Brian on the Brahmaputra

by David Fletcher

  Inevitably, disaster didn’t overtake them, and soon most people had forgotten about the lack of total integrity in their craft and were doing what they’d done on the way out. Derek was scanning for tigers, Bill was frowning, Dennis was sleeping, and Alan was sniggering; he was still reading “Ticklers” and to Brian’s delight and amazement, really enjoying it. At one point he even leaned over to Brian and complimented him on his writing. This was astounding. In fact it was a first. Life would not be the same for Brian ever again.

  For now though he had to ignore his new-found fan base and join Derek and the ladies in the party in the general watch for tigers and other wildlife. He also had to give some thought to the existence of God.

  He was pretty well convinced there wasn’t one. But he was now experiencing a phenomenon, which taken on its own, was nothing less than proof positive that this greater being could in no way exist and had certainly never had a hand in the creation of man. And what this phenomenon was was the inevitable consequences of digesting an Indian lunch and the manner in which one coped with these consequences in the company of others. For there was no doubt about it; if there really was an all-seeing and all-powerful god-being, then to start with he would have foreseen the arrival of curries. He (or she) would then also have foreseen the action of curries on a human metabolism and how this action is not without its gaseous ramifications. He would also have known that other than in the case of recluses, these gaseous ramifications would very often be experienced in a group situation, and sometimes in a group situation that could not be avoided – as on the deck of a small boat sailing through the Sundarbans. So why then would he provide a system to deal with these ramifications that was not only malodorous in the extreme (for here we are talking about curries) but that also stood a very good chance of announcing its employment by means of sound? And that was assuming, of course, that one was able to overcome the restraints imposed on the system by the seats of those plastic chairs.

  It was hopeless. A real God would have allowed us to pass wind out of somewhere like the back of our neck. And he would have engineered some sort of organic catalytic converter that would render that wind odourless before it was released into the atmosphere – and a silencer arrangement to make it noiseless as well. Indeed, the neck could have had a permanently open vent in it. So one didn’t have to fart in discrete pulses but instead one could have discharged one’s vapours constantly – but entirely unnoticeably. And certainly a lot less noticeably than was likely now.

  No. Brian was certain. The present arrangements were the product of evolution. After all, flatulence, as it was currently dealt with, wasn’t a threat to survival and it didn’t even get in the way of sustaining the species through reproduction. It had obviously evolved as far as it needed to – and would only evolve further, over countless future generations, when either the social or the curry imperatives had finally required it to do so. But it was nothing to do with intelligent design and therefore nothing to do with God. Therefore God didn’t exist. QED. Hell, it was such an elegant proof Brian wondered why Richard Dawkins hadn’t alighted upon it himself. Maybe when he got back to England, he would write to him. But meanwhile he would wait for a change in the wind and be ultra careful. It was all he could do.

  This strategy worked and nobody appeared to notice. The sticky tape and chairs-far-back strategy worked as well, and eventually the boat made it home. The weather was now sultry but windy, and Sujan told them for the first time that there was a cyclone in the vicinity. This didn’t fill Brian with confidence, but he did think that the camp might be a safer place to be than on a small boat if the cyclone arrived, and he was pleased to be back. Furthermore, the gin had to be finished on this, their last evening in the camp. So, if something awful did happen, he’d not be anything like so bothered as he would be if he were sober. But he’d better start drinking early.

  He had to. The meal was to be served more promptly than usual because after the meal the Nature-seekers were to be treated to a show! Yes, a party of locals were to arrive after the meal and act out a play about the tigers in the Sundarbans – and how they needed to be appeased…

  Brian had reservations. He’d seen “local culture” for the benefit of tourists before. But he need not have been concerned. For when the dining table had been pulled away from one end of the dining room to create an impromptu stage, what then followed was a revelation and a delight.

  To begin with, four musicians arrived, one with some symbols and castanet devices, one with a row of drums, one with a squeeze-box and one with a voice box. It turned out that this last chap was a singer and a remarkable one at that. Then the actors began to appear, and the first thing Brian noticed about them was their appearance, and in particular their costumes. They were stunning. They were colourful, rich, highly embellished and just downright splendid. But where had they come from? These were all very local actors – from the adjacent village – who spent their lives picking lentils or carrying bricks and they dressed like proverbial peasants. Because that’s what they were: poor peasants who didn’t waste the very little they had on fripperies like fine clothes. But these costumes! Well, they were finer than anything Brian had in his wardrobe back home – and far more elaborate than anything he’d ever worn in his life, even when he’d been a student. ‘And where do they keep them?’ he thought. ‘Where in their small mud and thatch huts, can they store them and keep them so clean and so smart?’

  He couldn’t supply answers to these questions, but he soon became distracted by the play itself and the enthusiasm and quality of the acting. It was all in Bengali, so he couldn’t understand a word. But he didn’t need to. The plot was easy to follow: essentially the depositing of a boy in the mangrove forest as a required offering to the tiger – with various other good guys and bad guys. And it wasn’t about the plot anyway; it was about some real people getting involved with some real culture and enjoying themselves immensely.

  The boy was played by a youth of only twelve, who had the acting ability of someone twice his age and a powdered face that was as haunting as it was expressive. The “female lead” could easily have been his sister; she had the same almost gaunt looks and the most accusing eyes Brian had seen in years. It made him feel guilty just looking at her. Then there was the principal bad guy, armed with a wooden sword and his features hidden behind a gruesomely painted face. He snarled a lot and rolled his eyes a lot. But he was good. So too were the “council of elders” who, much to Brian’s surprise, appeared to be made up as Muslims. They all had big, stick-on beards and not so big, stick-on-the-top-of-your-head hats. Maybe it was something to do with the plot that he hadn’t understood, because otherwise it was quite peculiar. This community was Hindu; it was inconceivable that they’d include a Muslim element in their play just for the hell of it. There had to be a purpose. Nevertheless, it simply added to the charm and to the impact of the whole thing. As did the appearance of the tiger…

  Brian had come to India never expecting to see a tiger anywhere, and especially not here in the Sundarbans, where even if one is around (and that’s not very probable) it’s far more likely that the tiger will see you than that you will see the tiger. They are not just rare, they are also very secretive, and there are millions of mangroves out there in which they can be as secretive as they choose. So it wasn’t a great disappointment that he hadn’t seen one of these incredible animals; he had seen so much else. But now, on this last evening in this fantastic place, here was a genuine Sundarbans tiger. OK, there was a villager inside his skin and it wasn’t a real skin; it was just some sort of fabric shaped and painted to look like a skin. But nevertheless, it was a tiger; there was no doubt about it. And it was a tiger in a play about a Sundarbans tiger – which made it a fully paid-up, entirely legitimate, no arguing about it, Sundarbans tiger. And even when its “operator” approached the Nature-seekers after the performance to sneakily tell them that it had been him inside it, for Brian it still remained the genuine article.

&n
bsp; It had been a great end to their stay at the camp, and Brian felt moved enough to make a generous contribution to the theatre company’s coffers. For this, the boy in the play offered him some sweets from a basket. Brian took one, but as he was holding his camera in his right hand, he used his left hand for the sweet. Sujan, behind him, made a sharp intake of breath. Brian had just done the equivalent of mooning at the Queen – on her official birthday – in the middle of Horseguards. And he felt like a prat. Nearly three weeks in India, and he couldn’t even get that right. Nevertheless, the boy with the sweets didn’t seem to mind. Maybe he had his own views on customs and traditions, and looked beyond the gesture to the intent. And good for him if he did. It was what India needed more of.

  What Brian needed more of was gin. There was still some left, and he needed to finish it – with the help of the remaining audience. This achieved, he went to bed. It had been a long day and an intriguing day. After all, it isn’t that often that you come across Indians who think you are an Indian yourself, you then establish the proof of the non-existence of God, and then on top of all that, you see a Sundarbans tiger…

  15.

  Most of the Nature-seekers went off to find the owl nest they’d failed to reach the previous day. Brian, however, remained in his cabin to finalise his speech to Sujan. He had been volunteered by Derek and Alan to offer the group’s thanks to their guide and to hand over his tip. He didn’t mind doing this, but he wanted to get it right. He also wanted to avoid another sweat-inducing walk through the village before they commenced their journey back to Kolkata. So this little preparation session under the cabin’s fan was ideal.

  The presentation was a success. At least to the extent that Brian didn’t forget what he wanted to say. And he was also able to get in a bit about writing another book. He told the assembled company that if its subject matter was a birding holiday to India, then the likeness of any of its characters to themselves would be purely coincidental, and that he would argue this fact in the courts if necessary. This “warning” met with their approval and it even prompted Alan to say further nice things about “Ticklers”. This, in turn, prompted Brian to give Alan another book. This was “Lollipop”. It contained the same main characters as those in “Ticklers”, but in this work they were exploring the foolishness of mankind – via an adventure on a giant spaceship, the business of which was everything and anything to do with sex. So it was more profound and more lewd than “Ticklers”, but in Brian’s mind, almost as humorous. He thought Alan would enjoy it.

  Then, with the owl nest found and the presentation concluded, it was time to go. Further tips were proffered, many hands were shaken, profuse thanks were rendered, all the available dogs were stroked for the very last time – and the Nature-seekers were finally on their way. They boarded the Sundari, and as it pulled away from the Mayan steps most of the village had turned out to wave them off, and the Nature-seekers waved back for as long as they could. And then Brian began to feel quite miserable. Bali Island had been such a wonderful place to spend a little of his life, and now he was leaving it forever. The prospect of his coming back here, he knew, was remote, and that sort of finality always made him sad.

  Nevertheless, this sadness didn’t last. It was soon overtaken by mild alarm. A wind had been blowing all morning, and whilst this had done little to alleviate the heat, it was now more noticeable than ever and it was churning up the water. This, announced Sujan, was the edge of that cyclone he’d mentioned, and it wasn’t done yet. Indeed, it was still so potentially dangerous (if it moved towards them) that the decision had already been made to make for a closer landfall. They would not retrace the route they had taken to get here initially, but another one that would see them arriving back on mainland India as soon as possible. Brian thought this involved their sailing north-west rather than directly north, but he wasn’t sure. What he was sure of, however, was that this seemed like a good decision. It was getting almost stormy now, and he had no idea whether that sticky tape on the prow had been replaced with anything rather more normally nautical. The chairs were still pushed back as far as they would go.

  In less than an hour they had arrived at their destination, a scruffy little village full of scruffy looking cycle-vans. Fortunately these were not their chosen means of transport for the ride back to Kolkata. That was to be another coach – just as soon as it arrived. Quite some time passed before it did, and when it was finally with them it was immediately obvious that it wasn’t the coach they’d enjoyed on the outward trip. It was older and smaller. When it started to move off, it then became apparent that its suspension was as well. It felt as though it was well past its use by date and not up to the job anyway. Maybe it had once been on a car. Because now, on this coach, it just couldn’t manage, and every pothole and every bump in the road became an intimate experience for all those on board. The coach also had a terribly loud horn that was soon in constant use and an air-conditioning system that circulated outside odours as well as cool air. This, in particular, was very bad news. The road back to Kolkata ran beside a river that was no more than an open sewer. Its smell was disgusting.

  So this return journey was not going to be a repeat of their luxurious experience on the way down. It was going to be purgatory. Or it would have been had it not been for the intervention of Alan and Lynn. For Alan and Lynn had an idea, something they’d mentioned in passing the previous evening, and something that was now ripe for application. And the idea was a quiz…

  It was a simple quiz. Some might say a moronic quiz. But in Brian’s opinion it was an inspired quiz, a daft competition that would keep a coach-load of birders fully occupied and fully amused for over an hour, and most importantly of all, fully distracted from all those smells, bumps and horn-blasts for a large slice of the journey.

  Everybody other than Alan and Lynn, as adjudicators and scorers, joined in. They competed as married-couple pairs or, in the case of Sujan, as a willing if slightly bemused solo contestant. And what they had to do, every ten minutes, was to compile a list of birds. But not just any birds. No, each list had to be a collection of birds that met a certain ridiculous criterion. So, for example, the first list required as many birds as possible, from anywhere in the world, that had in their name a reference to something that might be found in a kitchen. Birds such as an “oven bird”, a “spoonbill”, a “potoo”, a “tragopan”, or even a “fork-tailed drongo”. This was completely stupid but also ingenious and very demanding. It also called for imagination, and for Brian, as much stretching of the rules as he could manage. Although on this round Alan and Lynn decided that “kettle egret” was a stretch too far, and this cheeky suggestion was not allowed to stand.

  Other rounds involved birds in song titles – such as “Rockin’ Robin” and “The Ugly Duckling”, and birds with a food reference in their name – such as a “magpie”, a “macaroni penguin” and a “honeycreeper”. But the best round of all, which really saw people pulling out all the stops, was the round which called for birds that included a body-part in their name. So as well as the respectable “wryneck”, “black-naped oriole” and “short-toed tree-creeper” there was also a “black-rumped flameback” and, of course, a “blue tit”. That appeared to be the extent of the crudity on board the coach until Brian reported that he and Sandra had included in their list a “willy wagtail” (from New Zealand) and any sort of “woodpecker” you care to choose. Willy wagtail made it, woodpecker didn’t. And it wasn’t until the following day that anyone thought of “cock of the rock”.

  It was a hard fought contest. Derek and Yvonne and Dennis and Pauline did their best, but it wasn’t good enough, and the competition was really between Brian and Sandra, Bill and Tina and the solitary Sujan. Ultimately Sujan lost out from being on his own and not knowing as much about world birds as the two well-travelled duos against him. Then it was down to the final round, when Bill and Tina’s encyclopaedic knowledge of birds just pipped Brian and Sandra’s combination of not quite so comprehensive k
nowledge and their superior “imagination”. Bill and Tina won by just one point. Their combined lists had included just one more bird than those of Brian and Sandra’s. (Although Brian was convinced that their Madagascan “elephant bird” – in the “birds with an animal in their name” round – was a bird that was somewhat stretching the rules. After all, there aren’t any – and there haven’t been any for over four hundred years. Ever since we killed them all off. He didn’t mount an official challenge or anything. It wasn’t that sort of contest. But in Brian’s mind, for him and Sandra, it was a draw not a defeat, and he felt suitably proud.)

  He also felt fortunate. Outside the coach it was getting grimmer than ever as they approached Kolkata. People were leading pretty miserable lives out there, whilst here, inside this coach, he and his companions could indulge themselves in a session of nonsense and could now dream about another appointment with the comfort of the Oberoi Grand. For that was where they were heading again; through the ugliness and bustle of Kolkata to its principal haven of beauty and calm – assuming, that is, that it hadn’t been burnt to the ground by a raiding party of Pakistanis. But Brian thought that was unlikely. Sujan would have known, but he’d said nothing. So Brian could continue to anticipate his rendezvous with luxury – while all those people outside the windows, struggling to make a living of any sort at all, could anticipate only more of the same. Maybe he should have felt guilty as well as fortunate, but that, he argued with himself, was to drift into pity, and that was not a good place to go. So just stick with the “fortunate” and hope that the driver of the coach doesn’t switch it to the “terminally unfortunate” by making contact with the back of the lorry from which he’s now only inches away. With the quiz over, Brian had become aware not just of the discomfort of this vehicle but also of its repeated dependence on that Indian other dimension. The driver appeared to have a death wish, which was currently being frustrated only by the magic of that impossible new space. But how long would the magic last? Might it finally run out?