The Hungry Tide. Amitav Ghosh

maybe a heron or a stork. The impression was heightened by his clothes and umbrella: his loose white drapes had flapped in the wind like a mantle of feathers, while the shape of his chhata was not unlike that of a long, pointed bill.

      ‘I still remember him, standing here, while we were waiting for a boat.’

      ‘Nirmal?’

      ‘Yes. He was dressed in his usual white dhuti-panjabi and he had his umbrella in his hands.’

      Suddenly Nilima seized his elbow. ‘Stop, Kanai. Don’t talk about it. I can’t bear it.’

      Kanai cut himself short. ‘Is it still upsetting for you? After all these years?’

      Nilima shivered. ‘It’s just this place – this is where he was found, you know. Right here on the embankment in Canning. He only lived another couple of months after that. He must have been out in the rain, because he caught pneumonia.’

      ‘I didn’t know about that,’ Kanai said. ‘What brought him to Canning?’

      ‘I still don’t know for sure,’ Nilima said. ‘His behaviour had become very erratic, as it tended to when he was under stress. He had retired as headmaster some months before and was never the same again. He would disappear without leaving any word. It was around the time of the Morichjhãpi incident, so I was beside myself with worry.’

      ‘Oh?’ said Kanai. ‘What was that? I don’t recall it exactly.’

      ‘Some refugees had occupied one of the islands in the forest,’ Nilima said. ‘There was a confrontation with the authorities that resulted in a lot of violence. The government wanted to force the refugees to return to their resettlement camp in central India. They were being put into trucks and buses and taken away. In the meanwhile the whole district was filled with rumours. I was terrified of what might happen to Nirmal if he was found wandering around on his own: for all I knew he’d just been forced on to a bus and sent off.’

      ‘Is that what happened?’

      ‘That’s my suspicion,’ said Nilima. ‘But someone must have recognized him and let him off somewhere. He managed to make his way back to Canning – and this was where he was found, right here on this embankment.’

      ‘Didn’t you ask him where he’d been?’ Kanai said.

      ‘Of course I did, Kanai,’ Nilima said. ‘But by that time he was incapable of answering rationally; it was impossible to get any sense out of him. His only moment of clarity after that was when he mentioned this packet of writings he’d left for you. At the time I thought his mind was wandering again – but it turns out it wasn’t.’

      Kanai put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It must have been very hard for you.’

      Nilima raised a hand to wipe her eyes. ‘I still remember coming here to get him,’ she said. ‘He was standing here shouting, “The Matla will rise! The Matla will rise!” His clothes were all soiled and there was mud on his face. I’ll never get that image out of my head.’

      A long-buried memory stirred in Kanai’s mind. ‘“The Matla will rise.” Is that what he was saying? He must have been thinking of that story he used to tell.’

      ‘What story?’ Nilima said sharply.

      ‘Don’t you remember? About the viceroy who built this port, and Mr Piddington, the man who invented the word “cyclone”, and how he predicted that the Matla would rise to drown Canning?’

      ‘Stop!’ Nilima clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Please don’t talk about it, Kanai. I can’t bear to remember all that. That’s why I wanted you to deal with this packet of his. I just don’t have the strength to revisit all of that.’

      ‘Of course,’ said Kanai, remorsefully. ‘I know it’s hard for you. I won’t mention it.’

      Then too, Kanai remembered, there had been a long wait on the embankment. Not because of the tides or the mud, but because of a simple lack of boats heading in the right direction. He had sat with Nilima in a tea-stall while Nirmal was sent to stand atop the embankment to watch for boats.

      Nirmal, Kanai remembered, had not been very effective at keeping watch. On his most recent visit to a bookshop, in Calcutta, he had bought a copy of a Bangla translation of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies – the translator, Buddhadeb Basu, was a poet he had once known. All the while he was meant to be watching for a boat, Nirmal’s attention had kept returning to his recent acquisition. For fear of Nilima he hadn’t dared to open the book. Instead, he had held it aslant across his chest, and stolen glances whenever he could.

      Fortunately for them, they had not had to depend on Nirmal to find a boat. Someone had come to their rescue of his own accord. ‘Aré Mashima! You here?’ Before they could look around, a young man had come running up the embankment to touch Nilima’s feet.

      ‘Is it Horen?’ Nilima had said, squinting closely at his face. ‘Horen Naskor? Is it you?’

      ‘Yes, Mashima; it’s me.’ He was squat of build and heavily muscled, his face broad and flat, with eyes permanently narrowed against the sun. He was dressed in a threadbare lungi and a mud-stained vest.

      ‘And what are you doing in Canning, Horen?’ Nilima said.

      ‘Jongol korté geslam, I went to “do jungle” yesterday, Mashima,’ Horen replied, ‘and Bon Bibi granted me enough honey to fill two bottles. I came here to sell them.’

      At this point Kanai had whispered into Nilima’s ear, ‘Who is Bon Bibi?’

      ‘The goddess of the forest,’ Nilima had whispered back. ‘In these parts, people believe she rules over all the animals of the jungle.’

      ‘O?’ Kanai had been astonished to think that a grown-up, a big strong man at that, could entertain such an idea. He had been unable to suppress the snort of laughter that rose to his lips.

      ‘Kanai!’ Nilima had been quick to scold. ‘Don’t act like you know everything. You’re not in Calcutta now.’

      Kanai’s laugh had caught Horen’s attention too, and he had stooped to bring their faces level. ‘And who is this, Mashima?’

      ‘My nephew – my sister’s son,’ Nilima had explained. ‘He got into trouble in school so his parents sent him here – to teach him a lesson.’

      ‘You should send him over to me, Mashima,’ Horen had said with a smile. ‘I have three children of my own, and my oldest is not much smaller than him. I know what has to be done to teach a boy a lesson.’

      ‘Do you hear that, Kanai?’ Mashima had said. ‘That’s what I’ll do if there’s any nonsense from you – I’ll send you to live with Horen.’

      This prospect had instantly sobered Kanai, removing the smile from his face. He had been greatly relieved when Horen had turned away from him to reach for Nilima’s luggage.

      ‘So, Mashima, are you waiting for a boat?’

      ‘Yes, Horen. We’ve been sitting here a long time.’

      ‘No more sitting, Mashima!’ Horen had said, hefting one of her bags on to his shoulders. ‘My own boat is here – I’ll take all of you home.’

      Nilima had made a few unconvincing protests. ‘But it’s out of your way, Horen, isn’t it?’

      ‘Not far,’ Horen had said. ‘And you’ve done so much for Kusum. Why can’t I do this? You just wait here – I’ll bring the boat around.’

      With that he had gone hurrying away, along the embankment. After he was out of earshot, Kanai had said to Nilima, ‘Who is that man? And what was he talking about? Who is Kusum?’

      Horen was a fisherman, Nilima had explained, and he lived on an island called Satjelia, not far from Lusibari. He was younger than he looked, probably not yet twenty, but like many