The Hungry Tide. Amitav Ghosh

      At the mention of the name, the van’s driver corkscrewed around in his seat. ‘Mashima, are you talking about Moyna Mandol?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘But you won’t find her at the Guest House, Mashima,’ the driver said. ‘Haven’t you heard yet?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Moyna’s husband, that fellow Fokir, has gone missing again. And he’s taken the boy too – their son. Moyna’s running all over the place, asking after them.’

      ‘No! Is that true?’

      ‘Yes.’ A couple of other passengers confirmed this with vigorous nods.

      Mashima clicked her tongue. ‘Poor Moyna. That fellow gives her so much trouble.’

      Kanai had been listening to this exchange and, on seeing the look of consternation on Mashima’s face, said, ‘Will this upset all the arrangements?’

      ‘No,’ said Mashima. ‘We’ll manage one way or the other. I’m just worried about Moyna. That husband of hers is going to drive her mad one day.’

      ‘Who is he? Her husband, I mean?’

      ‘You won’t know him—’ Breaking off in mid-sentence Nilima clutched at Kanai’s arm. ‘Wait! Actually you do know him – not him, I mean, but his mother.’

      ‘His mother?’

      ‘Yes. Do you remember a girl called Kusum?’

      ‘Of course,’ said Kanai. ‘Of course I remember her. She was the only friend I had in this place.’

      Nilima gave a slow nod. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember now: you two used to play together. Anyway, this man we’re talking about – Fokir? He’s Kusum’s son. He’s married to Moyna.’

      ‘Is he the one who’s missing?’

      ‘Yes, that’s him.’

      ‘And what about Kusum? What became of her?’

      Nilima let out a deep sigh. ‘She ran off, Kanai; it must have been some months after you visited us. For years we didn’t have any news of her, but then she showed up again. It was very unfortunate.’

      ‘Why? What happened?’

      Nilima closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory. ‘She was killed.’

      ‘How?’

      ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Nilima in an undertone. ‘Not now.’

      ‘And her son?’ Kanai persisted. ‘How old was he when Kusum died?’

      ‘He was just a child,’ Nilima said. ‘Maybe five years old or so. He was brought up by Horen, who was a relative.’

      A large building suddenly came into view, capturing Kanai’s attention. ‘What’s that, over there?’

      ‘That’s the hospital,’ said Nilima. ‘Is this the first time you’re seeing it?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Kanai. ‘I haven’t been to Lusibari since it was built.’

      The lights that flanked the hospital’s entrance each seemed to be enclosed within a moving, buzzing halo of its own. When the cycle-van rolled past, Kanai saw that this effect was created by clouds of insects. Also clustered beneath the bulbs were groups of schoolchildren, with books open on their laps.

      ‘Aren’t those electric lights?’ Kanai said in surprise.

      ‘Yes, they are.’

      ‘But I thought Lusibari hadn’t got electricity yet?’

      ‘We have electricity within this compound,’ said Nilima. ‘But just for a few hours each day, from sunset till about nine.’

      One of the Trust’s benefactors, Nilima explained, had donated a generator, and the machine was turned on for a few hours each evening so that the hospital’s staff could have a period of heightened activity in which to prepare for the stillness of the night. As for the children, they too were drawn to the hospital by its lights. It was easier to study there than at home, and cheaper too, since it saved oil and candles.

      ‘And that’s where we’re going,’ said Nilima, pointing ahead, to a two-storey house separated from the hospital by a pond and a stand of coconut trees. Small and brightly painted, the house had the cheerful look of a whitewashed elementary school. The guest rooms were upstairs, Nilima explained, while the flat on the ground floor was the home in which she and her late husband had lived since the mid-1970s. Nirmal’s study, where all his papers were stored, was on the roof.

      After Nilima had dismounted from the cycle-van, she handed Kanai a key: ‘This opens the door to your uncle’s study. You should go upstairs and have a look – you’ll find the packet on his desk. I wanted to take you there myself but I’m too tired.’

      ‘I’ll manage on my own,’ said Kanai. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you in the morning.’

      Kanai was heading for the stairs with his suitcase, when Nilima called out, as an afterthought, ‘The generator will be switched off at nine, so be prepared. Don’t be caught off guard when the lights go off.’

       Fokir

      Only after the launch had disappeared from view was Piya able to breathe freely again. But now, as her muscles loosened, the delayed shock she had been half-expecting set in as well. Her limbs began to quiver and all of a sudden her chin was knocking a drumbeat on her kneecaps; in a moment she was shivering hard enough to shake the boat, sending ripples across the water.

      There was a touch on her shoulder and she turned sideways to see the child, standing beside her. He put his arm around her and clung to her back, hugging her, trying to warm her body with his own. She closed her eyes and did not open them again until the chattering of her teeth had stopped.

      Now it was the fisherman who was in front of her, squatting on his haunches and looking into her face with an inquiring frown. Slowly, as her shivering passed, his face relaxed into a smile. With a finger on his chest, pointing at himself, he said, ‘Fokir.’ She understood that this was his name and responded with her own: ‘Piya.’ With a nod of acknowledgement, he turned to the boy and said, ‘Tutul.’ Then his forefinger moved, from himself to the boy and back again, and she knew he was telling her the boy was his son.

      ‘Tutul.’

      Looking closely at the child she saw he was even younger than she had thought, perhaps no more than five years old. He was wearing a threadbare sweater, against the November chill. Below this hung a pair of huge, discoloured shorts that looked as though they had once belonged to a school uniform. He had something in his hands, and when he held it up she saw it was her laminated placard. She had no idea where he had found it but was pleased to see it again. He brought it to her, holding it in front of him like a tray, and gave her fingers a squeeze, as though to assure her of his protection.

      The gesture had the paradoxical effect of making her aware of her own vulnerability. This was not a feeling she was accustomed to – she was used to being on her own in out-of-the-way places, with only strangers for company. But her experience with the guard had bruised her confidence and she felt as though she were recovering from an assault. This made her all the more grateful for the child’s presence: she knew that if it weren’t for him it would have been much harder for her to put her trust in a complete stranger as she had done. It was true, then, that in a way the boy was her protector. The recognition of this made her do something that did not come easily. She was not given to displays of affection but now, in a brief gesture of gratitude, she opened her arms and gave the boy a hug.

      As she released the child, she noticed he was looking intently at her hands – her wallet was still wedged between her fingers.