a mainframe to get on the Net – a phone is enough, and everyone’s got one now. And it doesn’t matter if you’re illiterate: you can call up anything you like just by talking to your phone – your virtual assistant will do the rest. You’d be amazed how good people get at it, and how quickly. That’s how the journey starts, not by buying a ticket or getting a passport. It starts with a phone and voice recognition technology.’
‘You mean they call someone?’ I said.
‘No. It goes much deeper than that. Where d’you think they learn that they need a better life? Shit, where do you think they even get an idea of what a bett
er life is? From their phones of course. That’s where they see pictures of other countries; that’s where they view ads where everything looks fabulous; they see stuff on social media, posted by neighbours who’ve already made the journey – and after that what d’you think they gonna do? Go back to planting rice? You ever tried planting rice Pops? You’re bent over double all day long, in the hot sun, with snakes and insects swarming around you. Do you think anyone would want to go back to that after they’ve seen pictures of their friends sitting in a cafe in Berlin sipping caramel lattes? And the same phone that shows them those images can also put them in touch with connection men.’
‘What’s a connection man?’
‘They’re called dalals in Bangla. They’re the ones who make all the necessary connections for migrants, linking them from one phone to another to another. From there on the phone becomes their life, their journey. All the payments they need to make, at every stage of the journey, are made by phone; it’s their phones that tell them which route is open and which isn’t; it’s their phones that help them find shelter; it’s their phones that keep them in touch with their friends and relatives wherever they are. And once they get where they’re going it’s their phones that help them get their stories straight.’
‘Stories? What does that mean?’
‘Oh, that’s the best part of my job Pops – making up stories for my clients! That’s what I’m known for, my stories.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘See, it’s like this…’
At this point Tipu wasn’t just talking; he was dancing, like a rapper, to the rhythm of his own voice, flicking his arms from side to side and stabbing the air with his reefer.
‘Suppose a guy’s applying for asylum in Sweden – he’ll need a story to back him up, and it can’t be just any old story. It’s gotta be a story like they want to hear over there. Suppose the guy was starving because his land was flooded; or suppose his whole village was sick from the arsenic in their ground water; or suppose he was being beat up by his landlord because he couldn’t pay off his debts – none of that shit matters to the Swedes. Politics, religion and sex is what they’re looking for – you’ve gotta have a story of persecution if you want them to listen to you. So that’s what I help my clients with; I give them those kinds of stories.’
I couldn’t judge whether he was telling the truth, or just trying to make an impression, but either way I was both appalled and fascinated. ‘Tell me more about these stories; give me an example.’
‘Like if they’re from Bangladesh, I tell them to say they’re Hindus or Buddhists and are being oppressed by Muslims. And if they’re from India I tell them to go at it the other way around – that works pretty good too. And then there’s sexual orientation of course, and gender identity – they love those kinds of stories over there. But that’s where the art comes into it Pops – you’ve got to judge who can carry off what. You gotta know your clients and what kind of story fits each of them. So you could say that what I’m providing is a point-to-point service.’
‘But how do your clients hear about you?’ I said. ‘Do you advertise or something?’
‘Nope. It’s all word of mouth, going out on social media. A guy might see something that a previous client has posted and then decide that he wants to take the same route. Or else maybe he and his friends will just get curious. They’ll come and talk, and if they want to go ahead, and can raise the money, I connect them to dalals.’
He stretched out a hand and twisted his body, in what seemed to be a dance move. Pointing to the far shore, he said, ‘And most of those dalals are over there, in Bangladesh – and quite a few of them are in Madaripur, which is why I need to go over from time to time.’
‘You mean those services aren’t available in India?’
‘Sure they are. But the systems are better in Bangladesh – they’ve been doing it longer, so they’re just better at it. I guess it goes back to families like yours Pops – once they got moving they never stopped. And don’t tell me your grandparents had passports and visas when they crossed this river. They didn’t, right?’
‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘But things were different back then. I’m sure the border is patrolled now. Aren’t you afraid of getting caught? This area must be swarming with border guards?’
‘So what?’ he said, drawing on his reefer. ‘You think it’s easy to seal a border that runs through a forest like this one, half land and half water? Anyone who knows their way around these parts can get around the patrols. And if, by chance, you get unlucky and end up in the hands of the Man – hey, he knows the score too. It’s just a matter of money – and in this industry there’s more than enough to go around.’
Suddenly he turned to me, eyes glinting. ‘Hey listen Pops,’ he said, flicking the reefer’s stub into the water. ‘You’re not going to talk about this with my mom or Piya, are you?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to.’
‘I don’t. I don’t want you to mention any of this to anybody at all, okay?’
‘All right. I won’t.’
‘You better not Pops.’ There was a hint of menace in his voice despite his jokey grin. ‘Or else bad stuff might happen.’
‘What stuff?’
He grinned again, baring his teeth. ‘Like I might get into your computer – and who knows where that could lead?’
The Shrine
The water level was now so low that the riverbank ahead of us snaked away into the distance like a towering wall of mud, topped by an impenetrable tangle of leathery leaves and spidery roots.
To my unaccustomed eyes the matt browns and greens of the landscape looked almost featureless, unreadable. Yet I could tell, from the way that Horen’s eyes kept flickering from detail to detail, that to those who knew what to look for, the forest teemed with signs that could, in fact, be deciphered and read, like some antediluvian script.
Yet in a while even Horen began to look perplexed.
‘As I remember, the dhaam should be somewhere there,’ he said, pointing ahead. ‘But this stretch of river has changed a lot since I was last here.’
In the end it was Tipu who spotted the site, with the help of his binoculars.
‘Oijé!’ he shouted, pointing directly ahead. ‘There it is!’
Pushing up his sunshades Horen squinted at a distant smudge on the riverbank.
‘The boy’s right,’ he grunted. ‘It isn’t where I had thought.’
‘How can that be? It can’t have moved, surely?’
‘It’s the river that’s moved,’ came the answer. ‘When I last saw the place it was still a good way inland. Now it’s at the water’s edge.’
As the steamer drew closer to the site it became clear that to get to the temple we would have to walk across a couple of hundred yards of mud, much of it pierced by spear-like mangrove spores. When I went down to the lower deck I saw that Tipu was already making preparations for the crossing, taking off his shirt and sneakers and rolling his jeans up above his knees. I noticed also that he had lit another stubby little joint and was drawing on it as he changed.
He saw me looking and gave me a wink. ‘How about it Pops?’ he said, holding out the joint. ‘Like a toke? You’ll feel better for it.’
I shook my head brusquely and turned away.
But Tipu wasn’t done with me.
‘And how the hell’re you gonna manage Pops?’ he said, grinning slyly at my trousers and windbreaker. ‘If you go into the mud dressed like that, you’ll come out like this…’ He mimicked a zombie. ‘I’d lose some of those threads if I was you.’
He was right of course. In the end I had to strip down to my underwear and wrap one of Horen’s spare lungis around my waist, like a loincloth. As for my wallet, phone and other equipment, Horen took them from me and placed them inside a locker.
‘None of this will be any use to you if you fall in the mud,’ he said. ‘We can fetch your stuff later if you need it.’
As he was stepping up
to the gangplank, Horen offered me a few pointers on dealing with the mud: ‘Use your big toe like a claw and dig it in – see, like this…’
Then, with his lungi girded around his crotch, he went nimbly down the gangplank and stepped into the soft, shining silt. For a few moments, as he was sinking in, he stayed completely still; only when the sludge was up to his thighs did he pull one foot out, stork-like, and step forward.
‘Be patient!’ he shouted to me over his shoulder. ‘Move very slowly.’
It was all in vain.
I had not imagined that slimy, slithering things would brush against my legs and feet as they were sinking into the almost liquid slurry. I panicked and tried to move ahead without pulling my foot out all the way. Next thing I knew I was lying face down in the velvety, melting mire, with Tipu’s laughter ringing in my ears.
Nor was that my only fall: I tipped over with every second step, even with Tipu and Horen holding my arms. Mud seeped into my mouth, my ears, my eyes: it was as if my body were being reclaimed by the primeval ooze.
It seemed to me then that my eyeglasses were my last connection with civilization and I held them in place with a panicked, maniacal ferocity even though they were plastered with slop, as indeed were my eyes. So completely was I blinded that even when the depth of the mush dwindled to a few inches I still had to be held up and guided by Tipu and Horen. At a certain point I understood that I was climbing up a slope and then stepping over a door frame on to a paved surface.
Tugging at my elbow Horen brought me to a standstill: ‘Stay there! Don’t move!’
I did as I was told, shivering in the January chill, vaguely aware of a clanging, metallic sound somewhere nearby. Suddenly a bucketful of water descended on my head like a shower of ice; it was so cold that I was instantly numbed, unable to move or make a sound. A moment later something – a fingertip – dug into my ear and scraped out a plug of sludge.
