The Hungry Tide. Amitav Ghosh

at one of the stalls. A book had gone flying into the air and landed in a puddle. Kanai was about to swear at the man he had bumped into, Bokachoda! Why didn’t you get out of my way?, when he recognized his uncle’s wide, wondering eyes blinking behind a pair of thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

      ‘Kanai? Is that you?’

      ‘Aré tumi!’ In bending down to touch his uncle’s feet, Kanai had also picked up the book Nirmal had dropped. His eyes had fallen on the now-damaged spine, and he had noticed it was a translation of François Bernier’s Travels in the Mughal Empire.

      The bookseller, meanwhile, had begun to yell, ‘You have to pay – it’s expensive that book, and it’s ruined now.’ A glance at his uncle’s stricken face told Kanai that he didn’t have the money to buy the book. It so happened that Kanai had just been paid for an article he had sent to a newspaper. Reaching for his wallet, Kanai had paid the bookseller and thrust the book into Nirmal’s hands, all in one flowing motion. Then, to forestall an awkward expression of gratitude on his uncle’s part, he had mumbled, ‘I’m late, have to run,’ and had then fled, leaping over a puddle.

      In the years since he had always imagined that when he next ran into Nirmal it would be in a similar fashion – Nirmal would be in a bookshop fondling some volume he could not afford and he, Kanai, would reach discreetly into his own pocket to buy him the book. But it hadn’t happened that way: two years after that accidental encounter, Nirmal had died in Lusibari, after a long illness. Nilima had told Kanai then that his uncle had remembered him on his deathbed: he had said something about some writings that he wanted to send to him. But Nirmal had been incoherent for many months and Nilima had not known what to make of this declaration. After his death, she had looked everywhere, just in case there was something to it. Nothing had turned up, so she had assumed Nirmal’s mind had been wandering, as it often did.

      Then suddenly one morning, two months before, Nilima had called Kanai at his flat in New Delhi’s Chittaranjan Park; she was in Gosaba, a town near Lusibari, calling from a telephone booth. Kanai was sitting at his dining table, waiting for his cook to bring him his breakfast, when the telephone rang.

      ‘Kanai-ré?’

      They were exchanging the usual greetings and polite inquiries when he detected a note of constraint in her voice. He said, ‘Is something the matter? Are you calling for some special reason?’

      ‘Actually, yes,’ she said, a little awkwardly.

      ‘What is it? Tell me.’

      ‘I was thinking it would be good if you could come to Lusibari soon, Kanai,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could?’

      Kanai was taken aback. It so happened that Nilima was childless and he was her closest relative, yet he could not remember any occasion when she had made such a demand. She had always been very much her own person and it was out of character for her to ask a favour. ‘Why do you want me to come to Lusibari?’ Kanai said, in surprise.

      The phone went quiet for a moment and then she said, ‘Do you remember, Kanai, I told you years ago that Nirmal had left some writings for you?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Kanai. ‘Of course I remember. But they were never found, were they?’

      ‘That’s the thing,’ said Nilima. ‘I think I’ve found them: a packet addressed to you has turned up.’

      ‘Where?’ said Kanai.

      ‘In Nirmal’s study. It’s on the roof of the place where I live, on top of the Trust’s Guest House. All these years, after he died, it’s been locked just as it was. But now it’s going to be torn down, because we need to build another floor. I was clearing it out the other day and that was when I found it.’

      ‘And what was inside?’

      ‘It must be all the essays and poems he wrote over the years. But the truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t open it because I knew he’d have wanted you to look at them first. He never trusted my literary judgement – and it’s true I’m not much good at that kind of thing. That’s why I was hoping you could come. Perhaps you could even arrange to have them published. You know some publishers, don’t you?’

      ‘Yes, I do,’ he said, flustered. ‘But going to Lusibari? It’s so far after all – from New Delhi it’ll take two days to get there. I mean, of course, I’d like to but—’

      ‘I’d be very grateful if you could, Kanai.’

      This was said in the quiet but firm tone of voice Nilima used when she was determined to get her way. Kanai knew now that she was in earnest and would not be put off easily. In their family, Nilima was legendary for her persistence – her doggedness and tenacity had built the Badabon Trust into what it was, an organization widely cited as a model for NGOs working in rural India.

      Kanai made one last attempt to give her the slip. ‘Couldn’t you just send this packet by post?’

      ‘I wouldn’t trust a thing like this to the post,’ she said, in a shocked voice. ‘Who knows what might happen to it?’

      ‘It’s just that this is a very busy time,’ said Kanai. ‘I have so much to do.’

      ‘But Kanai,’ she said, ‘with you it’s always a busy time.’

      ‘That’s true enough.’ Kanai was the founder and chief executive of a small but thriving business. He ran a bureau of translators and interpreters that specialized in serving the expatriate communities of New Delhi: foreign diplomats, aid workers, charitable organizations, multinational companies and the like. Being the only such organization in the city, the services of Kanai’s agency were hugely in demand. This meant its employees were all overworked – none more so than Kanai himself.

      ‘So will you come, then?’ she said. ‘Every year you say you’ll visit but you never come. And I’m not getting any younger.’

      He caught the pleading note in her voice and decided to check his impulse to fob her off. He had always been fond of Nilima and his affection had deepened after the death of his own mother, whom she closely resembled, in appearance if not in temperament. His admiration for her was genuine too: in founding his own business he had gained a fresh appreciation of what it took to build up and maintain an organization like hers – especially considering that, unlike his own agency, the Trust was not run for profit. He remembered, from his first visit, the dire poverty of the tide country and he thought it both inexplicable and remarkable that she had chosen to dedicate her life to working for the betterment of the people who lived there. Not that her work had gone unrecognized – the year before the president had actually decorated her with one of the country’s highest honours. But still, it amazed him that someone from a background like hers had lasted in Lusibari as long as she had – he knew from his mother’s accounts that they belonged to a family that was notable for its attachment to the creature comforts. And in Lusibari, as he knew from experience, there was little to be had by way of comforts and amenities.

      Kanai had always extolled Nilima to his friends as someone who had made great sacrifices in the public interest, as a figure who was a throwback to an earlier era when people of means and education were less narrow, less selfish than now. All this made it somehow impossible to turn down Nilima’s simple request.

      ‘If you want me to come,’ he said, reluctantly, ‘then there’s nothing more to it. I’ll try to come for maybe ten days. Do you want me to leave immediately?’

      ‘No, no,’ Nilima said quickly. ‘You don’t have to come right away.’

      ‘That makes it a lot easier for me,’ said Kanai, in relief. His stormy but absorbing involvement with the Odissi dancer was then still heading in an interesting direction. To interrupt the natural trajectory of that relationship would have been a considerable sacrifice and he was glad he was not going to be put to that test. ‘I’ll be there in a month or two. I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made the arrangements.’

      ‘I’ll be waiting.’

      And