The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [106]
“And you know what the real irony was?” Piya said. “Poor old Blyth was wrong on all counts. Not only did he blow his chances of identifying Orcaella; he also misidentified the stranded whales of Calcutta’s Salt Lake: they were just short-finned pilot whales. Gray showed there was no such thing as Globicephalus indicus.”
Kanai nodded. “That’s how it was in those days,” he said. “London was to Calcutta as orca to Orcaella.”
Piya laughed as she carried her plate to the sink. “Are you convinced now? About Calcutta being a center of cetacean zoology?”
Piya raised her hand to her earlobe in the gesture that Kanai had noticed before. That movement made her seem at once as graceful as a dancer and as vulnerable as a child, and it made Kanai’s heart stop. He could not bear to think that she would be going the next day.
Leaving his plate on the table, he went to the bathroom to wash his hands. A minute later, he came hurrying out and went to stand at Piya’s elbow, beside the sink.
“I have an idea for you, Piya,” he said.
“Yes?” she said cautiously, alarmed by the shine in his eye.
“Do you know what your expedition lacks?”
“What?” She turned away from him, pursing her lips.
“A translator!” Kanai said. “Neither Horen nor Fokir speaks English. How are you going to communicate with them?”
“I managed OK over the last few days.”
“But you didn’t have a whole crew to deal with.”
She acknowledged the truth of this with a nod: she could see that there would be advantages to having him along. But her instincts told her to be careful: his presence might lead to trouble. Playing for time, she said, “But don’t you have stuff to do here?”
“Not really,” said Kanai. “I’m getting to the end of my uncle’s notebook — and it doesn’t necessarily have to be read right here. I could take it with me. Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of this Guest House. I wouldn’t mind a little break.”
His eagerness was obvious and she was aware of a twinge of guilt: there was no denying that he had been very hospitable; she would feel more at ease about staying in the Guest House if she knew his generosity was not going to go unreciprocated.
“Well, then, sure,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “You’re welcome to come along.”
He made a fist and punched it into his open palm. “Thank you!” But this display of enthusiasm seemed to cause him some embarrassment, for he added, affecting nonchalance, “I’ve always wanted to be on an expedition. It’s been an ambition of mine ever since I learned that my great-great-uncle was the translator on Younghusband’s expedition to Tibet.”
DESTINY
Putting away my book, I said to Kusum: “What is this place we’re going to? Why is it called Garjontola?”
“Because of the garjon tree, which grows in great abundance there.”
“Oh?” I had not made this connection: I’d thought that the name of the place came from the other meaning of the word garjon, “to roar.” “So it’s not because of a tiger’s cry?”
She laughed. “Maybe that too.”
“So why is it Garjontola we’re going to? Why there and nowhere else?”
“It’s because of my father, Saar,” Kusum said.
“Your father?”
“Yes. Once, many years ago, his life was saved on this island.”
“How? What happened?”
“All right, Saar, since you asked, I’ll tell you the story. I know you’ll probably laugh. You won’t believe me.
“It happened long, long ago, before I was born; fishing alone, my father was caught in a storm. The wind raged like a fiend and tore apart his boat; his hands fell on a log and somehow he stayed afloat. Swept by the current, he came to Garjontola; climbing a tree, he tied himself with his gamchha. Attached to the trunk, he held on against the gale till suddenly the wind stopped and a silence fell. The waves were quieted, the tree