The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [75]
BLOWN ASHORE
And so to Kumirmari. That day, I heard for the first time of the events unfolding at Morichjhãpi. The islands were close by, and in the school I was visiting there were many teachers who had witnessed the progress of the exodus: they had seen tens of thousands of settlers making their way to the island in boats, dinghies and bhotbhotis. Many of their own people had gone off to join the movement, drawn by the prospect of free land. But even as they marveled at the refugees’ boldness, there were those who predicted trouble: the island belonged to the Forest Department and the government would not allow the squatters to remain.
I thought no more of it; it was no business of mine.
At midday there was a meal and shortly afterward Horen and I set off to return to Lusibari. We were on the river, heading home, when the wind suddenly started up. Within moments it was on us — it attacked with that peculiar, willful malevolence that causes people to think of these storms as something other than wholly natural. The river had been calm minutes before, but now we found ourselves picked up and shaken by huge waves. Before, Horen had been sweating to make the boat move — now we were being swept along against our will.
“Are we going to be finished off this time?” I said.
“No, Saar,” he said. “I’ve lived through much worse than this.”
“When?”
“In 1970, Saar, during the Agunmukha cyclone. If you had seen that, this would not seem like a storm at all. But that’s too long a story to tell to you now. What’s important for us at this minute is to go ashore.” He pointed to his right.
“Morichjhãpi, Saar. We can take shelter there until the storm subsides.”
There was nothing more to be said. With the wind behind us we were driven quickly to the shore. I helped Horen push his boat up the bank, and after he had secured it, he said, “Saar, we have to take shelter under a roof.”
“But where can we go, Horen?”
“Over there, Saar. I see a dwelling.”
Without another question I set off after him, running through the pounding rain. With water streaming down my glasses, it was all I could do to keep my eyes on Horen’s back.
Soon we were at the door of a small shack — of the usual kind, made with bamboo and palm-leaf thatch. At the door, Horen shouted, “Eijé — ké achhish? Anybody home?”
The door sprang open and I stepped in. I was standing there blinking, wiping the rain from my glasses, when I heard someone say, “Saar? Is that you?”
I looked down and saw a young woman kneeling in front of me, touching my feet. That I could not identify her was no more a surprise than that she should know me: if you have been in one place long enough as a schoolteacher, then this happens with almost everyone you meet. Your pupils grow up and your memory fails to grow with them. Their new faces do not match the old.
“Saar,” she said, “it’s Kusum.”
Of all the people I might have expected to meet in that place, she was surely the last. “Impossible.”
Now that my glasses were dry I noticed there was a small child hiding behind her. “And who is that?” I said.
“That’s my son, Fokir.”
I reached out to pat his head but he darted away.
“He’s very shy,” said Kusum with a laugh.
I noticed now that Horen had not entered the dwelling and I realized that this was probably as a show of respect to me. I was both pleased and annoyed. Who, after all, is so egalitarian as not to value the respect of another human being? Yet it seemed strange that he did not know of my aversion to servility.
I put my head around the door and saw him outside, waiting patiently in the pouring rain. “What’s the matter with you, Horen?” I said. “Come inside. This is no time to be standing on ceremony.”
So Horen came in and there ensued a silence of the kind that often descends when people meet after a long time. “You?” said Kusum at last, and Horen answered with one of his customary mumbles. Then she pushed the boy forward and said, “Here is Fokir, my son.” Horen ran his hand through the boy’s hair