The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [162]
Then said Dokkhin Rai, “Look, Dhona, watch my power; my army will load your boats within the hour.” He spoke to the demons and ghostly ganas, the dainis, the pishaches and all the rakshasas. They made the honey into a portable hoard and took it to the boats, carrying it on board. When all was ready, Dokkhin Rai said, “My job’s done. Your boats are full to the brim, every single one.”
Dhona went to the boats and with his own eyes saw: they were all loaded and could not take any more. Then said the deva, “Here’s a still better reward: empty your boats and throw the honey overboard. With a rich load of wax I’ll fill your boats instead; it’ll freshen your fortune and bring luck on your head. Forget the honey — your kismet is much better; take the wax instead, you’ll see, it’ll make you richer.”
So into the river Dhona poured his honey, and so that creek came to be known as Madhu Khali. And the place where Dhona chose to pour his cargo, there the brackish tides turned sweet and mellow.
Then it was time for a new and richer hoard. “Now listen to what I say,” said the demon-lord. “When you sell this, you’ll see I’ve given you a boon; you’ll live like a king and it’ll bring you good fortune. But don’t forget to leave the boy; be warned, listen; recall how this began — Dukhey was the reason. Don’t try any tricks or attempt any ruse; I’ll drown you in the Ganga and all your ships you’ll lose.”
With these words he left, vanishing beyond appeal. In the meantime Dukhey sat in the boat, trying to cook a meal. But the firewood was wet and the pots would not boil — tears were the result of his unrewarded toil. Then he spoke a name, his voice muted by sorrow, and Bon Bibi heard him in distant Bhurukundo. In the blink of an eye she crossed the divide; she spoke to the child, standing close by his side. “Why did you call me?” she said. “What’s happened to you?”
“I’m in trouble,” said he. “I don’t know what to do. Chacha told me to prepare a meal for tonight, but the kindling’s all wet and the fire won’t light.”
“All will be well,” she said. “Don’t worry in the least. With the help of the Lord, I will make you a feast.”
With these words of kindness she gave him reassurance; then raising her hand, she passed it over his pans. And such was her barkot, so strong her benediction, that the pots filled instantly with rice and with saalan. This was a feast that needed neither fire nor heat; she said to the boy, “Look! They’ll have plenty to eat!”
But Dukhey, still fearful, importuned her once more. “Dhona’ll set sail tomorrow, leaving me ashore. Mother of the earth, tell me: who’ll save me then?”
“My child,” said Bon Bibi, “do not fear this demon. He cannot kill you; he’s not of so fine a fettle that he’d survive a blow of my brother’s metal.”
With these last words, Bon Bibi took leave of Dukhey, and soon enough Dhona returned from his foray. His first words to the boy were “Here, Dukhey, tell me: where’s our food? Where have you put it, on which dinghy?”
“Here it is,” said Dukhey. “It’s on this boat, Chachaji. Look, I’ve cooked the meal and kept it ready.”
Dhona and the others went where he had pointed. And then, seating themselves, they waited to be fed. The food they were served was so fine, so ambrosial, that some began to say it was hardly credible. How could such a fine feast be a mere boy’s doing? Or, for that matter, any human being’s? Now, in undertones, they began to speculate. Had Bon Bibi perhaps taken a hand in his fate? “On his own the boy can’t find his way to the ghat. For sure Bon Bibi has taken him to heart.”
And so sat the men, talking in the dimming light, until the day had waned and dusk had turned to night. The others slept in their boats without care