Brian on the Brahmaputra

by David Fletcher

  Brian minded this not in the least. He reckoned he could have sat on the front of this boat for days just looking at what was around him. And what was around him was a series of vast islands, all covered in those famous mangroves, with at their edges, smooth banks of mud studded with mangrove “knees”. These were the strange spiky excrescences of the “front-line” mangroves, the handful of mangrove species out of the forty or so mangrove types that lived here, which could withstand this very on-the-edge existence, and whose muddy roots formed an eerie intertwined backdrop to the banks themselves. These roots also provided a home – for a number of crabs, for the occasional adventurous mud-skipper and for the even more occasional wader. For birds here were certainly not common, and minutes could pass on the boat without any at all being seen.

  Again, this wasn’t a problem for Brian, or for most of the group. The very infrequency of bird sightings made them all the more rewarding when they were made. And they provided a real challenge for everybody – and a real opportunity. For we are now back to those “group dynamics”, everybody’s desire to enhance his or her neighbours’ enjoyment. And what better way than to announce that in the distance, along the bank of the channel, there was a white-bellied sea eagle. So by the time it came into full view, Derek and Dennis would already be in record-mode with their videos, Pauline and Yvonne would have selected the right camera or the right lens or whatever, and everyone else would know where to point their binoculars.

  This worked very well. There were soon constant sightings being announced on board the boat, with the “one o’clock”, “eleven o’clock” and so on directions becoming almost reliable, even when offered by the less spatially aware members of the party. And no matter of what gender, everybody was bloody good at spotting things. This was a well seasoned group, made up of amateur naturalists who between them had spent literally thousands of hours looking for the slightest movement of the smallest creature in order to satisfy their desire to see a particular bird or a particular small critter, and who almost without fail could be relied upon to distinguish between the motion of a fluttering leaf and that of a passerine’s tail. They were good, and with the stimulation of this mutual society of literal Nature-seekers, they were very good indeed.

  In fact, they were so good they reinforced Brian’s long-held belief that if the authorities in Britain insisted on retaining the ridiculous jury system there, then they should at least have the decency to draw the juries from the ranks of just bird watchers. His reasoning was along these lines:

  The jury system was an overhang from the times when a peasant population had to be given confidence in a new legal system by their own involvement in it. And as they all knew what a pig was and what stealing was, there was a fairly good chance that they’d be able to get their heads round a charge of pig stealing and some sort of real justice might be achieved. Sadly those times have long since passed and the jury system is now nothing more than a very inefficient and very unreliable machine, the principal purpose of which is not to secure justice but instead to enrich lawyers.

  Brian had never forgotten that old exam question; ‘Either I get better justice by paying Sir Timothy Arbuthnot twenty guineas than by paying Mr Bunk two guineas, or I do not. If I do, justice is bought, contrary to Magna Carta. If I do not, the legal profession is obtaining its money under false pretences. Discuss.’ He had also never forgotten the answer: ‘Justice is bought (contrary to Magna Carta) because Sir Timothy Arbuthnot can confuse, mislead and cajole a jury more ably than can Mr Bunk – and that’s why he is paid so much more.’ He could not, however, if he did not have a jury. Or if he had a jury made up only of bird watchers…

  Then, his advocacy could be ignored. The bird watchers, rather than being duped by his words, would instead focus on the impact of these words on the accused and on the witnesses. They would study these various players in the courtroom, and they would observe their very smallest movements… They would watch their faces and their bodies and they would be on the lookout for the slightest tick, the slightest flicker of doubt, the slightest flutter of eyes. Or even a discreet shift in buttocks. Or anything at all that might indicate where the truth might lie and who was and who wasn’t telling it. In this way they would establish an individual’s guilt or innocence free from the distortion of advocacy and all through their highly developed sense of observation and their ability to spot that tiniest of movements.

  The Nature-seekers aboard this boat would be ideal. They were all intelligent, they were all (common) sensible, and they were all mature without being senile – a combination of qualities which in themselves would put them at the pinnacle of jury quality. But on top of this, and critical to their role as an “observing jury”, it would be difficult to find a collection of other souls who would be quite so proficient in the art of micro-surveillance. There were twenty eyes here that would be able to see the truth in a courtroom within no time at all, and that might prove as much a problem for the earning power of the legal profession as they would for those other miscreants in the dock.

  But for now it was not the truth they were seeking, just the whereabouts of avian wildlife, and Brian’s new criminal justice system would have to wait for another day. In any event, who would want to serve in it? Better to use those skills in the field than in the so-called halls of justice. Far more sensible and far more rewarding. For example, one might see a little egret, like the one up that creek there. ‘Or how about that rose-ringed parakeet there? And isn’t that a pied kingfisher on that branch? And look, just behind him, it’s a white-throated… And actually isn’t that a pair of them?’

  And so it went on until Tina, who was sitting immediately in front of the wheelhouse, announced that she had spotted a new landing-stage. It was their destination, another caged-in lookout where they would disembark (carefully) to scan the forest for other wildlife.

  However, it all turned out to be rather disappointing. The lookout was not in the caged area itself but at the end of a very long raised walkway leading off this area and protected on both sides by more amazingly high chain-link. It was so hot now that nothing was stirring. The walk to the lookout therefore proved fruitless, as did the view from the top of its tower. The only point of interest was the tower itself. It tilted. It had been built with concrete, presumably vertically, but like the leaning tower of Pisa, it was vertical no more. The weight of the concrete had clearly been far too great for the earth on which it rested, and the tower was now in slow-motion toppling-over mode; slow enough, Brian hoped, that it would not have fallen to the ground before they’d left it. It didn’t. But it did provide a very strange sensation as one climbed its stairs – and an unmistakeable sensation of intense heat on one’s head as one gazed from its top. The sun was now fiery. It beat down with an almost vindictive intensity. So much so, in fact, that most of the party soon sought refuge from its rays in a small patch of shade at the tower’s base, and there they stood sweating profusely. Brian was clearly not alone in having lost interest in the invisible fauna – and having instead developed a longing for the relief of some liquid refreshment.

  Sujan got the message and soon he was leading his charges back to the boat and to a welcome round of tea and coffee. Much revived, the party settled down for the return journey. Dennis had a doze, Alan applied sun lotion to his exposed knees and almost everybody else indulged in some serious coughing. Whatever they had all caught was not to be relieved by caffeine or tannin or by the heat of the day. In fact the heat seemed to make things worse. Maybe all that throat lubrication was leaking out through their skins, and their throats were suffering more than ever.

  Nevertheless nobody succumbed to the affliction with terminal consequences, and the full party was still intact as the boat pulled up to the Mayan steps again. It was now nearly full tide, so disembarkation was not fraught with quite the degree of danger they’d experienced on the way out. Nevertheless Lynn’s demonstration had been taken to heart, and the Nature-seekers didn’t so much walk up the sta
ircase in one single action as plod up it in a series of slow and deliberate steps. Nobody wanted to injure him or herself before lunch.

  This meal proved as agreeable as ever; curry under powerful fans and with beer. What more could one ask for? Well, in this heat, a post-prandial period of complete inactivity under another fan. All the Nature-seekers retired to their cabins, and if they had any sense they did exactly what Brian and Sandra did, which was to put the room fan on to full blast, take off all their clothes and lie as still as possible on the bed not even thinking about England. It really was the only thing to do in what was turning out to be the hottest day so far on their Indian odyssey. And they needed the rest. Nature-seeking was due to kick off again at 3.30 sharp. There was another lookout to visit.

  On the way to this one Brian thought he saw a crocodile. It was no more than a glimpse of not even a small movement, but just something that caught his attention in the shadows of a small creek. But he’d called it. It’s what everybody did now. And the master of the boat began to turn his vessel around to make another pass of the creek’s entrance and so confirm the spot. Brian immediately felt exposed and nervous. Had he really seen anything at all?

  Initially it appeared he hadn’t. The mangrove bank had a number of small creeks along its length, and he couldn’t even remember in which one he’d seen his croc. But then there it was; not a big one but a real one and the first they’d seen. Bill made a point of congratulating him. Brian’s indiscretions on the subject of snipes had clearly been completely forgotten and he was therefore free to bathe himself in what was now the unanimous gratitude of the company. He was unduly delighted and now keener than ever to spot a tiger as well…

  That achievement wasn’t forthcoming. Instead he had to console himself with the sight of a water monitor – spotted first by Sujan as they approached the landing-stage of the next lookout location. It was brown, about five feet long, and it was creeping along the muddy bank. Maybe, thought Brian, it was a good omen for this new destination.

  He was right. Where the previous lookout had furnished them with only potential heatstroke and not even scraps of wildlife, this one furnished them with a veritable banquet of the stuff. It overlooked a large excavated lagoon beyond its cage perimeter, and as soon as they arrived there so too did the animals and the birds. There were three more monitors waddling their way towards the lagoon’s water along a cleared path, and there, just within the cover of the forest, were some deer. Then they emerged into full view, three beautiful spotted deer, grazing unconcernedly at the water’s edge and, in the sunlight of the late afternoon, looking more beautiful than was possible. They were truly exquisite, and Brian thought, truly exposed. If there was a tiger about, one of them might not be grazing for much longer. And as much as Brian wanted to see a tiger, he knew very well that he didn’t want to see one in action. Especially if it involved one of these gorgeous creatures. He knew how he was and how he’d reacted to a leopard kill in Botswana. The cat had taken an adult baboon. He hadn’t seen the kill itself, just the post-kill feeding at close quarters. And to see the butchering in such bloody detail was, he had to admit, fascinating, but it was also a little stomach-churning. In particular there were the sounds of the butchering, the sounds you never hear on a wildlife programme on the telly, the sounds of teeth on bone and teeth through bone. No, tigers could wait. Indefinitely if they liked. Brian was quite content with these grazers, and with what else was on show…

  For the trees around the lookout were full of birds. There were oriental magpie-robins, jungle mynahs, a rare forest wagtail – and a fabulous orange-breasted green pigeon.

  How these pigeon types did so well around the world, Brian had never been able to understand. They seemed so unwieldy and so dim, as though they were just meals on wings for any other bird or animal that had a taste for flesh. But despite this they thrived – in all sorts of forms in all sorts of environments. And even here in these inhospitable mangrove forests. And not just any old pigeon either, but an awkwardly and inadequately named orange-breasted green one. Its name just didn’t do it justice. It was stunning. All in all, thought Brian, wasn’t it a fact that nature was simply totally and unbelievably splendid?

  The journey back to camp proved uneventful. But it made Brian think. For after another round of biscuits and a brief exchange on the subject of forest wagtails, the company of Nature-seekers subsided into near silence. This was partly due to exhaustion and partly the result of there being ever fewer birds about and therefore fewer opportunities to call them. It wasn’t quite dusk yet, but at this time of day the Sundarbans seemed more deserted than ever.

  People dealt with this hiatus in various ways. Brian was still content to scour the banks and to examine every creek in the vain hope of catching sight of a tiger. Lynn and Derek seemed similarly disposed. But other members of the group appeared to become withdrawn or even tharn. And Dennis nodded off again and Alan resorted to a crossword. There was definitely some empty time here – for at least some of the party – just as there’d been empty time during the hottest part of the day, when everybody had retreated to their cabins. Furthermore, this empty time would be with them tomorrow and again the next day. They would be spending a lot more time on the boat, some of it without the stimulus of wildlife. And they would have to retire from the heat of the day at the beginning of each afternoon. And it was this prospect of more “redundant” time that triggered Brian’s thoughts – his thoughts about his books…

  Unbeknownst to anyone in the party other than Sandra, Brian was an amateur author. Since retiring, like many other poor souls, he had poured his heart into writing, and like the vast majority of these poor souls, he had failed to arouse the interest of a single publisher with the end results of his efforts. He had therefore become more bloody minded than ever and had used some of his own money to publish his own work. Needless to say, his publishing role consisted of little more than organising the printing process for his books and then their post-printing storage – in his garage. The world had not cried out for his works. Possibly because, aside from any questions about their merits, the world didn’t know about them. Even though he’d constructed a perfectly serviceable website on the internet thingy, where not only could you read a synopsis of each work, but you could even order the works and pay for them using Paypal. So anyway, Brian had capitulated. He’d long ago accepted that his writings could not be converted into a commercial success and that the only way to empty his garage was to enter the arena of literary munificence. That is to say, Brian gave his books away – to anyone who would take them. And whilst most of those who were on the receiving end of this generosity failed to read them, some did and some even expressed some delight in them. So Brian continued with his giving. And if there were people around with time on their hands, he would continue it now…

  He had a number of his titles with him. They made up half the weight of his bag. A few were his full length novels (all three of them). But most were copies of his short works. There were just two of these: “Crats”, which was set on a South Sea island and dealt with the ruination of its civilisation by bureaucracy (It was a parody of the same process underway in Britain within the European Union), and “Eggshell in Scrambled Eggs”, which was a set of essays and poems on some of Brian’s pet hates. This latter one was intended to be humorous.

  So, tonight, during drinks before dinner, Brian would do the deed. He would throw caution to the wind and he would deliver a copy of “Crats” and a copy of “Eggshell” to each of the other four couples and the same to Sujan.

  When he got back to camp, he made his preparations. He unpacked the required number of works and he had a quick flick through them to assure himself that they contained within their pages nothing that might offend or affront a native of India and in particular a native like Sujan. And with Jim no longer in the party, he had already decided that he was on pretty safe ground with all the Nature-seekers as well. So he was now ready to go.

  When he then finall
y made his unscheduled literary delivery in the dining room, there was mild surprise and a degree of confusion. He’d handed them round whilst explaining that they could be used as an antidote against tedium – in the early afternoon or during a “flat” phase on the boat. But he had failed to make it clear that he had written them himself. This lot were on first name terms only, so his surname on the cover meant nothing to them. It was only when Sujan made the connection with his knowledge of the passenger list that all was made clear, and then the Nature-seekers looked more confused than ever. Or was that alarm on their faces? In the light of the dining room it was difficult to tell.

  It was also difficult to discuss the books further. How could they? Nobody had read them. So it was now imperative that Brian dealt with what could be mounting discomfort for the whole party by leading them somewhere else. And where better than into some bird-listing?

  ‘OK, Sujan,’ he started. ‘Why don’t we do some listing? I need to sort out my kingfishers.’

  He didn’t really. But it sounded a plausible sort of opener, and it did the trick. His masterpieces were laid aside and the Nature-seekers began to address their notes and their lists – while Brian addressed his aperitif. He was now feeling rather abashed, as was to be expected, and he was wondering how one turned back time. If he could somehow manage that, not only could he not hand out the books, but he could also not have left Kolkata without some tonic. There must have been some there. And he wouldn’t now be having to cope with this soda and gin compromise. Mind, it was still wet and it was beginning to taste almost pleasant.

  The bird listing over, another curry arrived. It was scrumptious, as were the chips on the side and the salt, both of which proved as popular as ever with Dennis. Maybe it was his overconsumption of this staple and this condiment that was making him doze all the time. And maybe for the others, it was the salt that was bringing out their right-wing tendencies. For the conversation this evening around the dining table revealed a number of illiberal prejudices. Nothing that was actually fascist, but just the sort of beliefs held by many “mature and world-weary” thinkers.