The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [76]
“And what about your family?” she said. “Your children must be quite grown now.”
“My youngest is five,” said Horen, “and the oldest is fourteen.”
She smiled, as if to tease him: “Almost of an age to be married, then?”
“No,” said Horen with sudden vehemence. “I would not do to him what was done to me.”
I recount this only as an example of the way in which, even in extraordinary circumstances, people will often speak of the most inconsequential things.
“Look at you,” I said. “It’s Kusum who’s been away for all these years — and here we are talking about Horen and his children.”
There was a mat on the floor and I sat down. I asked where she had been and how she had ended up in Morichjhãpi.
“What can I tell you, Saar?” she said. “It would take too long to tell.”
The wind was howling outside and the rain was still pouring down. “There’s nothing else to do now anyway,” I said. “So I’m ready to hear whatever you have to say.”
She laughed. “All right, Saar. How can I say no to you? I’ll tell you how it happened.”
I remember that her voice changed as she was recounting her story; it assumed new rhythms and distinctive cadences. Is it merely a trick of memory? It doesn’t matter: her words have come flooding back to me in a torrent. My pen will have to race to keep up: she is the muse and I am just a scribe.
“Where was my mother? I only knew what I’d heard — from Lusibari I went as if to the dark: she had been taken, they said, to a town called Dhanbad. I asked a few questions and found out where to go; switching from this train to that, I made my way there.
“At the station it struck me: what would I do now? It was a mining town, the air was filled with smoke; the people were strangers, I’d never known their like; their words were like iron, they rang when they spoke; when their gaze turned on you, their eyes smoldered like coal. I was on my own, a girl dressed in a torn frock; I’d had no fear till then — now my courage ran dry.
“But I was fortunate, although I didn’t know, a blessed power was watching: she showed me where to go. There was a man at the station selling ghugni. I spoke to him and found he was from the tide country! His house was in Basonti, his name was Rajen; his people were poor and he had left home as a boy. He had been lamed in Calcutta by a speeding bus; he’d started selling food in stations and on trains. Chance had brought him to Dhanbad, where he’d found a shack; it was in a bosti right beside the rail track. When he heard why I was there, he said he would help, but in the meanwhile what would I do with myself? ‘Come with me,’ he said. ‘You will be fine in my shack. Like you, I’m on my own. There’ll be room for us both.’ I followed him there, along the graveled rail track. I was fearful when I entered: would I be safe? All night I lay awake and listened to the trains.
“Many days passed and he gave me no cause for shame; he was a good, kind man: how many such are there? It’s true that some said, ‘Look who’s with Rajen the lame’ — I let them say what they wanted. What did I care?
“It was Rajen who brought me word of my mother; she was working in a place where truck drivers came, to sleep on charpais and buy women for the night. I went there with Rajen and in secret we met: I fell upon Ma, but couldn’t bring myself to speak. For so long I’d been waiting, but now my heart broke: her body was wasted, her face thin and drawn. ‘Don’t look, Kusum,’ she said. ‘Don’t touch me with your eyes; think of me as I was before your father died. I blame that Dilip; he’s more demon than man. He said he’d find me work, and look where he brought me: to eat leaves at home would have been a better fate. He sold me, that danob, to others of his kind. This is no place for you, Kusum. You must go back. But stay a few days; come and see me once more.’
“We went home that night and came back a week later. Then Rajen said something that stopped our very breath: ‘Let Kusum marry me; let her be my wife. She’ll be with me forever; I’ll give her my life.’ At last I saw Ma smile: what better news could there