The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [100]
“It is.”
Kanai proceeded to point out Lusibari’s sights: the village maidan, the Hamilton House, the school, the hospital and so on. By the end of the recital they had done a turn around the roof and were facing in the direction of the path they had followed that morning, looking toward the staff quarters of the Lusibari Hospital. Piya knew they were both thinking about the morning’s meeting.
“I’m glad it went well today,” she said.
“Did you think it went well?”
“Yes, I did,” she said. “At least Fokir agreed to go on this expedition. In the beginning I didn’t think he would.”
“I didn’t know what to think, frankly,” Kanai said. “He’s such a peculiar, sulky fellow. One doesn’t know what to expect.”
“Believe me,” said Piya, “he’s very different when he’s out on the water.”
“But are you sure you’ll be all right with him?” said Kanai. “For several days?”
“Yes, I’m sure.” She was aware of a certain awkwardness in discussing Fokir with him, especially because she could tell that he was still smarting from the silent snub of the morning. Quietly she said, “Tell me about Fokir’s mother. What was she like?”
Kanai stopped to consider this. “Fokir looks a lot like her,” he said. “But it’s hard to see any other resemblance. Kusum was spirited, tough, full of fun and laughter. Not like him at all.”
“And what happened to her?”
“It’s a long story,” said Kanai, “and I don’t know all of it. All I can tell you is that she was killed in some kind of confrontation with the police.”
Piya caught her breath. “How did that happen?”
“She’d joined a group of refugees who’d occupied an island nearby. The land belonged to the government, so there was a standoff and many people died. That was in 1979 — Fokir must have been five or six. But Horen Naskor took him in after his mother’s death: he’s been a father to him ever since.”
“So Fokir wasn’t born here?”
“No,” said Kanai. “He was born in Bihar — his parents were living there at the time. His mother came back here when his father died.”
Piya remembered the family she had imagined for Fokir: the parents she had given him and the many siblings. She was shamed by her lack of insight. “Well, that’s one thing we have in common, then,” she said. “Fokir and me.”
“What?”
“Growing up without a mother.”
“Did you lose your mother when you were little?” said Kanai.
“I wasn’t as little as he was,” said Piya. “My mother died of cancer when I was twelve. But actually I felt I’d lost her long before.”
“Why?”
“Because she’d kind of cut herself off from us — my dad and me. She was a depressive, you see — and her condition got worse over the years.”
“It must have been very hard for you,” said Kanai.
“Not as hard as it was for her,” said Piya. “She was like an orchid in a way, frail and beautiful and dependent on the love and labor of many, many people. She was the kind of person who should never have strayed too far from home. In Seattle she had no one — no friends, no servants, no job, no life. My father, on the other hand, was the perfect immigrant — driven, hardworking, successful. He was busy getting on with his career, and I was absorbed in the usual kid stuff. I guess my mother kind of fell through the cracks. At some point she just gave up.”
Kanai put his hand on hers and gave it a squeeze. “I’m sorry.”
There was a catch in his voice that surprised Piya: she had judged him to be too self-absorbed to pay much attention to other people. Yet his sympathy now seemed genuine.
“I don’t get it,” she said with a smile. “You say you’re sorry for me, but you don’t seem to have much sympathy for Fokir. Even though you knew his mother. How come?”
His face hardened and he gave a snort of ironic laughter. “So far as Fokir is concerned I’m afraid my sympathies are mainly with his wife.”
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you feel for her this morning?” said Kanai. “Just imagine how hard it must be to live with someone like Fokir while also trying to provide for a family and keep a roof over your head. If you consider her circumstances — her caste, her upbringing — it’s very remarkable