The Hungry Tide

by Amitav Ghosh

  Sitting in his rooms in Kolkata, Piddington-shaheb drafted dozens of letters; he wrote to the planners and surveyors and warned of the dangers; he told them it was crazy to build a town so deep in the tide country. The mangroves were Bengal’s defense against the bay, he said — they served as a barrier against nature’s fury, absorbing the initial onslaught of cyclonic winds, waves and tidal surges. If not for the tide country, the plains would have been drowned long before: it was the mangroves that kept the hinterland alive. Kolkata’s long, winding sea-lane was thus its natural defense against the turbulent energies of the bay; the new port, on the other hand, was dangerously exposed. Given an unfortunate conjunction of winds and tides, even a minor storm would suffice to wash it away; all it would take was a wave stirred up by a cyclone. Driven to desperation, Mr. Piddington even wrote to the viceroy. Begging him to rethink the matter, he made a prediction: if the port was built at this location, he said, it would not last more than fifteen years. There would come a day when a great mass of salt water would rise up in the midst of a cyclone and drown the whole settlement; on this he would stake his reputation, as a man and as a scientist.

  Of course, no one paid any attention; neither the planners nor the laat shaheb had the time to listen. Mr. Piddington, after all, was nothing but a lowly shipping inspector and he stood very low in the Ingrej scale of caste. People began to whisper that he was, well, he was a man so mental, who could blame him if there was a little gondogol in his mind; wasn’t he the one who’d once been heard to say that storms were “wonderful meteors”?

  So the work went on and the port was built. Its streets and strand were laid out, its hotels and houses were painted and made ready, and everything went exactly as planned. One day, with much noise and drum beating the viceroy planted his feet on the Matla’s flanks and gave the town its new name, Port Canning.

  Piddington-shaheb was not invited to the ceremony. On the streets of Kolkata, people laughed and sniggered now when they saw him pass by: Oh, there goes that old matal Piddington. Wasn’t he the one who kept bothering the laat shaheb about his new port? Hadn’t he made a prediction of some kind, staking his reputation?

  Wait, said Piddington, wait — I said fifteen years.

  The Matla took pity on this matal. Fifteen years was a long time and Mr. Piddington had already suffered enough. It let him wait one year, and then one more, and yet another, until five long years had gone by. And then one day, in the year 1867, it rose as if to a challenge and hurled itself upon Canning. In a matter of hours the town was all but gone; only the bleached skeleton remained.

  The destruction came about just as Mr. Piddington had said it would: it was caused not by some great tufaan but by a relatively minor storm. Nor was it the storm’s winds that wrecked the city: it was a wave, a surge. In 1871, four years after the Matla’s uprising, the port was formally abandoned. The port that was to be one of the reigning queens of the eastern oceans, a rival to Bombay, Singapore and Hong Kong, became instead the Matla’s vassal — Canning.

  “BUT AS ALWAYS with Nirmal,” said Kanai, “the last word was reserved for Rilke.”

  He put his hand on his heart and recited aloud:

  “But, oh, how strange the streets of the City of Pain …

  Oh, how an angel could stamp out their market of comforts,

  with the church nearby, bought ready-made, clean,

  shut, and disappointed as a post office on Sunday.

  “So now you know,” said Kanai, as Piya began to laugh. “That is what Canning has been ever since that day in 1867 when the Matla stamped out the laat’s handiwork: a Sunday post office.”

  A KILLING

  THE MEGHA’S CABINS were each outfitted with a raised platform that could be used as a bunk. By piling blankets, pillows and sheets on this ledge, Kanai was able to make himself a bed that was reasonably comfortable, although far from luxurious. He was fast asleep when he was woken by the sound of voices, both near and distant. Reaching for his flashlight, he shone the beam on his watch and discovered it was 3 A.M. The voices of Horen and his grandson were now clearly audible on the upper deck, joined in excited speculation.

  Kanai had gone to sleep in a lungi and vest, and now, as he pushed his blankets aside, he was surprised to find a distinct chill in the air. He decided to wrap a blanket around himself before stepping out of his cabin. Horen and his grandson were close by, leaning on the rails and watching the shore.

  “What’s happened?” said Kanai.

  “It’s not clear,” came the answer, “but something seems to be going on in the village.”

  The flood tide had set in some hours before, and with the boat anchored in midstream there was now close to a mile of water between them and the shore. The night was advanced enough for cottony clouds of mist to have arisen from the water’s surface: although much thinner than the dense fog of dawn, it had still obscured the outlines of the shore. Through this shimmering screen, glowing points of orange flame could be seen moving quickly here and there, as if to suggest that people were running along the shore with burning torches. The villagers’ voices could be heard in the distance, despite the mist’s muffling effect. Even Horen and his grandson were at a loss to think of a reason why so many people would bestir themselves so energetically at this time of night.

  Kanai felt a touch on his elbow and turned to see Piya standing beside him, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes. “What’s up?”

  “We’re all wondering.”

  “Let’s ask Fokir.”

  Kanai went to the bhotbhoti’s stern, with Piya following close behind, and shone his flashlight into the boat below. Fokir was awake, sitting huddled in the center of his boat with a blanket draped around his shoulders. He held up an arm to shield his face and Kanai switched off the beam before leaning over to speak to him.

  “Does he know what’s going on?” Piya inquired.

  “No. But he’s going to take his boat across to find out. He says we can go with him if we like.”

  “Sure.”

  They climbed in, and Horen came to join them, leaving his grandson in charge of the bhotbhoti.

  It took some fifteen minutes to cross over, and as they approached the shore it became clear that the commotion had a distinct focus: it seemed a crowd was congregating around that part of the village where Horen’s relatives lived. As the shore neared, the voices and shouts rose in volume until they had fused into a pulsing, angry sound.

  The noise inspired a peculiar dread in Kanai, and he said, on an impulse, “Piya, I don’t know if we should go any farther.”

  “Why not?”

  “Do you know what those voices remind me of ?” said Kanai.

  “A crowd?”

  “A mob is what I would call it — an angry mob.”

  “A mob?” said Piya. “In a small village?”

  “I know, it’s the last thing you’d expect,” said Kanai. “But if I were just to listen to my ears, I’d say it was a riot, and I’ve been in riots where people were killed. I have a feeling we’re heading into something like that.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Piya scanned the shimmering mist. “Let’s just take a look.”

  Although the tide had peaked some hours before, the water was still high and Fokir had no trouble pushing his boat’s prow beyond the river’s muddy edge. Ahead lay a slope of damp earth, shaded with mangroves and carpeted with roots and seedlings. Fokir had steered the boat close to the point where the crowd had gathered, and beyond the shadow of the embankment the mist was lit by the orange glow of the massed torches.

  Kanai and Piya were picking their way through the mangroves when Horen waved them to a stop. He took the flashlight out of Kanai’s hand and shone it down at his feet. Going over to join him, Kanai and Piya saw that the beam had settled on a mark in the ground. The earth here was neither dry nor wet but pliable, like clay, and it had preserved a stencil-like impression. Neither Kanai nor Piya had any doubt of what it was: the prints were as clearly marked as those of a k
itten daubed on a kitchen floor — only many times larger. The shape was so sharply defined that they could see the very texture of the circular pads and the marks made by the retracted claws. Then Horen shone the beam ahead, and they saw a trail of similar depressions, leading up toward the embankment from the shore. From the trajectory of the marks it was easy to plot the animal’s path: it had crossed over from the forested bank on the far shore of the river and had touched land at almost the same point as their boat.

  Piya said, “It must have passed within sight of the Megha.”

  “I suppose so — but since we were all asleep, it was in no danger of being spotted.”

  When they neared the crest of the embankment Horen pointed to a large mark in the dust and gestured to indicate that this was the place from which the animal had surveyed the village and picked out its prey. Then he made a sign to show that it was probably from here that it had sprung to attack. The old man was beside himself with anxiety now and he went running ahead, with Fokir in close pursuit. Piya and Kanai were a few paces to their rear — and on reaching the top of the embankment their progress was brought to an abrupt halt by the spectacle that lay ahead. By the light of the torches they saw that the village was made up of clusters of mud huts, so arranged as to run parallel to the embankment. Directly in front of them, a few hundred yards away, was a small mud-walled structure with a thatched roof. More than a hundred people had gathered around this little hut. Most of them were men and many were armed with sharpened bamboo poles: these they were plunging into the hut again and again. Their faces were contorted in such a way that they seemed to be in the grip of both extreme fear and uncontrollable rage. Many of the women and children in the crowd were shrieking, “Maar! Maar! Kill! Kill!”

  Kanai spotted Horen on the edge of the crowd, and he and Piya went to join him. “Is this where your relatives live?” said Kanai.

  “Yes,” said Horen, “this is their place.”

  “What happened? What’s going on?”

  “Remember the buffalo giving birth?” Horen said. “That’s what started it. The big cat heard the sound across the water. That’s what brought it here.”

  The hut ahead was a livestock pen, said Horen. It belonged to his relatives, who lived in a larger dwelling nearby. A scant half hour before, the family had been awakened by a crashing sound, followed by frenzied cries from their livestock. They had looked out a window and hadn’t been able to see anything because of the darkness and the mist. But their ears told them all they needed to know: a large and powerful animal had jumped on top of the livestock pen and was trying to claw a hole in the straw roof. A moment later there was a crashing sound to indicate that the predator had succeeded in breaking into the pen.

  There were six grown men in the house and they knew they had been presented with an opportunity unlikely ever to be repeated. This tiger was not new to their village; it had killed two people there and had long been preying on its livestock. Now, for the few minutes it was in the pen, it was vulnerable, because to make its escape it would have to leap vertically through the hole in the roof. Even for a tiger, this would not be a simple feat, not with a calf in its jaws.

  The family had quickly gathered together a number of fishing nets. Then they had made their way outside and flung the nets over the thatch, piling them on, one on top of the other, and tying them down with heavy nylon crab lines. When the tiger tried to make its jump, it got entangled in the lines and fell back into the pen. It was struggling to free itself when one of the boys thrust a sharpened bamboo pole through a window and blinded it.

  Kanai had been translating continuously as Horen was speaking, but at this point Piya stopped him. In a shaking voice she said, “Do you mean to tell me the tiger’s still in there?”

  “Yes,” said Kanai, “that’s what he says. It’s trapped inside and blinded.”

  Piya shook her head as if to wake herself from a nightmare: the scene was so incomprehensible and yet so vivid that it was only now she understood that it was the incapacitated animal that was being attacked with the sharpened staves. She was still absorbing this when the tiger gave voice for the first time. Instantly, the people around the pen dropped their staves and scattered, shielding their faces as if from the force of a detonation; the sound was so powerful that Piya could feel it through the soles of her bare feet as it echoed through the ground. For a moment nobody moved, and then, as it became clear the tiger was still trapped and helpless, the men snatched up their staves and attacked with redoubled fury.

  Piya clutched Kanai’s arm and shouted into his ear, “We have to do something, Kanai. We can’t let this happen.”

  “I wish there was something we could do, Piya,” Kanai said. “But I don’t think there is.”

  “But we can try, Kanai,” she pleaded. “Can’t we?”

  Then Horen whispered something and Kanai took hold of Piya’s arm and tried to turn her away. “Listen, Piya, we should go back now.”

  “Go back? Go back where?”

  “Back to the Megha,” said Kanai.

  “Why?” said Piya. “What’s going to happen?”

  “Piya,” said Kanai, tugging at her hand. “Whatever it is, it’s better you don’t stay here to see this.”

  Piya looked into his face, illuminated by the torches. “What aren’t you telling me?” she said. “What are they going to do?”

  Kanai spat into the dust. “Piya, you have to understand — that animal’s been preying on this village for years. It’s killed two people and any number of cows and goats —”

  “This is an animal, Kanai,” Piya said. “You can’t take revenge on an animal.”

  All around them now people were howling, their faces lit by the dancing flames: “Maar! Maar!” Kanai caught hold of her elbow and tried to lead her away. “It’s too late now, Piya. We should both go.”

  “Go?” said Piya. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to put a stop to this.”

  “Piya,” said Kanai. “You’re dealing with a mob here. They could turn on us too, you know. We’re outsiders.”

  “So you’re just going to stand by and let it happen?”

  “There’s nothing we can do, Piya.” Kanai was shouting now. “Be reasonable. Let’s go.”

  “You can go if you like,” she said, shaking off his hand. “But I’m not going to run off like a coward. If you’re not going to do anything about this, then I will. And Fokir will — I know he will. Where is he?”

  Kanai lifted a finger to point. “There. Look.”

  Rising on tiptoe, Piya saw that Fokir was in the front ranks of the crowd, helping a man sharpen a bamboo pole. Elbowing Kanai aside, she plunged into the throng and fought her way through to Fokir. There was a sudden surge of people around them and she was pushed up against the man who was standing next to Fokir. Now, at close quarters, she saw in the dancing light of the flame that the man’s spear point was stained with blood and that there were bits of black and gold fur stuck between the splinters. It was as if she could see the animal cowering inside the pen, recoiling from the bamboo spears, licking the wounds that had been gouged into its flesh. Reaching for the spear, she snatched it from the man’s hands and placed her foot on it, breaking it in two.

  For a moment the man was too surprised to respond. Then he began to shout at the top of his voice, shaking his fist in Piya’s face. In a minute he was joined by some half-dozen others — young men with shawls wrapped around their heads, shouting words she could not understand. She felt a hand closing on her elbow and looked around to find Fokir standing behind her. At the sight of him, her heart lifted and she was assailed by both hope and a sense of relief: she was certain he would know what to do, that he would find a way to put a stop to what was going on. But instead of coming to her aid, he put his arm around her, pinning her to his chest. He carried her away, retreating through the crowd as she kicked his knees and clawed at his hands. Then she saw a knot of flame arcing over the crowd and falling on the thatch: almost at once, branc
hes of flame sprouted from the roof of the pen. There was another roar, and this was matched a moment later by the voices of the crowd, screaming in a kind of maddened blood lust, “Maar! Maar!” The flames leapt up and people began to stoke them with sticks and straw.

  Piya began to scream as she tried to throw off Fokir’s grip. “Let me go! Let me go!”

  But instead of unloosing her, he turned her around, pinned her to his body and half dragged and half carried her to the embankment. In the light of the leaping flames she saw that Kanai and Horen were already standing there. They gathered around her and led her down the embankment toward the boat.

  Stumbling down the bank, she managed to control herself to the point where she was able to say, in an icy voice, “Fokir! Let me go. Kanai, tell him to let me go.”

  Fokir loosened his grip, but gingerly, and as she stepped away from him, he made a motion as if to prevent her from running back toward the village.

  She could hear the flames crackling in the distance and she smelled the reek of burning fur and flesh. Then Fokir said something to her directly, in her ear, and she turned to Kanai: “What was that? What did he say?”

  “Fokir says you shouldn’t be so upset.”

  “How can I not be upset? That’s the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen — a tiger set on fire.”

  “He says when a tiger comes into a human settlement, it’s because it wants to die.”

  She turned on Fokir, covering her ears with both hands. “Stop it. I don’t want to hear any more of this. Let’s just go.”

  INTERROGATIONS

  DAYLIGHT WAS BREAKING when they stepped back on the Megha, and Horen lost no time in raising the anchor and starting the engine. It was best to get away quickly, he said; there was bound to be trouble once news of the killing reached the Forest Department. In the past, similar incidents had led to riots, shootings and large-scale arrests.