The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [8]
In the years since he had always imagined that when he next ran into Nirmal it would be in a similar fashion — Nirmal would be in a bookshop fondling some volume he could not afford and he, Kanai, would reach discreetly into his own pocket to buy him the book. But it hadn’t happened that way: two years after that accidental encounter, Nirmal had died in Lusibari after a long illness. Nilima had told Kanai then that his uncle had remembered him on his deathbed: he had said something about some writings that he wanted to send to him. But Nirmal had been incoherent for many months and Nilima had not known what to make of this declaration. After his death, she had looked everywhere, just in case there was something to it. Nothing had turned up, so she had assumed Nirmal’s mind had been wandering, as it often did.
Then suddenly one morning, two months before, Nilima had called Kanai at his flat in New Delhi’s Chittaranjan Park; she was in Gosaba, a town near Lusibari, calling from a telephone booth. Kanai was sitting at his dining table, waiting for his cook to bring him his breakfast, when the telephone rang.
“Kanai-ré?”
They were exchanging the usual greetings and polite inquiries when he detected a note of constraint in her voice. He said, “Is something the matter? Are you calling for some special reason?”
“Actually, yes,” she said, a little awkwardly.
“What is it? Tell me.”
“I was thinking it would be good if you could come to Lusibari soon, Kanai,” she said. “Do you think you could?”
Kanai was taken aback. It so happened that Nilima was childless and he was her closest relative, yet he could not remember any occasion when she had made such a demand. She had always been very much her own person and it was out of character for her to ask a favor. “Why do you want me to come to Lusibari?” Kanai said in surprise.
The phone went quiet for a moment and then she said, “Do you remember, Kanai, I told you years ago that Nirmal had left some writings for you?”
“Yes,” said Kanai. “Of course I remember. But they were never found, were they?”
“That’s the thing,” said Nilima. “I think I’ve found them: a packet addressed to you has turned up.”
“Where?” said Kanai.
“In Nirmal’s study. It’s on the roof of the place where I live, on top of the Trust’s Guest House. All these years, after he died, it’s been locked just as it was. But now it’s going to be torn down, because we need to build another floor. I was clearing it out the other day and that was when I found it.”
“And what was inside?”
“It must be all the essays and poems he wrote over the years. But the truth is, I don’t know. I didn’t open it because I knew he’d have wanted you to look at them first. He never trusted my literary judgment — and it’s true I’m not much good at that kind of thing. That’s why I was hoping you could come. Perhaps you could even arrange to have them published. You know some publishers, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do,” he said, flustered. “But going to Lusibari? It’s so far after all — from New Delhi it’ll take two days to get there. I mean, of course, I’d like to but —”
“I’d be very grateful if you could, Kanai.”
This was said in the quiet but firm tone of voice Nilima used when she was determined to get her way. Kanai knew now that she was in earnest and would not be put off easily. In their family, Nilima was legendary for her persistence — her doggedness and tenacity had built the Badabon Trust into what it was, an organization widely cited as a model for NGOs working in rural India.
Kanai made one last attempt to give her the slip. “Couldn’t you just send this packet by post?”
“I wouldn’t trust a thing like this to the post,” she said in a shocked voice. “Who knows what might happen to it?”
“It’s just that this is