by Amitav Ghosh
Following him up the embankment, Piya and Kanai saw that he was pointing to a vessel anchored off the sandspit that served as Lusibari’s jetty. Painted in white lettering on its bow was the legend MV MEGHA.
At first sight there was little to recommend the vessel: it sat awkwardly in the water and its hull had the bruised and dented look of a tin toy. But Horen was proud of it and spoke of its merits at some length. The Megha had carried a great number of passengers, he said to Kanai, and none had ever had cause for complaint. He proceeded to recount many tales about the picnickers he had taken to Pakhiraloy and the bridegrooms and borjatris he had ferried to weddings. These stories were not hard to believe, for despite its general decrepitude the boat was clearly intended to cater to large, if huddled, numbers. The lower deck was a cavernous space crisscrossed with wooden benches and curtained with sheets of yellow tarpaulin; the galley and the engine room were located at opposite ends of this space. On top of this was a small upper deck, with a wheelhouse and two tiny cabins. Over the stern hung a tin-walled toilet. This was the head, and, being little more than a hole in the floor, it was reasonably clean.
“She’s not much to look at,” Kanai admitted, “but she might be just right for us. You and I could each have a cabin on the upper deck, and that would keep us away from the noise and fumes.”
“And what about Fokir?” said Piya.
“He’d be on the lower deck,” said Kanai, “along with Horen and the helper he’s bringing with him — his fifteen-year-old grandson, I believe.”
“Is that going to be the whole crew?” said Piya. “Just the two of them?”
“Yes,” said Kanai. “We’re not going to be crowded for space.”
Piya gave the Megha a doubtful look. “It isn’t the research ship of my dreams,” she said. “But I could live with it. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t get how this old tub is going to follow the dolphins. I can’t see it going into all those shallow creeks.”
Kanai relayed Piya’s question to Horen and then translated the answer for her benefit: Fokir’s boat would be accompanying them on the journey; the Megha would tow it all the way, and on reaching their destination the bhotbhoti would stay at anchor while Piya and Fokir tracked the dolphins in the boat.
“Really?” This was what Piya had been hoping to hear. “I guess Fokir was ahead of me on this one.”
“What do you think?” said Kanai. “Will it work?”
“Yes,” said Piya. “It’s a great idea. It’ll be much easier to follow the dolphins in his boat.”
With Kanai translating, the bhotbhoti’s terms were quickly agreed upon. Although Piya would not allow Kanai to contribute to the rental, she agreed to split the costs of the journey’s provisions. They handed over a sum of money for Horen to buy rice, dal, oil, tea, bottled water, a couple of chickens and, specifically for Piya, a plentiful supply of powdered milk.
“It’s so exciting,” said Piya as they headed back to the Guest House. “I can’t wait to leave. I’d better get all my laundry done this morning.”
“And I’d better go and tell my aunt I’m going to be away for a couple of days,” said Kanai. “I don’t know how she’s going to take it.”
NILIMA’S DOOR WAS open and Kanai entered to find her sitting at her desk, sipping a cup of tea. Her smile of greeting turned quickly into a curious frown. “What’s the matter-ré Kanai? Is something wrong?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong,” said Kanai awkwardly. “I just wanted to tell you, Mashima, that I’m going to be away for a few days.”
“You’re going away?” she said. “But you’ve only just come.”
“I know,” said Kanai. “I hope you won’t mind. But Piya’s hired a bhotbhoti to track her dolphins. She needs someone to translate.”
“Oh, I see!” said Nilima, in English, drawing out the words. “So you’re going with her, then?”
Knowing how precious Nirmal’s memory was to her, Kanai said gently, “And I thought I would take the notebook along with me. If it’s all right with you?”
“You’ll be careful with it, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“How much have you read?”
“I’m well into it,” said Kanai. “I’ll be done by the time I get back.”
“All right, then. I won’t ask you any more about it now,” Nilima said. “But tell me this, Kanai. Where exactly are you going?”
Kanai scratched his head. The fact was, he didn’t know and had not thought to ask. But a habitual unwillingness to acknowledge ignorance led him to pick the name of a river at random: “I think we’ll be going down the Tarobãki River — into the forest.”
“So you’re heading into the jungle?” said Nilima, looking him over speculatively.
“I suppose so,” Kanai said uncertainly.
Nilima rose from her desk and came to stand in front of him. “Kanai, I hope you’ve thought this over properly.”
“Yes, of course I have,” said Kanai, feeling suddenly like a schoolboy.
“No, I don’t think you have, Kanai,” said Nilima with her hands on her hips. “And I don’t blame you. I know that for outsiders it’s very hard to conceive of the dangers.”
“The tigers, you mean?” Kanai said. A smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Why would a tiger pick me when it could have a tasty young morsel like Piya?”
“Kanai,” scolded Nilima, “this is not a joke. I know that in this day and age, in the twenty-first century, it’s difficult for you to imagine yourself being attacked by a tiger. The trouble is that over here it’s not in the least bit out of the ordinary. It happens several times each week.”
“As often as that?” said Kanai.
“Yes. More,” said Nilima. “Look, I’ll show you something.” She took hold of Kanai’s elbow and led him across the room to one of the many stacks of shelves that lined the walls. “Look,” she said, pointing to a sheaf of files, “I’ve been keeping unofficial records for years, based on word-of-mouth reports. My belief is that over a hundred people are killed by tigers here each year. And, mind you, I’m just talking about the Indian part of the Sundarbans. If you include the Bangladesh side, the figure is probably twice that. If you put the figures together, it means that a human being is killed by a tiger every other day in the Sundarbans — at the very least.”
Kanai raised his eyebrows. “I knew there were killings,” he said, “but I never thought there were as many as that.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Nilima. “Nobody knows exactly how many killings there are. None of the figures are reliable. But of this I’m sure: there are many more deaths than the authorities admit.”
Kanai scratched his head. “This must be a recent trend,” he said. “Perhaps it has something to do with overpopulation, or encroachment on the habitat, or something like that?”
“Don’t you believe it,” Nilima said scornfully. “These attacks have been going on for centuries — they were happening even when the population here was a fraction of what it is today. Look.” Standing on tiptoe, she pulled a file off a shelf and carried it to her desk. “Look over here — do you see that number?”
Kanai looked down at the page and saw that the tip of her finger was pointing to a numeral: 4,218.
“Look at that figure, Kanai,” Nilima said. “That’s the number of people who were killed by tigers in lower Bengal in a six-year period — between the years 1860 and 1866. The figures were compiled by J. Fayrer — he was the English naturalist who coined the phrase ‘Royal Bengal Tiger.’ Think of it, Kanai — over four thousand human beings killed. That’s almost two people every day for six years! What would the number add up to over a century?”
“Tens of thousands.” Kanai frowned as he looked down at the page. “It’s hard to believe.”
“Unfortunately,” said Nilima, “it’s all too true.”
“And why do you think it happens this way?” Kanai said. “What’s b
ehind this?”
Nilima sat at her desk and sighed. “I’ve heard so many theories, Kanai. I just wish I knew which to believe.”
The one thing everyone agreed on, Nilima said, was that the tide country’s tigers were different from those elsewhere. In other habitats, tigers attacked human beings only in abnormal circumstances: if they happened to be crippled or were otherwise unable to hunt down any other kind of prey. But this was not true of the tide country’s tigers; even young and healthy animals were known to attack human beings. Some said that this propensity came from the peculiar conditions of the tidal ecology, in which large parts of the forest were subjected to daily submersions. The theory went that this raised the animals’ threshold of aggression by washing away their scent markings and confusing their territorial instincts. This was about as convincing a theory as Nilima had ever heard, but the trouble was that even if it was true, there was nothing that could be done about it.
With every few years came some new theory and some yet more ingenious solution. In the 1980s a German naturalist had suggested that the tigers’ preference for human flesh was somehow connected with the shortage of fresh water in the Sundarbans. This idea had been received with great enthusiasm by the Forest Department, and several pools had been excavated to provide the tigers with fresh water.
“Just imagine that,” said Nilima. “They were providing water for tigers! In a place where nobody thinks twice about human beings going thirsty!”
The digging was in vain, however. The pools had made no difference. The attacks continued as before.
“Then there was the electric-shock idea,” said Nilima, with laughter shining in her eyes.
Someone had decided that tigers could be conditioned with the methods Pavlov had used on his dogs. Clay models of human beings had been rigged up with wires and connected to car batteries. These contraptions were distributed all over the islands. For a while they seemed to be working and there was much jubilation. “But then the attacks started again. The tigers ignored the clay models and carried on as before.”
Another time, a forester came up with another, equally ingenious idea: what if people wore masks on the backs of their heads? Tigers always attacked humans from behind, the reasoning went, so they would shy away if they found themselves looking at a pair of painted eyes. This idea too was taken up with great enthusiasm. Many masks were made and distributed; word was put out that a wonderful new experiment was being tried in the Sundarbans. There was something so picturesque about the idea that it caught the public imagination: television cameras descended, filmmakers made films.
The tigers, alas, refused to cooperate: “Evidently they had no difficulty in discriminating between masks and faces.”
“So are you saying the tigers are actually able to think these things through?” said Kanai.
“I don’t know, Kanai,” Nilima said. “I’ve lived here for over fifty years and I’ve never seen a tiger. Nor do I want to. I’ve come to believe what people say in these parts: that if you see a tiger, the chances are you won’t live to tell the tale. That’s why I’m telling you, Kanai, you can’t go into the jungle on a whim. Before you go you should ask yourself whether you really need to.”
“But I’m not planning to go into the jungle at all,” Kanai replied. “I’m going to be on the bhotbhoti, well removed from any harm.”
“And you think a bhotbhoti is going to keep you from harm?”
“We’ll be out on the water, well away from shore. What can happen there?”
“Kanai, let me tell you something. Nine years ago, a tiger killed a young girl right here in Lusibari. They found later that it had swum all the way across the Bidya’s mohona and back again. Do you know how far that is?”
“No.”
“Three and a half miles each way. And that’s not unusual: they’ve been known to swim as much as eight miles at a stretch. So don’t for a moment imagine that the water will give you any safety. Boats and bhotbhotis are attacked all the time — even in midstream. It happens several times each year.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” Nilima nodded. “And if you don’t believe me, just take a close look at any of the Forest Department’s boats. You’ll see they’re like floating fortresses. Their windows have steel bars as thick as my wrist. And that’s despite the fact that forest guards carry arms. Tell me, does your bhotbhoti have bars on its windows?”
Kanai scratched his head. “I don’t remember.”
“There you are,” Nilima said. “You didn’t even notice. I don’t think you understand what you’re getting into. Leave aside the animals — those boats and bhotbhotis are more dangerous than anything in the jungle. Every month we hear of one or two going down.”
“There’s no reason for you to worry,” said Kanai. “I won’t take any risks.”
“But Kanai, don’t you see? To our way of thinking, you are the risk. The others are going because they need to — but not you. You’re going on a whim, a kheyal. You don’t have any pressing reason to go.”
“That’s not true; I do have a reason —” Kanai had spoken without thinking and cut himself off in midsentence.
“Kanai?” said Nilima. “Is there something you aren’t telling me?”
“Oh, it’s just —” He could not think of what to say next and hung his head.
She looked at him shrewdly. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? Piya?”
Kanai looked away in silence, and she said, with a bitterness he had never heard in her voice before, “You’re all the same, you men. Who can blame the tigers when predators like you pass for human beings?”
She took hold of Kanai’s elbow and led him to the door. “Be careful, Kanai — just be careful.”
MEMORY
After we had spent a half hour with the dolphins, Horen began to row toward the shore of Garjontola. As we were drawing closer, Horen looked at me with a mischievous smile. “Saar,” he said, “now the time to go ashore is at hand. Tell me, Saar, bhoi ta ter paisen? Do you feel the fear?”
“The fear?” I said. “What do you mean, Horen? Why should I be afraid? Aren’t you with me?”
“Because it’s the fear that protects you, Saar; it’s what keeps you alive. Without it the danger doubles.”
“So are you afraid, then, Horen?”
“Yes, Saar,” he said. “Look at me. Don’t you see the fear on my face?”
And now that I looked more closely, it was true that I could see something out of the ordinary on his face — an alertness, a gravity, a sharpening of the eyes. The tension was of a kind that communicated itself readily: it didn’t take long before I could say to Horen, truthfully, that I was just as afraid as he was.
“Yes, Horen. I feel it.”
“That’s good, Saar. That’s good.”
When the boat was some fifty feet from the shore, Horen stopped rowing and put away his oars. Shutting his eyes, he began to mumble and make gestures with his hands.
“What is he doing?” I said to Kusum.
“Don’t you know, Saar?” she said. “He is a bauley. He knows the mantras that shut the mouths of the big cats. He knows how to keep them from attacking us.”
Perhaps in another circumstance I would have laughed. But it was true that I was afraid now: I did not need to feign my fear. I knew Horen could no more shut the mouth of a tiger than he could conjure up a storm — but I was still reassured by his meaningless mumbles, by his lack of bravado. His manner was not that of a magician weaving a spell: he was more like a mechanic, giving a spanner an extra turn in order to leave nothing undone. This reassured me.
“Now listen to me, Saar,” said Horen. “Since you haven’t done this before, I must tell you a rule.”
“What rule, Horen?”
“The rule, Saar, is that when we go ashore, you can leave nothing of yourself behind. You cannot spit or urinate, you cannot sit down to relieve yourself, you cannot leave behind your morning’s meal. If you do, then harm will come to all of us.”
“That’s good, Saar. I just thought I’d tell you.”
Then he started to row again and when the shore had come closer, he leapt over the side to push the boat. To my astonishment, Fokir followed him almost instantly. Even though the water came up to his neck, the boy quickly put his shoulder to the boat and began to push.
No one else was surprised by the child’s adeptness. His mother turned to me and I saw she was choking with pride: “See, Saar, the river is in his veins.”
What would I not have given to be able to say that this was true also of myself, that the river flowed in my veins too, laden with all its guilty burdens? But I had never felt so much an outsider as I did at that moment. Yet I was glad at least that my years in the tide country had taught me how to use my feet in the mud: when it came time to step off the boat, I was able to follow them ashore without difficulty.
We headed into the badabon with Horen in the lead, clearing a path for us with his dá. Kusum was behind him with the clay image balanced on her shoulder. I was in the rear, and not for an instant did the thought leave my mind that if a tiger were to fall upon me then, in those dense thickets of mangrove, it would find me all but immobile, a caged feast.
But nothing untoward happened. We came to a clearing and Kusum led the way to the shrine, which was nothing more than a raised platform with bamboo sides and a thatched covering. Here we placed the images of Bon Bibi and Shah Jongoli, and then Kusum lit a few sticks of fragrant dhoop, and Fokir fetched some leaves and flowers and laid them at their feet.
So far there was nothing unusual about the ritual except its setting — otherwise it was very much like the small household pujas I remembered my mother performing in my childhood. But then Horen began to recite a mantra, and to my great surprise I heard him say: