The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [68]
As my final day in school drew nigh it became increasingly apparent that the other masters were keenly awaiting my departure — not, I think, out of a spirit of malice, but merely from an eagerness to see what the future might hold. Someone who has stayed in the same job for thirty years becomes like mildew on the wall — everybody longs to see it wither in the bright light of anew day.
As word of my impending retirement spread, I began to receive invitations to visit schools on other islands. In the past perhaps I would have declined, but I now recalled the Poet’s dictum — “To stay is to be nowhere” — and I was happy to accept. One such invitation was from an old acquaintance who lived in Kumirmari, which is a good distance from here: to get to it requires several changes of ferry. I decided to go.
The morning came and it so happened that Nilima was away, making one of her trips on behalf of the Trust. Left to my own devices, I spent too much time packing the jhola I had planned to take with me. I put in one book and then another — the journey was not a short one, after all, and I would need plenty to read. In the process I misjudged many things — the timing of the ferries, how long it would take to get to the jetty and so on. Suffice it to say that I missed the first connection, which meant that I would miss all the rest.
I was sitting in despair on the bãdh when suddenly I spotted a familiar figure going by in a boat. I had not seen Horen Naskor for many years, but I recognized at once his squat build and narrowed eyes. There was a teenage boy with him and I knew this must be his oldest son.
I hurried down the embankment and accosted them: “Horen! Horen! Wait!”
When I drew level with them, he said in amazement, “Saar? You here? I was bringing my son to see you — he wants to enroll in your school.”
I put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll make sure he gets in. But in return there’s something you must do for me.”
“Yes, Saar. What is it?”
“Horen, I have to go to Kumirmari. Can you take me?”
“Why, Saar, yes. For you, anything. Get in.” He gave his son a pat on the shoulder and told him to find his own way home. Then, without a backward glance, we set off in the direction of Kumirmari.
Once we were on the water, it struck me that it was a long time since I had sat in a nouko like Horen’s. In recent years, when I felt the need to travel outside Lusibari — and this happened seldom enough — I generally took ferries and bhotbhotis. Sitting in the boat, the familiar scenery began to take on a different aspect: it was as if I were seeing it in a new way. Under the shade of my umbrella, I opened one of the books I had brought with me — my copy of Bernier’s Travels — and, as if by magic, the pages fell open to his account of his travels in the tide country.
Presently Horen said, “Saar, what is that you’re reading? Are there any stories in it? Why not tell me too, since we have such a long way to go.”
“All right, then,” I said. “Listen.”
This book was by a Christian priest, I told him, a Frenchman who’d come to India in the year 1665. At that time, Chaitanya Mahaprabhu’s memory was still fresh in our villages and Emperor Aurangzeb was sitting on the Mughal throne. The priest’s name was François Bernier and he was of the Jesuit “shomproday.” He had with him two Portuguese pilots as well as a considerable company of servants. On their first day among the mangroves, they found themselves beset with hunger. Although they had food, they were nervous about going ashore to cook it. They had heard many