The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [107]
“Now, in the dark of the night he heard a garjon; soon he caught the smell of the unnameable one. Terror seized his heart and he lost all consciousness; he’d have fallen if the gamchha hadn’t held him in place. He dreamed, in his oblivion, of Bon Bibi: ‘Fool!’ she said. ‘Don’t be afraid; believe in me. This place you’ve come to, I value it as my own; if you’re good at heart, here you’ll never be alone.’
“‘When day breaks you’ll see it is time for low tide; cross the island and go to the northern side. Keep your eyes on the water; be patient and you’ll see: you’re not on your own; you’re not far from me. You’ll see my messengers, my ears and my eyes; they’ll keep you company till the waters rise. Then will you know that deliverance is at hand; a boat will pass by and take you back to your land.’”
Who could fail to be charmed by such a story, so well told? “I suppose you will tell me,” I said, smiling, “that this was exactly how it happened?”
“Why, yes, Saar, it did. And afterward my father came back and built a shrine to Bon Bibi on the island. For the rest of his life, every year we came here on this day, when it was time to do a puja for Bon Bibi.”
I laughed. “And the messengers? I suppose you will say that they were real too?”
“Why, yes, Saar,” she said. “They were. And even you will see them soon.”
“Even I?” I laughed louder still. “An unbelieving secularist? I too am to be granted this privilege?”
“Yes, Saar,” she persisted in the face of my skepticism. “Anyone can see Bon Bibi’s messengers if they know where to look.”
I took a little nap in the shade of my umbrella, and then woke to the sound of Kusum’s voice telling me we had arrived.
I’d been looking forward to the moment when I would be able to confound her credulousness. I sat quickly upright. It was low tide and we were becalmed in a stretch of still water; the shore was yet some distance away. There was nothing to be seen, no messengers nor any other divine manifestation. I could not help preening myself a little as I savored my triumph. “So where are they, Kusum,” I said, “these messengers of yours?”
“Wait, Saar. You’ll see them.”
Suddenly there was a sound like that of a man blowing his nose. I turned around in astonishment, just in time to see a patch of black skin disappearing into the water.
“What was that?” I cried. “Where did it come from? Where did it go?”
“Look,” said little Fokir, pointing in the other direction, “over there.”
I turned to see another of these creatures, rolling through the water. This time I also caught a glimpse of a small triangular fin. Although I had never before seen this animal, I knew it had to be a dolphin; yet it was clearly not the shushuk I was accustomed to seeing in our waters, for those had no fins on their backs.
“What is it?” I said. “Is it some kind of shushuk?”
It was Kusum’s turn to smile. “I have my own name for them,” she said. “I call them Bon Bibi’s messengers.” The triumph was hers now; I could not deny it to her.
All the time our boat was at that spot, the creatures kept breaking the water around us. What held them there? What made them linger? I could not imagine. Then there came a moment when one of them broke the surface with its head and looked right at me. Now I saw why Kusum found it so easy to believe that these animals were something other than what they were. For where she had seen a sign of Bon Bibi, I saw instead the gaze of the Poet. It was as if he were saying to me:
some mute animal
raising its calm eyes and seeing through us,
and through us. This is destiny…
THE MEGHA
IN THE MORNING Piya and Kanai hired a cycle-van to take them across the island to look at the bhotbhoti Fokir had arranged. On the way, as they rattled down the brick-paved path that led to the village, Piya said, “Tell me about the owner of this boat. Did you say you knew him?”
“I met him when I came here as a boy,” said Kanai. “His name is Horen Naskor. I can’t really claim to know him, but he was close to my uncle.”