by Amitav Ghosh
But here, the ghosts of these creatures seemed to be quieted by their surroundings. The spell of Fokir’s fingers was broken only when a breeze carried the acrid odor of burning chilies directly into her face. And then suddenly the phantoms came alive again, clawing at her throat and her eyes, attacking her as though she were an enemy who had crossed over undetected. She retreated to the bow and when he followed her there, with a plateful of rice and cooked crab, she fended him off with her protein bars and her bottled water, smiling and bobbing her head in apology, to show she meant no offense.
He accepted her refusal with a readiness that surprised her; she had expected protests, exclamations, a show of being wounded or hurt. But there was none of that; instead, he gave her a nod and a long, cool look of appraisal, as though he were mentally going through a list of reasons why she might decline to accept food from his hands. It alarmed her that he might imagine that it was for some mysterious reason of caste or religion that she had refused to eat his food, so she placed a hand on her belly and acted out a little charade of her intestinal sufferings. This seemed to serve the purpose, for he laughed, throwing his head back, and gave the plate to Tutul, who devoured it greedily.
After the meal, the utensils and the stove were put back in the hold and an armload of mats and blankets was taken out. Tutul, already drowsy, unrolled one of the mats under the shelter and fell asleep quickly, with a blanket pulled over his head. Unfurling a second mat, next to the boy’s, Fokir made a sign to Piya, indicating that this was to be her place for the night. But she had a mat of her own, a thin sheet of blue foam tied to the frame of one of her backpacks. Undoing the bungee cord that held it in place, she unrolled the mat so that its head was pointing toward the bow, almost touching the boat’s rounded prow.
He started in alarm on realizing that this was where she was planning to spend the night. Shaking his head, he raised a finger of warning to point to the forested shores in the distance. The gesture was intentionally vague, and only by inference did she understand that his warning concerned an animal, a predator. And now at last she had an inkling of why the boat had been anchored in this odd position: was it perhaps to put it beyond the reach of tigers? She had never had much interest in terrestrial carnivores, but she could not imagine that even the hungriest of them would choose to stage an attack so far from shore. And if it did, what difference would it make whether you were in the stern or the bow? Presumably the whole boat would tip over under a tiger’s weight.
There was a cumulative absurdity about these propositions that made her smile. To include him in the joke, she made her hands into claws, as if to mime a tiger. But before she could complete the gesture, he clamped his hands on her wrists, vehemently shaking his head, as if to forbid her from making any reference to the subject. She decided it was best to shrug the matter off and, smoothing her mat, she lay down. This seemed the most economical way of letting him know that she was not going to spend the night huddled in the shelter for fear of an aquatic feline. To her great relief, he accepted this without protest. Removing the sari from the thatched hood, he folded it into a pillow and handed it to her, along with one of his grimy gray blankets.
Then, retreating to the center of the boat, he draped a blanket over his shoulders and lit a biri. In a while, just as she was drifting off to sleep, she heard a snatch of a tune and realized he was humming. She raised herself on her elbow and said, “Sing.” He gave her a puzzled glance and she responded by making an upward gesture with an open palm. “Louder. Sing louder.”
At this he tilted his head back and sang a few notes. The melody surprised her, for it bore no resemblance to any Indian music she had ever heard before — neither the Hindi film music her father liked nor the Bengali songs her mother had sometimes sung. His voice sounded almost hoarse and it seemed to crack and sob as it roamed the notes. There was a suggestion of grief in it that unsettled and disturbed her.
She had thought that she had seen a muscular quality of innocence in him, a likable kind of naïveté, but now, listening to this song, she began to ask herself whether it was she who was naïve. She would have liked to know what he was singing about and what the lyrics meant — but she knew too that a river of words would not be able to tell her exactly what made the song sound as it did right then, in that place.
THE GLORY OF BON BIBI
KUSUM WAS FROM the nearby island of Satjelia. Her father had died while foraging for firewood in a place that was off-limits to villagers. He had not been in possession of a permit at the time, so Kusum’s mother had received no compensation. With no means of livelihood she was reduced to a state of such destitution that she considered herself fortunate when a man from their village, a landowner by the name of Dilip Choudhury, had offered to find her a job in the city.
Knowing that he had found employment for other women, Kusum’s mother could see no reason why she should not accept Dilip’s offer. Leaving Kusum with relatives, she had gone off with him to take the train to Calcutta. Returning alone, Dilip had told Kusum that her mother was doing housework for a good family and would send for her shortly. That time came soon enough: a month or so later, Dilip came to see Kusum and told her that her mother had sent word, asking him to bring Kusum to Calcutta.
It was at this stage that Horen Naskor had gotten to know of Dilip’s plan. Horen had worked with Kusum’s father, and he also happened to be distantly related to Kusum through his wife. He had sought her out and warned her that Dilip was linked to a gang that trafficked in women. What kind of job could this procurer have found for Kusum’s mother? She was probably trapped in a brothel somewhere in Sonargachhi. As for Kusum, she was of much greater value to Dilip than her mother had been — young girls like her were known to fetch large sums of money. If Dilip had his way, she would end up either in Calcutta’s red-light district or, worse still, in some brothel in Bombay. Instead, Horen had brought Kusum to Lusibari and put her in the custody of the Women’s Union. Pending some more permanent arrangement, all the Union’s members, in turn, would look after her.
During the months she had spent in Lusibari, Kusum had come to know the island well, and she became Kanai’s guide and mentor: she told him about its people and their children and about everything happening around it — cockfights and pujas, births and deaths. Kanai, for his part, would tell her about his school, his friends and the ways of the city. Although to him these stories seemed pale in comparison with hers, she would listen with rapt attention, breaking in from time to time to ask questions.
“Do you think I can come to the city with you?” she asked once. “I’d like to see where you live.”
This silenced Kanai. It amazed him that Kusum should even ask such a question. Did she have no idea at all of how things worked? He tried to think of taking her home to Calcutta, and cringed to imagine the tone of voice in which his mother would speak to her and the questions the neighbors would ask. “Is that your new jhi? But don’t you already have that other maid coming to do the washing and sweeping? Why do you need this one?”
“You wouldn’t like Calcutta,” Kanai said at length. “You wouldn’t feel at home.”
It was from Kusum that Kanai learned that a troupe of traveling actors was soon to come to Lusibari to stage performances of The Glory of Bon Bibi. He had heard mention of this story a couple of times on the island but was unsure about its particulars. When he asked Kusum about it, she gasped as if in shock: “You mean you don’t know the story of Bon Bibi?”
“No.”
“Then whom do you call on when you’re afraid?”
Unable to untangle the implications of this, Kanai changed the subject. But the question nagged at his mind, and later in the day he asked Nirmal about the story of Bon Bibi.
Nirmal waved him airily away. “It’s just a tale they tell around here. Don’t bother yourself with it. It’s just false consciousness, that’s all it is.”
“But tell me about it.”
“Horen is the one you should ask,” said Nirm
al. “If you did, he would tell you that Bon Bibi rules over the jungle, that the tigers, crocodiles and other animals do her bidding. Haven’t you noticed the little shrines outside the houses here? The statues are of Bon Bibi. You would think that in a place like this people would pay close attention to the true wonders of the reality around them. But no, they prefer the imaginary miracles of gods and saints.”
“But tell me the story,” said Kanai. “Who is it about? What happens?”
“It’s all the usual stuff.” Nirmal threw up his hands in impatience. “Gods, saints, animals, demons. It’s too long for me to tell. Better you find out for yourself. Go to the performance.”
The stage for The Glory of Bon Bibi was erected on the open expanse of Lusibari’s maidan, between the compound of Hamilton House and the school. Its design was so simple that it took less than a day to set up. The floor, a few planks of wood, was laid on a trestle and enclosed within an open scaffolding of bamboo poles. During performances, sheets of painted cloth were suspended from the poles at the rear. These served as backdrops for the audience and as screens for the actors, so they could eat, smoke and change costume out of public view. Several large, hissing gas lamps illuminated the spectacle, and music was provided by a battery-operated cassette recorder and loudspeakers.
As a rule, night came early to Lusibari. Candles and lamps were expensive and used as sparingly as possible. People ate their evening meal in the glow of twilight, and by the time darkness fell, the island had usually fallen silent except for the few animal sounds that carried across the water. For this reason, a nighttime diversion was a major occasion, the anticipation of which provided at least as much pleasure as the event itself. Great numbers of people, Kanai and Kusum among them, stayed up night after night to attend the performances.
For Kanai the greatest surprise came right at the start of the show. This was because the story of the tiger goddess did not begin either in the heavens or on the banks of the Ganga, like the mythological tales with which he was familiar. Instead, the opening scene was set in a city in Arabia and the backdrop was painted with mosques and minarets.
The setting was Medina, one of the holiest places in Islam; here lived a man called Ibrahim, a childless but pious Muslim who led the austere life of a Sufi faqir. Through the intervention of the archangel Gabriel, Ibrahim became the father of blessed twins, Bon Bibi and Shah Jongoli. When the twins came of age, the archangel brought them word that they had been chosen for a divine mission: they were to travel from Arabia to “the country of eighteen tides” — athhero bhatir desh — in order to make it fit for human habitation. Thus charged, Bon Bibi and Shah Jongoli set off for the mangrove forests of Bengal, dressed in the simple robes of Sufi mendicants.
The jungles of the country of eighteen tides were then the realm of Dokkhin Rai, a powerful demon-king who held sway over every being that lived there — every animal as well as every ghoul, ghost and malevolent spirit. Toward mankind he harbored a hatred coupled with insatiable desire: for the pleasures afforded by human flesh he had a craving that knew no limit.
One day Dokkhin Rai heard strange new voices in the jungle calling out the azán, the Muslim call to prayer; this was his notice that Bon Bibi and Shah Jongoli had come into his realm. Rousing his hordes, the incensed demon set upon the trespassers, only to be put to rout in a pitched battle. But Bon Bibi was merciful in victory, and she decided that one half of the tide country would remain a wilderness; this part of the forest she left to Dokkhin Rai and his demon hordes. The rest she claimed for herself, and under her rule this once forested domain was soon made safe for human settlement. Thus order was brought to the land of eighteen tides, with its two halves, the wild and the sown, being held in careful balance. All was well until human greed intruded to upset this order.
On the edges of the tide country lived a man called Dhona, who had put together a fleet of seven ships in the hope of making a fortune in the jungle. Dhona’s fleet was about to set sail when it was discovered that the crew was one man short of a full complement. The only person at hand was a young lad called Dukhey, “sorrowful,” a name nothing if not apt, for this boy had long been cursed with misfortune: as a child he had lost his father and now lived in abject poverty with his old and ailing mother. It was with the greatest reluctance that the old woman allowed her son to go, and at the time of leave-taking she gave him a last word of advice: were he ever to find himself in trouble, he was to call on Bon Bibi; she was the savior of the weak and a mother of mercy to the poor; she was sure to come to his aid.
The expedition set off and wound its way down the rivers of the tide country until at last it came to an island by the name of Kedokhali Char. It so happened that this island fell within Dokkhin Rai’s territory, and unknown to the sailors, the demon-king had already prepared a surprise for them. When they went into the forest strange things began to happen: they were given tantalizing glimpses of plump hives hanging from branches, but when they approached, the hives seemed to disappear, only to reappear again at a distance. They could not avail themselves of even one, and Dhona was reduced to despair. But that night Dokkhin Rai revealed himself to Dhona in a dream and proposed a pact in which they would each provide for the satisfaction of the other’s desires. The demon wanted the boy that Dhona had brought on his boat; it was an age since he had been able to sate his appetite for human beings, and he was now riven with a longing for the taste of Dukhey’s flesh. In exchange he would give Dhona wealth beyond imagining, as much as could be carried on the boats.
Overcome by greed, Dhona assented to the bargain and at once the creatures of the forest, the demons and ghosts, even the bees themselves, began to load Dhona’s boats with a great cargo of honey and wax. Soon the vessels were full and could carry no more and then it was time for Dhona to keep his part of the bargain. Summoning Dukhey, he told him to go ashore to fetch some firewood.
The boy had no recourse but to obey, and on his return found his worst misgivings confirmed: the ships were gone. As he stood alone on the bank, trapped between river and forest, his eye caught a shimmer of black and gold — he was being stalked by a tiger, hidden in the greenery on the far shore. The animal was none other than Dokkhin Rai in disguise, and the demon shook the earth with a roar as he started his charge. At the sight of that immense body and those vast jowls, flapping in the wind like sails, mortal terror seized Dukhey’s soul. Even as he was losing consciousness, he recalled his mother’s parting words and called out, “O Mother of Mercy, Bon Bibi, save me, come to my side!”
Bon Bibi was far away, but she crossed the waters in an instant. She revived the boy, taking him into her lap while her brother, Shah Jongoli, dealt a terrible chastisement to the demon. Then, transporting Dukhey to her home, she nursed him back to health. When it was time for him to return, she sent him back to his mother with a treasure trove of honey and wax. Thus did Bon Bibi show the world the law of the forest, which was that the rich and greedy would be punished while the poor and righteous were rewarded.
Kanai had expected to be bored by this rustic entertainment: in Calcutta he was accustomed to going to theaters like the Academy of Fine Arts and cinemas like the Globe. But much to his surprise he was utterly absorbed, and after the show had ended was unable to erase some of the scenes from his mind. The terror he had felt when the demon charged Dukhey was real and immediate, even though there was nothing convincing about the tiger, and it could be plainly seen that the animal was only a man dressed in a painted sheet and a mask. No less real were the tears of joy and gratitude that flowed from his eyes when Bon Bibi appeared at Dukhey’s side. Nor was he the only one: everyone in the audience wept, although the actress’s arrival was anything but instantaneous. On the contrary, the audience had actually had to hurry her along, because as Dukhey lay unconscious with the tiger poised to devour him, she had stopped to lean over the side of the stage in order to clear her mouth of a great wad of paan. But the flow of the story was such that none of this seemed to matter, and even
before the performance had ended Kanai knew he wanted to see it again.
THE LAST PERFORMANCE of The Glory of Bon Bibi was something of a special event, and many people came in from other islands. The crowd was much rowdier than on other days and Kanai kept to the maidan’s fringes, watching from a distance. By this time he knew the first part of the show well enough to be bored by it. At a certain point he dozed off, and found on waking that he was sitting next to Kusum. “What’s happening?” he whispered. “Where have they got to?” There was no answer; she was so rapt by the performance that she seemed oblivious of his presence. Her absorption prompted him to glance at the stage, and he saw that he had slept longer than he had thought. The action was well advanced now: Dhona and his fleet had arrived at Kedokhali Char and would soon make his pact with the devil.
“Kusum?” whispered Kanai, and when she turned briefly to look at him he saw, in the reflected glow of the gas lamps, that she was biting her lip and her face was streaked with tears. Having seen for himself the emotions the story could evoke, he was not particularly surprised to see she was crying. But then, when she suddenly leaned over to bury her face in her knees, he knew there was more at issue here than could be accounted for by the performance alone. On an impulse, thinking to console her, he slid his hand along the ground, hoping to find her fingers. But her hand was not where he had expected it to be, and instead he found his fist entangled in the folds of her frock. His fingers grew frantic as he tried to extricate them, and instead of finding their way out they encountered a soft and unexpectedly warm part of her body. The shock sparked by this contact passed through both of them like a bolt of electricity.
Suppressing a cry, she jumped to her feet and went stumbling into the darkness. He would have run after her right then, but some furtive instinct of prudence prompted him to think of how this might look to watching eyes. He waited a minute or two and then pretended to head in the other direction. Circling back in the shadows, he caught up with her as she was nearing the compound of Hamilton House: “Kusum — wait! Stop!”
