The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [126]
“Horen,” I said, “we have to try to bring Kusum and Fokir to safety. No one knows those waters better than you do. Is there any way you can get us there?”
He thought about this for a minute. “There’s no moon tonight,” he said. “It might be possible. We can try.”
We set off as night was approaching and took along a fair quantity of food and fresh water. Soon it was dark and I could see nothing, but somehow Horen kept our boat moving. We went slowly, staying close to the banks, and spoke in low voices.
“Where are we now, Horen?” I said.
He knew our position exactly. “We’ve left the Gãral and we’re slipping into the Jhilla. We’re not far now; soon you’ll see the police boats.” And within a few minutes we saw them, roaring by, sweeping the river with their searchlights: first one, then another, then another. For a while we hid close to the riverbank, and Horen gauged the intervals between the passage of the patrol boats. Then we cast off again, and sure enough, by starting and stopping between the patrols we were able to slip through the cordon.
“We’re there,” said Horen as the boat thrust its nose into the mud. “This is Morichjhãpi.” Between the two of us, we dragged the boat deep into the mangroves, where it couldn’t be seen from the water. The police had already sunk all the settlers’ boats, Horen told me. We took care to hide ours well and then, picking up the food and water we had brought, made our way quietly along the shore until we came to Kusum’s dwelling.
We were amazed to find her still in good spirits. We spent the rest of the night trying to persuade her to leave, but she paid no heed.
“Where will I go?” she said simply. “There’s no other place I want to be.”
We told her about the rumors, the men gathering in the surrounding villages, preparing for the impending assault. Horen had seen them; they had come by the busload. “What will they do?” she said. “There are still more than ten thousand of us here. It’s just a question of keeping faith.”
“But what about Fokir?” I said. “Suppose something happens? What will become of him?”
“Yes.” Horen added his voice to mine. “If you won’t leave, let me take him away for a few days. After things settle down, I’ll bring him back.”
It was clear she had already thought about this. “All right,” she said. “That’s how we’ll do it, then: Take Fokir back with you. Keep him with you in Satjelia for a few days. When this wind passes, bring him back.”
By this time day had broken and it was too late to leave. “We’ll have to wait till tonight,” Horen said, “so that we can slip past the police boats in the dark.”
It was time now for me to spring my surprise. “Horen,” I said. “I am staying . . .”
They were amazed and disbelieving: they kept asking me why I wished to remain, but I evaded their questions. There was so much I could have told them: about the medicines that awaited me in Lusibari, about Nilima’s conversation with the doctor, about the emptiness of the days I had spent in my study. But none of that seemed of the least importance. The truth was that my reason for staying was very simple. I took out this notebook and said, “I have to stay because there’s something I must write.”
I am out of time. The candle is spluttering; my pencil is worn to a stub. I can hear their footsteps approaching; they seem, strangely, to be laughing as they come. Horen will want to leave immediately, I know, for daybreak is not far now. I hadn’t thought I’d be able to fill this whole notebook, but that is what I have done. It serves no purpose for me to keep it here: I will hand it to Horen in the hope it finds its way to you, Kanai. I feel certain you will have a greater claim to the world’s ear than I ever had. Maybe you will know what to do with it. I have always trusted the young. Your generation will, I know, be richer in ideals, less cynical, less selfish than mine.
They have come in now and I see their faces in the candlelight. In their smiles I see the Poet’s lines: