by Amitav Ghosh
Kanai looked at the tangled barrier of mangrove ahead and knew that it would be madness to walk into that with Fokir: his dá could slip, anything could happen. It was not worth the risk.
“No,” said Kanai. “I’m not going to play this game with you anymore, Fokir. I want you to take me back to the bhotbhoti.”
“But why?” said Fokir with a laugh. “What are you afraid of ? Didn’t I tell you? A man like yourself should have nothing to fear in this place.”
Stepping into the mud, Kanai shouted over his shoulder, “Stop talking nonsense. You may be a child, but I’m not —”
Then suddenly it was as though the earth had come alive and was reaching for his ankle. Looking down, he discovered that a rope-like tendril had wrapped itself around his ankles. He felt his balance going and when he tried to slide a foot forward to correct it, his legs seemed to move in the wrong direction. Before he could do anything to break the fall, the wetness of the mud slapped him full in the face.
At first he was completely immobile: it was as though his body were being fitted for a mold in a tub of plaster. Trying to look up, he discovered that he could not see: the mud had turned his sunglasses into a blindfold. Scraping his head against his arm, he shook the glasses off and allowed them to sink out of sight. When Fokir’s hand descended on his shoulder, he brushed it off and tried to push himself to his feet on his own. But the consistency of the mud was such as to create a suction effect and he could not break free.
He saw that Fokir was smiling at him. “I told you to be careful.”
The blood rushed to Kanai’s head and obscenities began to pour from his mouth: “Shala, banchod, shuorer bachcha.”
His anger came welling up with an atavistic explosiveness, rising from sources whose very existence he would have denied: the master’s suspicion of the menial; the pride of caste; the townsman’s mistrust of the rustic; the city’s antagonism toward the village. He had thought he had cleansed himself of these sediments of the past, but the violence with which they spewed out of him now suggested that they had only been compacted into an explosive and highly volatile reserve.
There had been occasions in the past — too many of them — when Kanai had seen his clients losing their temper in like fashion: when rage had made them cross the boundaries of selfhood, transporting them to a state in which they were literally beside themselves. The phrase was apt: their emotions were so intense as almost to spill outside the physical boundaries of their skin. And almost always, no matter what the proximate cause, he was the target of their rage: the interpreter, the messenger, the amanuensis. He was the life preserver that held them afloat in a tide of incomprehension; the meaninglessness that surrounded them became, as it were, his fault, because he was its only named feature. He had survived these outbursts by telling himself that such episodes were merely a professional hazard — “nothing personal” — it was just that his job sometimes made him a proxy for the inscrutability of life itself. Yet, despite his knowledge of the phenomenon, he was powerless to stop the torrent of obscenities that were pouring out of his mouth now.
When Fokir offered a hand to help him up, he slapped it aside: “Ja, shuorer bachcha, beriye ja! Get away from me, you son of a pig!”
“All right, then,” said Fokir. “I’ll do as you say.”
Raising his head, Kanai caught a glimpse of Fokir’s eyes and the words withered on his lips. In Kanai’s professional life there had been a few instances in which the act of interpretation had given him the momentary sensation of being transported out of his body and into another. In each instance it was as if the instrument of language had metamorphosed — instead of being a barrier, a curtain that divided, it had become a transparent film, a prism that allowed him to look through another set of eyes, to filter the world through a mind other than his own. These experiences had always come about unpredictably, without warning or apparent cause, and no thread of similarity linked these occasions, except that in each of them he had been working as an interpreter. But he was not working now, and yet it was exactly this feeling that came upon him as he looked at Fokir: it was as though his own vision were being refracted through those opaque, unreadable eyes and he were seeing not himself, Kanai Dutt, but a great host of people — a double for the outside world, someone standing in for the men who had destroyed Fokir’s village, burnt his home and killed his mother; he had become a token for a vision of human beings in which a man such as Fokir counted for nothing, a man whose value was less than that of an animal. In seeing himself in this way, it seemed perfectly comprehensible to Kanai why Fokir should want him to be dead — but he understood also that this was not how it would be. Fokir had brought him here not because he wanted him to die, but because he wanted him to be judged.
Kanai lifted a hand to wipe the mud from his eyes, and when he looked up again he found that Fokir had stepped out of his field of vision. Something prompted Kanai to look back over his shoulder. Squirming in the mud, he turned just in time to see the boat slipping away. He could not see Fokir’s face, only his back; he was in the stern, rowing vigorously.
“Wait,” said Kanai. “Don’t leave me here.” It was too late: the boat had already vanished around a bend.
Kanai was watching the boat’s bow wave fanning across the river when he saw a ripple cutting slantwise over the water. He looked again carefully, and now it seemed certain that there was something beneath the water’s surface: obscured by the darkness of the silt, it was making for the shore, coming toward him.
Kanai’s head filled with visions of the ways in which the tide country dealt out death. The tiger, people said, killed you instantly, with a swipe of its forepaw, breaking the joint between your shoulder and neck. You felt no pain when it happened; you were dead already of the shock induced by the tiger’s roar just before the moment of impact. There was undeniably a quality of mercy to this — to the human mind, at least. Wasn’t this why people who lived in close proximity with tigers so often regarded them as being something more than just animals? Because the tiger was the only animal that forgave you for being so ill at ease in your translated world?
Or was it because tigers knew of the horror of a reptilian death? It’s the crocodile, he remembered, that most loves the water’s edge: crocodiles can move faster on mud than a man can run on grass; the clay doesn’t impede them; because of their sleek underbodies and their webbed feet they can use its slipperiness to their advantage. A crocodile, it’s said, will keep you alive until you drown; it won’t kill you on land; it’ll drag you into the water while you’re still breathing. Nobody finds the remains of people who’re killed by crocodiles.
Every other thought vanished from his mind. Rising to a crouch, he began to push himself backward, higher up the bank, unmindful of the rooted spear points raking his skin. As he retreated up the bank, the mud thinned and the mangrove’s shoots grew taller and more numerous. He could no longer see the ripple in the water, but it did not matter: all he wanted was to get as far from the river as possible.
Rising gingerly to his feet, he took a step and almost immediately there was an excruciating pain in the arch of his foot: it was as though he had stepped on the point of a nail or on a shard of glass. In wrenching out his foot, he caught a glimpse of a mangrove’s ventilator, sunk deep in the mud: he had jabbed his foot directly into its spear-like point. Then he saw that the spores were everywhere around him, scattered like booby traps; the roots that connected them ran just below the surface, like camouflaged tripwires.
The barrier of mangrove, which had looked so tangled and forbidding from the boat, now seemed a refuge, a safe haven. Picking his way through the minefield of ventilators, he went crashing into the vegetation.
The mangrove branches were pliable and sinuous; they bent without breaking and snapped back like whips. When they closed around him, it was as if he had passed into the embrace of hundreds of scaly limbs. They grew so thick he could not see beyond a few feet; the river disappeared from view, and if it were
not for the incline of the slope he would have been unable to judge whether he was heading away from the water or not. Then, all at once, the barrier ended and he broke through to a grassy clearing dotted with a few trees and palms. He sank to his knees; his clothes were in shreds and his body was covered in cuts and scratches. Flies were settling on his skin and clouds of mosquitoes were hovering above.
He could not bring himself to look around the clearing. This was where it would be, if it was here on the island — but what was he thinking of ? He could not recall the word, not even the euphemisms Fokir had used: it was as if his mind, in its panic, had emptied itself of language. The sounds and signs that had served, in combination, as the sluices between his mind and his senses had collapsed: his mind was swamped by a flood of pure sensation. The words he had been searching for, the euphemisms that were the source of his panic, had been replaced by the thing itself, except that without words it could not be apprehended or understood. It was an artifact of pure intuition, so real that the thing itself could not have dreamed of existing so intensely.
He opened his eyes and there it was, directly ahead,a few hundred feet away. It was sitting on its haunches with its head up, watching him with its tawny, flickering eyes. The upper parts of its coat were of a color that shone like gold in the sunlight, but its belly was dark and caked with mud. It was immense, of a size greater than he could have imagined, and the only parts of its body that were moving were its eyes and the tip of its tail.
At first his terror was such that he could not move a muscle. Then, collecting his breath, he pushed himself to his knees and began to move slowly away, edging backward into the thickets of mangrove, keeping his eyes fixed on the animal all the while, watching the tip of its twitching tail. Only when the branches had closed around him did he rise to his feet. Turning around, he began to push his way through the enclosing greenery, oblivious now to the thorns and splinters that were tearing at his limbs. When at last he broke through to the mudbank, he fell forward on his knees and covered his eyes with his forearm as he tried to prepare himself for the moment of impact, for the blow that would snap the bones of his neck.
“Kanai!” The shouted sound of his name made him open his eyes just long enough to see Piya, Fokir and Horen running toward him across the bank. Now once again he fell forward on the mud and his mind went dark.
When next he opened his eyes, he was on his back, in the boat, and a face was taking shape above him, materializing slowly against the blinding brightness of the afternoon sun. He came to understand that it was Piya, that she had her hands under his shoulders and was trying to prop him up.
“Kanai? Are you OK?”
“Where were you?” he said. “I was alone so long on that island.”
“Kanai, you were there just ten minutes,” she said. “Apparently it was you who sent Fokir away. He came hurrying back to get us and we came as quickly as we could.”
“I saw it, Piya. I saw the tiger.” Now Horen and Fokir crowded around him too, so he added in Bangla, “It was there, the cat — I saw it.”
Horen shook his head. “There was nothing there,” he said. “We looked, Fokir and I. We looked and saw nothing. And if it had been there, you wouldn’t be here now.”
“It was there, I tell you.” Kanai’s body was shaking so much that he could hardly get the words out of his mouth. Piya took hold of his wrist in an effort to calm him.
“Kanai,” she said gently, “it’s all right. You’re safe now. We’re with you.”
He tried to answer, but his teeth were chattering and his breath kept getting caught in his throat.
“Don’t try to talk,” Piya said. “I’ve got a sedative in my first-aid bag. I’ll give it to you when we get to the Megha. What you need is a good rest. You’ll feel much better afterward.”
LIGHTS
DAYLIGHT WAS FADING when Piya put away her data sheets and stepped out of her cabin. As she passed Kanai’s cabin, she paused to listen at his door: he had slept through the afternoon, after taking the pill she had given him, but she sensed he was awake now for she could hear him moving about inside. She raised her hand to knock, thought better of it and went on her way, across the deck and to the bow.
With the setting of the sun Garjontola, all but engulfed by the rising tide, had turned into a faint smudge of land outlined against the darkening sky. In the dying light the island seemed to be drifting peacefully to sleep. But just as Piya was stepping up to the bow, the dark blur was lit up by tiny points of phosphorescence. The illumination lasted only an instant and then the island went dark again. But a moment later the lights twinkled once more, in perfect synchrony: there were thousands, possibly millions, of glowing pinpricks of light, just bright enough to be seen across the water. As her eyes grew used to the rhythm of the flashing, she was able to make out the sinuous shapes of roots and branches, all outlined by the minuscule gleams.
Piya turned on her heel and ran to knock on Kanai’s door. “Are you up? You’ve got to see this. Come on out.”
When the door opened, she stepped back in surprise, as if the man before her were not the one she had expected to see. Kanai’s face and body were scrubbed clean and he was dressed in a lungi and vest he had borrowed from Horen. His hair lay plastered on his head, and there was a look on his face so different from his usual expression of buoyant confidence that she was hard put to recognize him.
“Kanai, what’s up? Are you OK?”
“Yes. Just a little tired. But I’m fine.”
“Then come and look at this.” She led him to the bow and pointed to Garjontola.
“What is it?”
“Wait.”
The lights flashed on and Kanai gasped. “My God,” he said. “What are those?”
“They’re glowworms, flashing their lights in rhythm,” said Piya. “I’ve read about it: they say it happens mainly around mangroves.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Me neither,” she said.
They watched intently as the lights flashed on and off, growing brighter as the sky darkened. She heard Kanai clearing his throat and sensed he was bracing himself to say something, but it was a while yet before he spoke. “Listen, Piya,” he said, catching her off-guard, “I wanted to tell you — I’m going back tomorrow.”
“Back where?”
“To Lusibari — then New Delhi.”
“Oh?” She feigned surprise, although she realized now that she had known all along what he was going to say. “So soon?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s time for me to get back to my office. It’ll be nine days tomorrow and I told everyone I’d be home in ten. If I leave early in the morning I’ll be able to make it back to New Delhi by the day after. The people in my office will begin to worry if I’m not there.”
She knew from his voice that he was holding something back. “And is that the only reason you’re going? Because of your office?”
“No,” he said tersely. “It’s also that I don’t really have much reason to stay here now that I’ve finished with my uncle’s notebook. It’s not as if I’m of much use to you. I think you’ll be able to manage perfectly well without a translator.”
“You certainly don’t have to stay on my account,” she agreed. “But if you don’t mind my asking, does your decision have anything to do with what happened today — on the island?”
His answer, when it came, seemed to be pronounced with some reluctance. “This is not my element, Piya,” he said. “What happened today showed me that.”
“But what exactly did happen, Kanai?” she said. “How did you end up on that island?”
“Fokir suggested we go and take a look at it,” Kanai said, “and I couldn’t think of any reason not to go. That’s about all there is to it.”
Despite his evident unwillingness to speak of the incident, Piya pressed him a little further. “Was it Fokir’s fault, then? Did he leave you behind deliberately?”
“No,” said Kanai firmly. “I hap
pened to fall in the mud and lost my temper. He actually wanted to help — I was the one who shouted at him and told him to go away. He’s not to blame.” He pursed his lips as if to tell her that, as far as he was concerned, the subject was closed.
“You seem to have made up your mind,” Piya said, “so I won’t try to stop you. But when are you planning to leave?”
“At daybreak,” Kanai said. “I’ll arrange it with Horen. If we make an early enough start, I’m sure he can get me to Lusibari and be back here by nightfall. I imagine you were planning to spend the day on the water anyway, in Fokir’s boat?”
“Yes, I was,” said Piya.
“Well, then, it won’t matter if the Megha is away during the day, will it? You won’t miss it.”
Piya thought with regret of the hours they had spent together. “No, I won’t,” she said. “I will miss our talks, though. It’s been good to have you along. I’ve enjoyed your company.”
“And I’ve enjoyed yours, Piya.” He paused briefly, as if he were trying to collect himself. “Actually, I was hoping —”
“Yes?”
“I was hoping you’d come too, Piya. To New Delhi, I mean.”
“To New Delhi?” A hiccup of laughter bubbled up in Piya’s throat.
“Does that seem funny to you?” Kanai said.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It was just so unexpected. New Delhi is a long way and I have so much to do right here.”
“I know that,” he said. “I didn’t mean immediately. I meant after you’d finished your survey. I was hoping maybe you could come then.”
Piya was unsettled by the tone of Kanai’s voice. She remembered her first meeting with him on the train and recalled the certainty of his stance and the imperiousness of his gestures. It was hard to square those memories with the halting, diffident manner of the man who stood before her now. She turned away to look in the direction of Garjontola, where the moon was climbing slowly above the horizon.
“What do you have in mind, Kanai?” she said. “Why do you think I should go to New Delhi?”