The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [131]
The destruction came about just as Mr. Piddington had said it would: it was caused not by some great tufaan but by a relatively minor storm. Nor was it the storm’s winds that wrecked the city: it was a wave, a surge. In 1871, four years after the Matla’s uprising, the port was formally abandoned. The port that was to be one of the reigning queens of the eastern oceans, a rival to Bombay, Singapore and Hong Kong, became instead the Matla’s vassal — Canning.
“BUT AS ALWAYS with Nirmal,” said Kanai, “the last word was reserved for Rilke.”
He put his hand on his heart and recited aloud:
“But, oh, how strange the streets of the City of Pain …
Oh, how an angel could stamp out their market of comforts,
with the church nearby, bought ready-made, clean,
shut, and disappointed as a post office on Sunday.
“So now you know,” said Kanai, as Piya began to laugh. “That is what Canning has been ever since that day in 1867 when the Matla stamped out the laat’s handiwork: a Sunday post office.”
A KILLING
THE MEGHA’S CABINS were each outfitted with a raised platform that could be used as a bunk. By piling blankets, pillows and sheets on this ledge, Kanai was able to make himself a bed that was reasonably comfortable, although far from luxurious. He was fast asleep when he was woken by the sound of voices, both near and distant. Reaching for his flashlight, he shone the beam on his watch and discovered it was 3 A.M. The voices of Horen and his grandson were now clearly audible on the upper deck, joined in excited speculation.
Kanai had gone to sleep in a lungi and vest, and now, as he pushed his blankets aside, he was surprised to find a distinct chill in the air. He decided to wrap a blanket around himself before stepping out of his cabin. Horen and his grandson were close by, leaning on the rails and watching the shore.
“What’s happened?” said Kanai.
“It’s not clear,” came the answer, “but something seems to be going on in the village.”
The flood tide had set in some hours before, and with the boat anchored in midstream there was now close to a mile of water between them and the shore. The night was advanced enough for cottony clouds of mist to have arisen from the water’s surface: although much thinner than the dense fog of dawn, it had still obscured the outlines of the shore. Through this shimmering screen, glowing points of orange flame could be seen moving quickly here and there, as if to suggest that people were running along the shore with burning torches. The villagers’ voices could be heard in the distance, despite the mist’s muffling effect. Even Horen and his grandson were at a loss to think of a reason why so many people would bestir themselves so energetically at this time of night.
Kanai felt a touch on his elbow and turned to see Piya standing beside him, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes. “What’s up?”
“We’re all wondering.”
“Let’s ask Fokir.”
Kanai went to the bhotbhoti’s stern, with Piya following close behind, and shone his flashlight into the boat below. Fokir was awake, sitting huddled in the center of his boat with a blanket draped around his shoulders. He held up an arm to shield his face and Kanai switched off the beam before leaning over to speak to him.
“Does he know what’s going on?” Piya inquired.
“No. But he’s going to take his boat across to find out. He says we can go with him if we like.”
“Sure.”
They climbed in, and Horen came to join them, leaving his grandson in charge of the bhotbhoti.
It took some fifteen minutes to cross over, and as they approached the shore it became clear that the commotion had a distinct focus: it seemed a crowd was congregating around that part of the village where Horen’s relatives