The Hungry Tide

by Amitav Ghosh

  Nilima’s response had been tinged with apprehension. “So you’re just going to go off and leave her here? For me to deal with?”

  “I don’t think she’ll be any trouble to you,” Kanai had said. “In fact, I’m sure she won’t be. She just needs some time to pull herself together. To have me here will be no help — exactly the opposite, I suspect.”

  Nilima had not raised any further objections to his departure. “Of course, Kanai, I know how busy you are...”

  Kanai had put his arm around her shoulder and given her a hug. “Don’t worry,” he’d said. “It’ll be all right. I’ll be back soon. You’ll see.”

  She’d received this with a noncommittal shrug. “You know you’re always welcome here.”

  Kanai had left the next day — a week after the cyclone — and some days later Piya had come down to tell Nilima that she was leaving too.

  “Yes, my dear, of course. I understand.” Nilima had made an effort to keep her voice level so as not to betray her relief. She’d been wondering for the past couple of days whether Piya’s presence in Lusibari might lead to trouble with the authorities. Did she have a visa? Did she have the right permit? Nilima didn’t know and didn’t like to ask. “You’ve been through a lot,” Nilima had said warmly. “You must give yourself time to recover.”

  “I’ll be back soon, though,” Piya had said, and Nilima had replied, with hearty goodwill, “Yes, my dear, of course you will.”

  But Piya’s valediction was not an unfamiliar one; Nilima had heard the same words often before, on the lips of many well-meaning foreign visitors. None of them had ever been seen or heard from again, so it was not without reason that Nilima had assumed that the same would be true of Piya. But now here she was, just as she had said.

  THE KNOCK SOUNDED before Nilima had had the time to properly prepare herself. She could think of nothing to say except “Piya! You’re back.”

  “Yes,” said Piya matter-of-factly. “Did you think I wouldn’t be?”

  This was, of course, exactly what Nilima had thought, so she was quick to change the subject. “So tell me then, Piya, where did you go off to?” The girl had bought herself some new clothes, she noticed: Piya was dressed, as before, in a white shirt and cotton pants.

  “I went to Kolkata,” Piya said. “I stayed with my aunt and spent a lot of time on the Internet. You’ll be glad to know there was a terrific response.”

  “Response? To what?”

  “I sent out some letters explaining what happened during the cyclone and how Fokir had died. Some of my friends and colleagues took up the cause and circulated a chain letter to raise money for Moyna and Tutul. The response was better than we’d expected. The money’s not as much as I’d have liked, but it’s something: it’ll buy them a house of their own and maybe even provide a college education for Tutul.”

  “Oh?” said Nilima, sitting up. “I’m glad to hear that, very glad indeed. I’m sure Moyna will be too.”

  “But that’s not all,” said Piya.

  “Really?” Nilima raised her eyebrows. “What else have you been up to?”

  “I wrote up a report,” said Piya, “on my dolphin sightings in this area. It was very impressionistic, of course, since I’d lost all my data, but it sparked a lot of interest. I’ve had several offers of funding from conservation and environmental groups. But I didn’t want to go ahead without talking to you first.”

  “Me?” cried Nilima. “What do I know about such matters?”

  “You know a lot about the people who live here,” Piya said. “And for myself, I don’t want to do the kind of work that places the burden of conservation on those who can least afford it. If I was to take on a project here, I’d want it to be under the sponsorship of the Badabon Trust, so the local fishermen would be involved. And the Trust would benefit too. We’d share the funding.”

  At the mention of funding, Nilima, ever pragmatic, began to pay closer attention. “Well, it’s certainly worth a thought,” she said, biting her lip. “But, Piya, have you considered the practical aspect of this? For instance, where would you live?”

  Piya nodded. “I have an idea for that too,” she said. “I want to run it by you, to see what you think.”

  “Go on.”

  “I thought, if you were agreeable, that maybe I’d rent the upper floor of this house from you — the Guest House, in other words. I could really set myself up there, with computers and a small office. I’d need an office to keep track of the funds.”

  Nilima smiled indulgently. Having had long experience in administration, she could tell that Piya had no idea of what she was getting into. “But, Piya,” she said gently, “to start something on that scale you’d need a staff, you’d need people to help. You can’t do it on your own.”

  “Yes, I know,” Piya said. “I’ve thought about that too. My idea was that Moyna would manage that end of things — part-time of course, when she’s not on duty at the hospital. It would give her an additional source of income, and I’m sure she’d be able to handle the work. And it would be good for me too. She could maybe teach me some Bangla in exchange for some English.”

  Nilima twisted her hands together, frowning, trying to anticipate every possible objection to Piya’s plan. “But, Piya, what about permits and visas and so on? You’re a foreigner, remember? I don’t know if it’ll be legally possible for you to stay here for an extended period of time.”

  This, too, Piya took in her stride. “I spoke to my uncle about that,” she said. “He told me I’m eligible for a card that would allow me to stay on indefinitely — something about being a person of Indian origin. And as for the permits to do research, he said that if the Badabon Trust was willing to sponsor my work, he’d take care of the rest. He knows of some environmental groups in New Delhi that will intervene with the government.”

  “My goodness! You really have thought of everything.” Nilima gave a bark of laughter. “I suppose you even have a name for this project of yours?” Nilima had meant this ironically, but when Piya gravely cleared her throat, she realized that the matter was no joke for the girl. “So you do have a name? Already?”

  “I was thinking,” Piya said, “that we might name it after Fokir, since his data are going to be crucial to the project.”

  “His data?” Nilima raised her eyebrows. “But I thought you’d lost all your data in the storm?”

  Piya’s eyes brightened. “Not all of it,” she said. “I still have this.” She took her hand-held monitor out of her pocket and showed it to Nilima. “See, this is connected to the satellites of the Global Positioning System. On the day of the storm it was in my pocket. It was the only piece of equipment that survived.” At the touch of a button the screen flickered on. Piya tapped a key to access the memory. “All the routes that Fokir showed me are stored here. Look.” She pointed to a sinuous zigzag line that had appeared on the screen. “That was the route we took on the day before the storm. Fokir took the boat into every little creek and gully where he’d ever seen a dolphin. That one map represents decades of work and volumes of knowledge. It’s going to be the foundation of my own project. That’s why I think it should be named after him.”

  “My goodness!” said Nilima. Her eyes strayed to the fragment of sky that was visible through the nearest window. “So you mean to say it’s all preserved up there?”

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  Nilima fell silent as she pondered the mystery of Fokir and his boat, writing a log of their journeys and locking it away in the stars. Presently she reached for Piya’s arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re right,” she said. “It would be good to have a memorial for Fokir, on earth as well as in the heavens. But as for the details, you’ll have to give me a little time to think it through.” She sighed and rose to her feet. “Right now, my dear, what I need most is a cup of tea. Would you like one too?”

  “Yes, I would,” said Piya. “Thank you.”

  Nilima went into her kitchen and filled a kettle with water from a filt
er. She was pumping her kerosene stove when Piya put her head around the door.

  “And what about Kanai?” said Piya. “Have you had any news from him?”

  Nilima put a match to the stove and replaced the grill. “Yes, I have,” she said. “I got a letter from him just the other day.”

  “And how is he?” said Piya.

  Nilima laughed as she placed the kettle on the stove. “Oh, my dear!” she said. “He’s been almost as busy as you.”

  “Is that so? What’s he been doing?”

  “Let me see,” said Nilima, reaching for a teapot. “Where shall I begin? The most important thing is that he’s restructured his company so that he can take some time off. He wants to live in Kolkata for a while.”

  “Really?” said Piya. “And what’s he going to do there?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” Nilima said as she spooned some longhoarded Darjeeling tea leaves into the pot. “He told me he was going to write the story of Nirmal’s notebook — how it came into his hands, what was in it, and how it was lost. But what he means by that you can ask him yourself. He’ll be here in a day or two.”

  “That soon?”

  Nilima nodded. The kettle’s cover had begun to rattle, so she took it off the stove. Pouring a stream of boiling water into the teapot, she said, “And I hope you won’t mind if Kanai stays upstairs while he’s here — in the Guest House?”

  Piya smiled. “No,” she said. “Not at all. In fact it’ll be good to have him home.”

  Piya’s choice of words surprised Nilima so much that she dropped the spoon she was using to stir the tea leaves. “Did I hear you right?” she said, directing a startled glance at Piya. “Did you say ‘home’?”

  Piya had said the word without thinking, but now, as she reflected on it, furrows appeared on her forehead.

  “You know, Nilima,” she said at last, “for me, home is where the Orcaella are, so there’s no reason why this couldn’t be it.”

  Nilima’s eyes opened wide and she burst into laughter. “See, Piya,” she said. “That’s the difference between us. For me, home is wherever I can brew a pot of good tea.”

  Author’s Note

  The characters in this novel are fictitious, as are its two principal settings, Lusibari and Garjontola. However, the secondary locations, such as Canning, Gosaba, Satjelia, Morichjhãpi and Emilybari, do exist and were founded or settled in the manner alluded to here.

  My uncle, the late Shri Satish Chandra Ghosh, was for more than a decade the headmaster of the Rural Reconstruction Institute, the high school founded by Sir Daniel Hamilton in Gosaba. For some years before his untimely death, in 1967, he was also the manager of the Hamilton Estate. To him and to his son, my cousin Subroto Ghosh, I am greatly beholden for my earliest linkages of memory with the tide country.

  One of the world’s leading cetologists, Professor Helene Marsh of James Cook University, generously responded to an e-mail inquiry from an absolute stranger. I can never thank her enough for putting me in touch with her student Isabel Beasley, a specialist in the study of Orcaella brevirostris. By allowing me to accompany her on a survey expedition on the Mekong, Isabel Beasley introduced me to the ways of the Irrawaddy dolphin and to those of the cetologist. My gratitude to her is exceeded only by my admiration for her fortitude and dedication.

  I had the privilege of being able to travel in the tide country with Annu Jalais, one of those rare scholars who combines immense personal courage with extraordinary linguistic and intellectual gifts: her research into the history and culture of the region will, I am certain, soon come to be regarded as definitive. For the example of her integrity, as for her unstinting generosity in sharing her knowledge, I owe Annu Jalais an immense debt of gratitude.

  On the island of Rangabelia, which was once a part of the old Hamilton Estate, I had the good fortune of making the acquaintance of Tushar Kanjilal, the retired headmaster of the local high school. In 1969, together with his wife, the late Shrimati Bina Kanjilal, he started a small voluntary organization that later merged with another, the Tagore Society of Rural Development (TSRD). Under Tushar Kanjilal’s stewardship this organization launched a number of innovative projects. In an area where the public infrastructure was all but nonexistent, it succeeded in creating a range of invaluable medical and social services. Today the standard of care offered by the TSRD’s hospital in Rangabelia is no less remarkable than the dedication of its staff. In this context I would like to mention, in particular, Dr. Amitava Choudhury, who became for me, in the course of my visits to the tide country, an exemplar of idealism. The TSRD’s programs now extend well beyond the state of West Bengal and cover such diverse fields as the empowerment of women, primary health care and the improvement of agricultural practices: in their breadth and effectiveness the programs are the best possible tribute to their founders. (For information about the TSRD, visit the following Web sites: www.indev.nic.in/tsrd and www.geocities.com/gosaba_little hearts.)

  Around the time of its occurrence, the Morichjhãpi incident was widely discussed in the Calcutta press, English as well as Bengali. Today the only historical treatment available in English is an article by Ross Mallick, “Refugee Resettlement in Forest Reserves: West Bengal Policy Reversal and the Marichjhãpi Massacre” ( Journal of Asian Studies 58:1, 1999, pp. 103–125). Nilanjana Chatterjee’s excellent dissertation, “Midnight’s Unwanted Children: East Bengali Refugees and the Politics of Rehabilitation” (Brown University) has unfortunately never been published. Annu Jalais’s article, “Dwelling on Marichjhampi,” is also yet to be published.

  I am grateful to B. Poulin and Houghton Mifflin for permission to quote from A. Poulin Jr.’s 1977 translation of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies: this remains, for me, the definitive English rendition. All references to Bengali versions of the Elegies are from the superb translations published by Buddhadeva Basu in the late 1960s. These are now available in the collected edition of Buddhadeva Basu’s poetry, Kabita Sangraha (Pancham Khanda), edited by Mukul Guha (Dey’s Publishing, Kolkata, 1994).

  I would also like to acknowledge the help, support and hospitality, variously, of the following: Leela and Horen Mandol, Tuhin Mandol, the Santa Maddalena Foundation, Mohanlal Mandol, Anil Kumar Mandol, Amites Mukhopadhyay, Parikshit Bar, James Simpson, Clint Seely, Edward Yazijian, Abhijit Bannerjee and Dr. Gopinath Burman. To my sister, Dr. Chaitali Basu, I owe a special word of thanks. For the care they have taken with this book, I am greatly indebted to Janet Silver, Susan Watt and Karl Blessing, as also to Agnes Krup and Barney Karpfinger of the Karpfinger Agency.

  The support of my wife, Debbie, was of inestimable value in the writing of this book. To her, and to my children, Lila and Nayan, my debt is beyond reckoning.