The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [51]
“Do you mean,” Kanai interrupted, “that you saw a — ?” But before he could say the word bÁgh, tiger, she had slammed a hand over his mouth: “No, you can’t use the word — to say it is to call it.”
The animal was in the trees that lined the shore, and from the direction of its advance she knew it had watched the boat as it came across the river. At Kusum’s first scream her mother and many others from the hamlet ran up to the embankment. But her father, for whom the shout of warning had been intended, didn’t hear her, for the wind was blowing in the wrong direction.
Within moments, dozens of people had joined her on the embankment and they all saw what she had seen: the animal was stalking her father. The men of the village raced to get their boats into the water, while the women shouted and banged on pots and pans, making as much noise as they could. But it made no difference, for the wind was against them — the sound did not carry to the man on the far bank. The animal too was upwind of its prey, and they could see its coat flashing as it closed in; because of the distinctiveness of its own odor, it was skilled in dealing with the wind and it knew that the people on the other bank were powerless against these gusts. So great was its confidence that in the last stretch it actually broke cover and went racing along the shore, in full view of the far shore; intent on its prey, it no longer cared about concealment. This was in itself an astonishing sight, almost without precedent, for the great cats of the tide country were like ghosts, never revealing their presence except through marks, sounds and smells. They were so rarely seen that to behold one, it was said, was to be as good as dead — and indeed the sight caused several of the women on the embankment to lose consciousness.
But as for Kusum, she sank to her knees and began to whisper, “Help, O Mother of Mercy, O Bon Bibi, save my father.” She had shut her eyes so she didn’t see the end, but she heard everything. Because of the wind’s direction, the sounds that accompanied the kill carried across the water with exceptional clarity: Kusum heard the roar that froze her father; she heard his cry for help — bachao! She heard the sound of his bones cracking as the animal swiped a paw across his neck; she heard the rustle of the mangrove as the animal dragged the corpse into the forest.
And all through this she never once stopped reciting Bon Bibi’s name.
It was Horen who lifted her from the dust. “Bon Bibi’s heard you,” he told her. “Sometimes this is the means she chooses to call those who are closest to her: men like your father, bauleys, they’re always the first to go.”
Kusum’s body had crumpled as she was telling this story, leaving her slumped against Kanai’s shoulder, and he could feel her hair on his skin. Her story had caused an upwelling of emotion in him that constricted his throat; he wanted to fold her in his arms, to ward off her grief; he wanted to wipe away her tears; he wanted his body to become a buffer between her and the world. This was the most intense physical sensation he had ever experienced, this need to protect, to defend, to make a bodily expression of his sympathy. He brushed her eyes with his lips and the softness and warmth were such that he could not stop: he put an arm around her and pulled her toward him, pressing his head against hers.
Suddenly they heard the sound of running feet, flying up the teak stairs of the Hamilton bungalow. “Kusum! Kusum!” It was Horen’s voice, calling to her in a hoarse whisper.
Kusum stood up. “Yes, I’m here.”
Horen appeared in front of them, panting. “Kusum,” he said, “we have to go. I saw Dilip — he’s here with some men, looking for you. You’re not safe here. You have to get away.”
Horen squatted beside Kanai and stuck a finger in his face. “And as for you, little babu — if you tell anyone where she’s gone, or with whom, you won’t be safe either. Do you understand?” Without waiting for any response from Kanai, he took