The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [12]
“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 rumors. 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 onto 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, Buddhadeva 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