The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [125]
“You don’t understand, Nilima.”
“Why, Nirmal?” she said. “Tell me, because I’ve heard rumors. Everybody is speaking of it. Does it have something to do with Kusum?”
“How can you say that, Nilima? Have I ever given you cause for suspicion before?”
Now Nilima began to cry. “Nirmal, that’s not what people say. There are ugly rumors afloat.”
“Nilima, it’s beneath you to believe in these rumors.”
“Then bring Kusum here; tell her to work for the Trust. And you can do the same.”
How could I explain to her that there was nothing I could do for the Trust that many others could not do better? I would be no more than a hand pushing a pen, a machine, a mechanical toy. But as for Morichjhãpi, Rilke himself had shown me what I could do. In one verse I had found a message written for my eyes only, filled with hidden meaning.When the time came I would receive a sign and then I would know what I had to do. For the Poet himself had told me:
This is the time for what can be said. Here is its country. Speak and testify . . .
Days, weeks went by and there came again a time when I felt well enough to leave my bed to go up to my study. I spent my mornings and afternoons there: long swaths of empty time spent gazing at the mohona as it filled and emptied, filled and emptied, day after day, as untiring as the earth itself.
One day I headed down a little earlier than usual after my afternoon rest. I was halfway down the stairs when I heard Nilima’s voice, speaking to someone in the Guest House. I knew who it was, for I had spoken to him briefly the night before. He was a doctor, a visiting psychiatrist from Calcutta. Now Nilima was telling him she was very afraid — for me. She had heard of something that was sure to upset me; she wanted to know how best I could be shielded from learning of it.
“And what news is this?” the doctor said.
“It won’t mean anything to you, Daktar-babu,” Nilima said. “It has to do with an island called Morichjhãpi, which has been occupied by refugees from Bangladesh. They simply will not leave, and now I believe the government in Calcutta is going to take very strong action to evict them.”
“Oh, these refugees!” said the doctor. “Such a nuisance. But of what concern is this to your husband? Does he know anyone on that island? What are they to him and he to them?”
I heard Nilima hesitate and clear her throat. “Doctor, you don’t understand,” she said. “Ever since his retirement, my husband, having little else to do, has chosen to involve himself in the fate of these settlers in Morichjhãpi. He does not believe that a government such as the one we have now would act against them. He is an old leftist, you see, and unlike many such, he truly believed in those ideals; many of the men who are now in power were his friends and comrades. My husband is not a practical man; his experience of the world is very limited. He does not understand that when a party comes to power, it must govern; it is subject to certain compulsions. I am afraid that if he learns of what is going to happen, he will not be able to cope with the disillusionment — it will be more than he can bear.”
“It’s best not to let him know,” the doctor said. “There’s no telling what he might do.”
“Tell me, Doctor,” Nilima said, “do you think it would be best to sedate him for a few days?”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “I think that might be wise.”
I did not need to listen anymore. I went to my study and threw a few things into my jhola. Then I crept silently downstairs and went hurrying to the village. Fortunately there was a ferry waiting and it took me straight to Satjelia, where I went to look for Horen.
“We have to go, Horen,” I said to him. “I’ve heard there’s going to be an attack on Morichjhãpi.”
He knew more than I did; he had heard rumors that busloads of outsiders were assembling in the villages around the island; they were people such as had never before been seen in the tide country, hardened men from the cities, criminals,