by Amitav Ghosh
Unbeknownst to me Tipu had arrived at the compound’s gate moments earlier and had observed the scene as it was unfolding. Imagining that I was about to be attacked, he had snatched up a fishing net and crept stealthily into the courtyard.
It was only when the net was cast at the cobra that I became aware of Tipu’s presence – and it was then too that the creature struck, with astonishing speed and power. Even as the net was descending over its hood, it flung itself at Tipu and succeeded in striking him, with one fang, just above the left elbow.
And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the cobra was gone, and the net was lying empty on the ground. Tipu was on his knees, hunched over his elbow, staring at the wound on his arm. Then he slowly crumpled to the ground and looked straight into my eyes.
‘What … what do I do now, Pops?’ he said in a whisper.
I was in shock and could do nothing but stare, helplessly.
‘Why’d you bring us here, Pops?’
I glanced at Horen but he was a still as a statue, with an expression of horror stamped on his face.
‘What’s happening, Pops?’ said Tipu, clutching his arm. The pupils of his eyes had begun to float upwards, so that only the bottom halves were visible.
Then I heard the sound of footsteps and looked up to see Rafi racing towards us. To my relief he seemed to know exactly what to do. Hitching up his lungi he knelt on the ground and raised Tipu’s quickly swelling arm to his mouth. Then, clamping his lips around the spot where the snake’s fang had punctured the skin, he began to suck on the wound, with an intensity of effort that deepened the colour of his face.
When his mouth was full he raised his head and turned aside, to spit. But before he could empty his mouth a gagging sound burst from his throat and his hands flew to his chest.
‘Did you swallow some?’ said Horen.
He nodded, grimacing.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Horen. ‘It won’t do you any harm so long as it stays in your belly and doesn’t get into your blood.’
Rafi was hawking and spitting furiously. After a minute he drew a hand across his mouth and looked up at Horen. ‘If a cobra puts something in you,’ said Rafi, ‘you can never be rid of it. That’s what my grandfather used to say.’
Turning back to Tipu, Rafi fastened his hands on his arm and began to squeeze.
‘I need some rope.’
Horen tore off a length of cord from the net that Tipu had thrown and handed it to Rafi, who wound it around Tipu’s arm, using a bit of wood to tighten the tourniquet.
In the meantime, Horen had fashioned a makeshift hammock from the fishing net. ‘We can use this to carry Tipu to the steamer,’ he said. ‘With any luck we can get him to the hospital in Lusibari in a couple of hours.’
When Rafi had finished with the tourniquet he rolled Tipu into the net. Then he and Horen picked up the two ends and started on the way back. I followed close behind.
As we were approaching the mud bank, Horen barked at me over his shoulder. ‘Be careful – you’d better not fall into the mud now. We don’t have any time to waste.’
Visions
Tipu kept his eyes closed and made scarcely a sound until he had been placed on a mattress in the shaded interior of the steamer’s main cabin. Even when the engine started up and the steamer began to move, with a loud throbbing, he lay deathly still. For a while he seemed to lose consciousness. But then his eyes flew suddenly open and he turned his head to look at his arm, now hugely distended and discoloured. His eyes widened as they passed over the tourniquet and came to rest on the wound, which was like a crater sitting atop a mound of swollen flesh.
‘Eta ki?’ he said in a plaintive, almost childlike voice. ‘What’s this? There seems to be something inside of me. It’s taking hold of me. What is it?’
‘Don’t look at your arm,’ said Rafi. ‘Try not to think about it.’
Swinging his long, lean frame on to the mattress Rafi crossed his legs and took Tipu’s head gently but firmly into his lap. Then he ran a hand over Tipu’s beaded forehead. ‘Don’t be afraid. The snake that bit you is no ordinary snake – my grandfather used to say that it had been sent to protect us.’
Tipu’s eyes were glassy and he seemed not to have understood what Rafi had said. ‘Who are you?’ he said. ‘I feel I know you.’
‘That’s true,’ said Rafi. ‘Amader kono porichay nei. We’ve never met till today but I also feel that I know you.’
‘Why? How?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Rafi. ‘You should try to be calm now. That’s what’s important.’
‘Be calm?’ said Tipu. ‘How can I be calm when there’s a burning ember inside my body?’
I fetched a bottle of water and Rafi held it carefully to Tipu’s lips. He drank thirstily, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as the water poured into his mouth in a steady stream. Then he pushed the bottle aside and said, ‘But it’s still there, inside me, the fire.’
‘Drink some more water,’ said Rafi.
Tipu’s head fell back into Rafi’s lap, with the eyes wide open. Then his expression began to change: the pupils of his eyes slowly floated upwards so that only the whites were visible. His mouth dropped open and ribbons of drool trickled out of the corners. All at once his body began to twitch and shake, making spasmodic little motions, like those of a dreaming animal. And all the while his head remained motionless, flung backwards in that strange position, with empty white eyes and a slack, open mouth.
After an eternity the twitching gradually stopped and the pupils returned to the centre of Tipu’s eyes – yet it was not as though he were coming awake. He seemed to be returning rather to the state of consciousness that he had been in before he drifted away: a condition that was not really one of awakeness because he did not seem to be aware of his surroundings.
‘Where am I? Where am I?’ he said, as his eyes came slowly into focus.
‘You’re in Horen Naskar’s steamer,’ I said. ‘And we’re with you, right here.’
Tipu’s right hand shot out, as if to push me away. ‘No! No! I’m in the water and they’re coming for me.’
‘Ke? Who?’ said Rafi, running a hand gently over Tipu’s sweat-drenched forehead. ‘Who’s coming for you?’
‘I can’t see them, I can only see their shadows and they’re coming closer and closer. But they can’t reach me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because of them.’
‘Who?’
‘The snakes.’
‘What snakes?’
‘Don’t you see them? They’re everywhere.’ His right hand rose and the index finger began to point. ‘See – here, there, there. They’re everywhere. Can’t you see?’ He seemed genuinely surprised that whatever he was seeing was invisible to us.
I was deeply unsettled now and my voice rose. ‘Na!’ I cried. ‘No! There’s nothing and no one here but us…’
This earned me an angry retort from Rafi. ‘How do you know,’ he snapped, ‘that there’s no one here but us? Chup korun! Be quiet! Let him say what he has to say. And if you can’t take it, go away.’
The protective snarl in his voice startled me; Rafi was like a wild creature, standing guard over its young.
In the meantime, words were still flowing from Tipu’s mouth.
‘… they’re all over my body, they’re wrapped around my hands, they’re under my feet … but I’m not afraid of them; they’re trying to help me … or else they would have got me already…’
‘Who?’ said Rafi. ‘Who would have got you?’
‘They. The shadows.’
‘And who are they?’
‘I can’t see them … they’re just moving voids … and they want to pull you in, with them…’
His voice trailed away and his head fell back with the eyes open; once again his pupils began to drift away. Then the muscular twitching started up once more and I realized that he had returned to the other state that he had been in before.
All the while
Rafi’s hand continued to stroke Tipu’s head and face. They could not have been more unlike each other, Tipu with his ear stud and highlights, and Rafi with his shaggy hair and feral wariness, yet an odd bond seemed to have arisen between them; it was as if the venom that had passed from Tipu’s body into Rafi’s mouth had created an almost carnal connection.
Soon Tipu’s convulsions became too much for me to watch. I stepped out and went up to the wheelhouse.
Horen glanced at me as I stood in the doorway. ‘I heard Tipu’s voice,’ he said. ‘He seems to be raving – baje bokchhé, talking rubbish.’
The earthy plainness of the Bengali phrase did much to re- assure me. Yes, of course, I said to myself, that’s all it is – a delirium – which often sets in after a shock.
‘That’s right,’ I said to Horen. ‘He’s talking a lot of rubbish.’
‘It’s not necessarily a bad thing,’ said Horen. ‘If he’s yammering at least we know that he’s fighting for his life.’
‘But how much longer till we get to the hospital?’
Horen glanced at his cellphone which was propped up in front of him.
‘Another hour and a half at least.’
He gestured to me to come into the wheelhouse. ‘Could you take the wheel for a bit? We’ve just came into cellphone range and I want to call Moyna. She’ll get everything ready at the hospital.’
I put my hands gingerly on the wheel while Horen stepped outside and dialled a number. We were on a wide, untrafficked stretch of water and there was nothing much for me to do. It was bracing to be up there, in the bright sunlight, with the river stretching away ahead. I didn’t hesitate when Horen asked if he could go down to check on Tipu.
‘Yes, go,’ I said. ‘I’ll be fine for a few more minutes.’
Horen was gone a little longer than I expected, maybe five or ten minutes. He looked oddly shaken when he stepped back into the wheelhouse.
‘Did something happen down there?’ I said, as I handed the wheel back.
‘Tipu was carrying on again,’ said Horen gruffly. ‘He kept asking Rafi what his name was, and Rafi kept saying it, again and again. But every time he said it Tipu would shake his head: “No, no, that’s not it.” Seeing them going on like that I said to Rafi: “Don’t bother to answer, he’s just talking nonsense, he’s not in his right mind.” But then suddenly Rafi spoke up, saying that Tipu was right – “Rafi” was just a pet name, he said. His real name, given to him by his grandfather, was Ilyas – like the character in the story. And only when he heard this name did Tipu stop saying no. He fell quiet for a bit and said: “Yes, that’s right: I recognize him now.”’
Horen glanced at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘According to Rafi only his grandfather had ever used that name.’
He pulled a face. ‘Strange, isn’t it? How could Tipu have known about the name? He’s never met Rafi before.’
‘There’s nothing strange about it,’ I said brusquely. ‘Tipu must have overheard us when we were talking about that story this morning. He must have heard us mention the name “Ilyas” so it would have been on his mind. And it’s hardly surprising that Rafi’s grandfather gave him that name, is it, considering that he was the custodian of that shrine?’
‘Yes, of course, that must be it,’ said Horen, sounding rather relieved. He glanced at his cellphone.
‘We’re making good time – not much longer now. You’d better go down and keep an eye on the boy.’
* * *
I was about to step into the cabin when Tipu’s voice brought me to a halt.
‘They’re very close now, very close; I can feel the cold of the shadows. I’m so cold – hold me, hold me.’
Rafi placed the palms of his hand on Tipu’s chest. ‘I’m here. I’m holding you. You’re safe.’
The words seemed to have a reassuring effect on Tipu. He gave a long sigh. ‘They’re turning back. Phire jachhé. They can’t get past…’
‘Past what?’
Tipu did not answer the question directly. Instead his hand floated through the air, inches above his body, as though he were caressing something that was wrapped protectively around him. For a moment he seemed calmer but then suddenly he began to scream: ‘No! No! They’re going after something else. I can’t see what.’
A long moan leaked slowly out of his open, drooling mouth and his body went rigid and arced upwards, like a bow, almost breaking out of Rafi’s grip. He moaned again and said something that I couldn’t catch.
‘What’s he saying?’ I asked Rafi. ‘Can you make out?’
‘It’s a name, a woman’s name – “Rani”.’
Now suddenly Tipu’s body went slack; his head flopped downwards and the pupils slowly returned to his eyes. He seemed spent, exhausted, yet he continued to mumble something under his breath.
Uncoiling his legs Rafi stretched himself out beside Tipu and enveloped him in his arms, almost as though to prevent him from being snatched away.
Suddenly Tipu’s convulsions stopped and his body went limp.
‘Is he still breathing?’ I said in alarm.
‘Yes,’ said Rafi. ‘He’s just passed out – and maybe that’s for the best.’
‘Did you hear what he was saying, just before he passed out?’
Rafi nodded. ‘He was saying that we should phone someone – a woman by the name of Piya. Do you know who that is?’
‘Yes. Why did he want us to phone her?’
‘He said we should warn her.’
‘About what?’
‘About Rani.’
‘But who is Rani?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Rafi impatiently. ‘But you should call Piya anyway.’
It struck me that Piya would certainly want to know about Tipu’s condition.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll call her right now.’
* * *
I went to the steamer’s prow, dialled Piya’s number and raised the phone to my ear, but only to be answered by a couple of beeps. Glancing at the screen I discovered that the signal icon had gone blank; evidently we were once again out of range.
I was staring at the device in frustration, hoping that the bars would bounce back, when Rafi appeared beside me. Jerking his head in the direction of the main cabin, he said: ‘Tipu seems to have exhausted himself. He’s sleeping.’
With my eyes still fixed on my phone, I said: ‘Good.’
Rafi watched me for a minute and then shook his head. ‘It’s no use,’ he said, in his rustic accent, ‘you’ll have to wait a bit.’
The uninvited words of advice irritated me. ‘Wait for what?’
‘What you’re looking for,’ said Rafi, sounding very sure of himself.
I frowned at him, looking him up and down. With his shaggy hair, frayed shirt and mud-caked feet, he looked like a creature of the wild: it seemed unlikely to me that someone like him, a backwoods fisherman, could have any idea of how cellphones worked.
‘How would you know what I’m looking for?’ I said sharply.
Rafi stared at me, his long-lashed eyes opaque. Then he reached for the waist of his faded lungi and took out a small plastic-wrapped package. When the wrappings came off, I saw, to my astonishment, that what he had in his hands was a cellphone, not unlike mine. He turned it on, and after a minute or two thrust the device at me, tapping the top of the screen.
‘See,’ he said, ‘no reception. You won’t see any bars until we reach the next river over there –’ he raised a hand to point ahead – ‘and even there you’ll only get two bars. For three bars or more you’ll have to wait till we get there.’ His hand rose to point to a spot that was still more distant.
Then he craned his head to steal a glance at my phone. ‘But your phone is an old model,’ he said. ‘So you may have to wait longer.’
I could not begrudge him the smirk that now appeared on his face. He was evidently well aware that the tables were turned – it was my ignorance that had now been laid bare.
It shamed me to think that I ha
d assumed that Rafi would be unacquainted with cellphones simply because he was a Sundarbans fisherman. I knew of course, at some level, that the assumptions that Indians like myself had grown up with – that rural people were ‘backward’, especially where it concerned modern gadgets – no longer held, if indeed they ever had; I had seen for myself that young Indians, no matter whether rich or poor, educated or not, had an ability to deal with phones and computers that far surpassed my own. Nor was I so out of touch as be unaware that in India, as in many other poor countries, there were great numbers of people whose digital skills were completely disproportionate to their material circumstances and formal education. And yet, knowing all this, I had still embarrassed myself by assuming that someone like Rafi would not know about the workings of a gadget as ubiquitous as the cellphone.
Rafi was watching me with a half-smile: his lustrous eyes and the downturned corners of his mouth gave his face an extraordinary expressiveness, leaving no room for doubt that he knew exactly what was going through my mind.
‘Tourists are often surprised,’ he said, ‘to see that we have cellphones here too. Though why it surprises them I don’t know, for we need phones even more than city people do. For us it can be a matter of life and death.’
‘In what way?’
‘Because of the weather alerts. You could get caught in a storm if you don’t follow the alerts. And the GPS can be a big help too, at least where there’s reception. But back there –’ he pointed downriver, in the direction we had come from – ‘you still have to remember the way, just as my grandfather did. He never needed a GPS – it was all in his head.’
‘Did you learn a lot from him?’
‘Some things. But there was much that he didn’t want to teach me.’
‘Like what?’
He shrugged. ‘Things about animals, and fish, and the water – he’d tell me that I didn’t need to learn what he knew because the rivers and the forest and the animals are no longer as they were. He used to say that things were changing so much, and so fast, that I wouldn’t be able to get by here – he told me that one day I would have no choice but to leave.’