The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [57]
Thinking of what Nilima had been through all these years, an unfamiliar lump arose in Kanai’s throat. “Look,” he said, rising to his feet. “I’ll give you that notebook right now. You can keep it or throw it away — do whatever you like. I don’t want to have anything more to do with it.”
“No, Kanai!” cried Nilima. “Sit down.” Reaching for his hand, she pulled him back into his chair. “Kanai, listen to me: I always did my best to do my duty by Nirmal. It’s very important to me that his last wishes are not dishonored. I don’t know why he wanted you to have the book; I don’t know what’s in it — but that’s how it must be.”
Kanai went to sit beside her on the bed. He had been uneasy about broaching the subject of Kusum, but he could see no way around it. “Tell me,” he said gently, “do you think Kusum might have had something to do with it?”
She flinched at the sound of the name. “There were rumors, Kanai. Yes, I won’t deny it.”
“But how did Kusum end up at Morichjhãpi?”
“I don’t know how it happened. But somehow she did.”
“And did you ever see her while she was there?” Kanai said.
Nilima nodded. “Yes. Just once. She came to see me, in this very room.”
She was working at her desk, said Nilima, one morning in 1978, when a nurse came to tell her she had a visitor, someone who claimed to know her. Nilima asked what her name was, but the nurse didn’t know. “All right,” said Nilima. “Bring her here.” A few minutes later the door opened to admit a young woman and a child, a boy of four or five. The woman looked to be in her early twenties but she was dressed in a white sari and there were no bangles on her wrists and no vermilion in her hair: elsewhere, Nilima would have known immediately she was a widow, but in Lusibari she could not be sure.
There was something familiar about the woman — not so much her face as the look in her eye — but Nilima could not remember her name. When the visitor bowed to touch her feet, she said, “Tell me now, who are you?”
“Mashima,” came the answer, “my name is Kusum. Don’t you remember me?”
“Kusum!” Almost at once Nilima began to scold her. “Why didn’t you send news, Kusum? Where have you been? Didn’t you know we were looking for you?”
Kusum’s answer was to laugh. “Mashima, there was too much to tell. More than I could put into a letter.”
When she stood up Nilima saw that Kusum had grown into a sturdy, bright-eyed young woman. “And who is this boy, Kusum?”
“That’s my son,” she answered. “His name is Fokir — Fokirchand Mandol.”
“And his father?”
“His father died, Mashima. I’m all he has now.”
Nilima was glad to see that premature widowhood had not robbed Kusum of her ready laugh. “Tell me, Kusum. What brings you here?”
It was then that Kusum revealed that she was living in Morichjhãpi: she had come to Lusibari in the hope of persuading Nilima to send medical help for the settlers.
Nilima was immediately on her guard. She told her that she would like to help, but it was impossible. The government had made it known that it would stop at nothing to evict the settlers: anyone suspected of helping them was sure to get into trouble. Nilima had the hospital and the Women’s Union to think of: she could not afford to alienate the government. She had to consider the greater good.
After half an hour Kusum left and Nilima never saw her again.
“So what happened after that?” Kanai said. “Where did she go?”
“She didn’t go anywhere, Kanai. She was killed.”
“Killed?” said Kanai. “How? What happened?”
“She died in the massacre, Kanai,” Nilima said. “The massacre at Morichjhãpi.”
She covered her face with her hands. “I’m tired now. I think I’d better rest for a while.”
AN EPIPHANY
IN THE AFTERNOON, as the waters began to rise, Piya noticed that she was seeing less and less of the dolphins. This was confirmed by a glance at her data sheets: it seemed the animals had begun to disperse