by Amitav Ghosh
“Do you think the bhotbhoti is scaring them off ?”
“Possibly,” said Piya. “Or it could be that they’re just staying submerged until the sound fades. Like this one, for instance — it waited till we were past before it surfaced.”
“Do you think there are fewer dolphins than there used to be?”
“Oh yes,” said Piya. “It’s known for sure that these waters once held large populations of marine mammals.”
“What’s happened to them then?”
“There seems to have been some sort of drastic change in the habitat,” said Piya. “Some kind of dramatic deterioration.”
“Really?” said Kanai. “That was what my uncle felt too.”
“He was right,” said Piya grimly. “When marine mammals begin to disappear from an established habitat it means something’s gone very, very wrong.”
“What could it be, do you think?”
“Where do I begin?” said Piya with a dry laugh. “Let’s not go down that route or we’ll end up in tears.”
Later, when Piya took a break to drink some water, he said, “Is that all you do then? Watch the water like that?”
She seated herself beside him and tipped back her bottle. “Yes,” she said. “There’s a method to it, of course, but basically that’s all I do — I watch the water. Whether I see anything or not, it’s all grist for the mill: all of it’s data.”
He grimaced, miming incomprehension. “Each to their own,” he said. “For myself, I have to say I wouldn’t last a day doing what you do. I’d be bored out of my mind.”
Draining her bottle, she laughed again. “I can understand that,” she said. “But that’s how it is in nature, you know: for a long time nothing happens, and then there’s a burst of explosive activity and it’s over in seconds. Very few people can adapt themselves to that kind of rhythm — one in a million, I’d say. That’s why it was so amazing to come across someone like Fokir.”
“Amazing? Why?”
“You saw how he spotted that dolphin back there, didn’t you?” said Piya. “It’s like he’s always watching the water — even without being aware of it. I’ve worked with many experienced fishermen before but I’ve never met anyone with such an incredible instinct. It’s as if he can see right into the river’s heart.”
Kanai took a moment to chew on this. “So do you think you’re going to go on working with him?”
“I certainly hope he’ll work with me again,” Piya said. “I think we could achieve a lot, working as a team.”
“It sounds as though you’ve got some kind of long-term plan.”
She nodded. “Yes, I do, actually. I’m thinking of a project that could keep me here for many years.”
“Right here? In this area?”
“Yes.”
“Really?” Kanai had assumed Piya’s stay in India would be a brief one and he was surprised to learn she was already contemplating an extended stay — and not in a city, either, but of all places in the tide country, with all its discomforts and utter lack of amenities.
“Are you sure you’d be able to live in a place like this?” said Kanai.
“Sure.” She seemed puzzled he should think to ask this. “Why not?”
“And if you stayed, you’d be working with Fokir?”
She nodded. “I’d like to — but I guess it depends on him.”
“Is there anyone else you could work with?”
“It wouldn’t be the same, Kanai,” Piya said. “Fokir’s abilities as an observer are really extraordinary. I wish I could tell you what it was like to be with him these last few days — it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life.”
A sudden stab of envy provoked Kanai to make a mocking aside. “And all that while you couldn’t understand a word he was saying, could you?”
“No,” she said with a nod of acknowledgment. “But you know what? There was so much in common between us it didn’t matter.”
“Listen,” said Kanai in a flat, harsh voice. “You shouldn’t deceive yourself, Piya: there wasn’t anything in common between you then and there isn’t now. Nothing. He’s a fisherman and you’re a scientist. What you see as fauna he sees as food. He’s never sat in a chair, for heaven’s sake. Can you imagine what he’d do if he was taken on a plane?” Kanai burst out laughing at the thought of Fokir walking down the aisle of a jet in his lungi and vest. “Piya, there’s nothing in common between you at all. You’re from different worlds, different planets. If you were about to be struck by a bolt of lightning, he’d have no way of letting you know.”
Here, as if on cue, Fokir suddenly made himself heard again, shouting over the hammering of the bhotbhoti’s engine, “Kumir!”
“What was that?” Piya broke off and went running to the rear of the deck, and Kanai followed close on her heels.
Fokir was standing braced against his boat’s hood, pointing downriver. “Kumir!”
“What did he see?” said Piya, raising her binoculars.
“A crocodile.”
Kanai felt compelled to underline the moral of this interruption. “You see, Piya,” he said, “if I hadn’t been here to tell you, you’d have had no idea what he’d seen.”
Piya dropped her binoculars and turned to go back to the bow. “You’ve certainly made your point, Kanai,” she said frostily. “Thank you.”
“Wait,” Kanai called out after her. “Piya —” But she was gone and he had to swallow the apology that had come too late to his lips.
Minutes later, she was back in position with her binoculars fixed to her eyes, watching the water with a closeness of attention that reminded Kanai of a textual scholar poring over a yet undeciphered manuscript: it was as though she were puzzling over a codex that had been authored by the earth itself. He had almost forgotten what it meant to look at something so ardently — an immaterial thing, not a commodity nor a convenience nor an object of erotic interest. He remembered that he too had once concentrated his mind in this way; he too had peered into the unknown as if through an eyeglass — but the vistas he had been looking at lay deep in the interior of other languages. Those horizons had filled him with the desire to learn of the ways in which other realities were conjugated. And he remembered too the obstacles, the frustration, the sense that he would never be able to bend his mouth around those words, produce those sounds, put sentences together in the required way, a way that seemed to call for a recasting of the usual order of things. It was pure desire that had quickened his mind then and he could feel the thrill of it even now — except now that desire was incarnated in the woman who was standing before him in the bow, a language made flesh.
AN INTERRUPTION
KANAI HAD BEEN LOOKING for an opportunity to speak to Horen about Nirmal’s notebook, and he thought he had found it when the Megha entered a stretch of open water. He stepped up to the wheelhouse and held up the notebook. “Do you recognize this?” he said to Horen.
Horen’s eyes flickered away from the water for an instant. “Yes,” Horen said in a quiet, matter-of-fact voice. “Saar gave it to me, to keep for you.”
Kanai was deflated by the brevity of his response. Considering how often Horen figured in Nirmal’s notes, he had expected that the sight of it would trigger, if not a flow of sentiment, certainly a few fond reminiscences.
“He mentions you several times,” Kanai said, hoping this would catch his interest. But Horen merely shrugged without taking his eyes off the water.
Kanai saw that he would have to work hard to get anything at all out of Horen. Was this reticence habitual, or was he just suspicious of outsiders? It was hard to tell.
“What happened to it?” Kanai persisted. “Where was it all these years?”
Horen cleared his throat. “It got lost,” he said.
“How?”
“I’ll tell you, since you’ve asked,” Horen said. “After Saar gave it to me, I took it home and wrapped it in plastic and glued it together so that the damp wouldn’t get into it. Then I put
it in the sun, for the glue to dry. But one of the children — maybe Fokir — must have found it and thought it was a plaything. They hid it in the thatch and forgot, as children do. I looked everywhere for it, but it had disappeared. Then I forgot all about it.”
“So how did it turn up again?”
“I’m getting to that,” Horen said in his slow, deliberate voice. “Last year I had my old home torn down so that I could put up a new house made of brick and cement. That was when it was found. When they brought it to me I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to send it by post because I was sure the address wouldn’t be good anymore. I didn’t want to take it to Mashima either — it’s been years since she’s spoken to me. But I remembered that Moyna goes often to the Guest House, so I gave it to her. ‘Put it in Saar’s old study,’ I said. ‘They’ll find it when it’s time.’ That’s all that happened.”
He closed his mouth firmly as if to say that he had no more to offer on this subject.
THE MEGHA HAD BEEN on the water for some three hours when Piya heard the engine skip a beat. She was still on effort, on the upper deck, but there had been no sightings since that one Gangetic dolphin earlier in the day, and this had only sharpened her eagerness to get to the Orcaella’s pool: a breakdown now, when they were so close, would be a real setback. Without interrupting her vigil, she tuned her ears to the engine, listening keenly. To her relief, the machine quickly resumed its noisy rhythm.
The respite was short: fifteen minutes later there was another hiccup, followed by a hollow sputtering and a few tired coughs and then, all too suddenly, total silence. The engine died, leaving the Megha stranded in the middle of a mohona.
Piya guessed that the delay would be a long one and she was too disappointed even to ask questions. Knowing that the news would come to her soon enough, she stayed in position, scanning the wind-whipped water.
Presently, just as she had expected, Kanai came to stand beside her. “Bad news, Piya.”
“We’re not going to make it today?”
“Probably not.”
Raising a hand, Kanai pointed across the mohona. There was a small village on the far shore, he explained, and Horen was confident that the Megha could make it there by coasting on the currents. He had relatives in the village and he knew of someone there who’d be able to fix the engine. If all went well, they might be ready to leave for Garjontola the next morning.
Piya pulled a face. “I guess we don’t have many options at this point, do we?”
“No,” said Kanai. “We really don’t.”
Horen, already in the wheelhouse, soon brought the bow around, to point in the direction of the distant village. In a while it became clear that the bhotbhoti had begun to drift across the mohona. Although the tide had turned and the currents were in their favor, their progress was painfully slow. By the time their destination came into view the day was all but over.
The village they were heading for was not directly on the mohona’s banks: it stood in a more sheltered location, on the banks of a channel about a mile wide. With the tide at a low ebb, the riverbank now towered high above the water and nothing of the village was visible from the deck; all that could be seen was the crest of the embankment, where knots of people had gathered, as if to await the Megha’s arrival. As the bhotbhoti edged closer, a few men were seen wading into the mud, waving their arms in welcome. In response, Horen leaned over the rail and shouted to them through cupped hands. A short while later a boat came cannoning down the mudbank and pulled up alongside. There were two men inside, one of whom was introduced as Horen’s relative, a fisherman who lived in the nearby village; the other was his friend, a part-time mechanic. There was an extended round of introductions and greetings and then Horen disappeared below deck with the visitors. Soon the bhotbhoti’s timbers began to ring to the sound of the mechanic’s tools. The sun went down to the accompaniment of much banging and hammering.
A little later, the twilight was pierced by an anguished animal sound: a frantic, pain-filled lowing that brought both Kanai and Piya racing out of their cabins, flashlights in hand.
The same thought had come to both of them. “An attack, you think?” said Piya.
“Can’t tell.”
Kanai leaned over the rail to shout a question to Horen, below deck. The hammering fell silent for a second and then a burst of loud laughter came echoing up.
“What’s the deal?” said Piya.
“I asked if there had been an attack,” said Kanai with a smile, “and they said it was just a water buffalo giving birth.”
“How do they know?” said Piya.
“They know because the buffalo belongs to Horen’s relative,” said Kanai. “He lives right by the embankment — over there.”
Piya laughed. “I guess we were being a little too jumpy.” Knitting her fingers together, she did a long stretch and followed this with a yawn. “I think I’ll go to bed early today.”
“Again?” said Kanai sharply. Then, as if to conceal his disappointment, he said, “No dinner?”
“I’ll have a nutrition bar,” said Piya. “That’ll keep me going till tomorrow. What about you: are you going to stay up late?”
“Yes,” said Kanai. “I’m going to eat dinner, as most mortals do. Then I’m going to stay up and finish reading my uncle’s notebook.”
“Are you close to the end now?”
“Yes,” said Kanai. “Close enough.”
ALIVE
I was still unwell when we returned to Lusibari, and Nilima put the blame for this purely on Horen: “It’s your fault,” she said to him. “You’re the one who’s been taking him to Morichjhãpi. Now look at the state he’s in.”
And it was true I was not well — my head was filled with dreams, visions, fears. Long days went by when I could not get out of my bed: all I did was lie awake and read Rilke in English and Bangla.
To me she spoke more gently: “Didn’t I tell you not to go? Didn’t I tell you it would come to this? If you want to do something useful, why don’t you help with the Trust, with the hospital? There’s so much to be done; why won’t you do it right here in Lusibari? Why must you go to Morichjhãpi?”
“You don’t understand, Nilima.”
“Why, Nirmal?” she said. “Tell me, because I’ve heard rumors. Everybody is speaking of it. Does it have something to do with Kusum?”
“How can you say that, Nilima? Have I ever given you cause for suspicion before?”
Now Nilima began to cry. “Nirmal, that’s not what people say. There are ugly rumors afloat.”
“Nilima, it’s beneath you to believe in these rumors.”
“Then bring Kusum here; tell her to work for the Trust. And you can do the same.”
How could I explain to her that there was nothing I could do for the Trust that many others could not do better? I would be no more than a hand pushing a pen, a machine, a mechanical toy. But as for Morichjhãpi, Rilke himself had shown me what I could do. In one verse I had found a message written for my eyes only, filled with hidden meaning.When the time came I would receive a sign and then I would know what I had to do. For the Poet himself had told me:
This is the time for what can be said. Here is its country. Speak and testify . . .
Days, weeks went by and there came again a time when I felt well enough to leave my bed to go up to my study. I spent my mornings and afternoons there: long swaths of empty time spent gazing at the mohona as it filled and emptied, filled and emptied, day after day, as untiring as the earth itself.
One day I headed down a little earlier than usual after my afternoon rest. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Nilima’s voice, speaking to someone in the Guest House. I knew who it was, for I had spoken to him briefly the night before. He was a doctor, a visiting psychiatrist from Calcutta. Now Nilima was telling him she was very afraid — for me. She had heard of something that was sure to upset me; she wanted to know how best I could be shielded from learning of it.
“And wha
t news is this?” the doctor said.
“It won’t mean anything to you, Daktar-babu,” Nilima said. “It has to do with an island called Morichjhãpi, which has been occupied by refugees from Bangladesh. They simply will not leave, and now I believe the government in Calcutta is going to take very strong action to evict them.”
“Oh, these refugees!” said the doctor. “Such a nuisance. But of what concern is this to your husband? Does he know anyone on that island? What are they to him and he to them?”
I heard Nilima hesitate and clear her throat. “Doctor, you don’t understand,” she said. “Ever since his retirement, my husband, having little else to do, has chosen to involve himself in the fate of these settlers in Morichjhãpi. He does not believe that a government such as the one we have now would act against them. He is an old leftist, you see, and unlike many such, he truly believed in those ideals; many of the men who are now in power were his friends and comrades. My husband is not a practical man; his experience of the world is very limited. He does not understand that when a party comes to power, it must govern; it is subject to certain compulsions. I am afraid that if he learns of what is going to happen, he will not be able to cope with the disillusionment — it will be more than he can bear.”
“It’s best not to let him know,” the doctor said. “There’s no telling what he might do.”
“Tell me, Doctor,” Nilima said, “do you think it would be best to sedate him for a few days?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I think that might be wise.”
I did not need to listen anymore. I went to my study and threw a few things into my jhola. Then I crept silently downstairs and went hurrying to the village. Fortunately there was a ferry waiting and it took me straight to Satjelia, where I went to look for Horen.
“We have to go, Horen,” I said to him. “I’ve heard there’s going to be an attack on Morichjhãpi.”
He knew more than I did; he had heard rumors that busloads of outsiders were assembling in the villages around the island; they were people such as had never before been seen in the tide country, hardened men from the cities, criminals, gangsters. Morichjhãpi was now completely encircled by police boats; it was all but impossible to get in or out.
