The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh [82]
Tutul, who’d been sitting in the shade of the hood, curled himself into a ball and rolled forward to correct his balance. The boat righted itself with a thump that threw up a curtain of water. A moment later there was another massive blow to its underside, somewhere near the stern. With the boat rolling wildly, Fokir rose to a kneeling position and took hold of one of his oars. Raising it above his head, he turned it so that its head became a blade and brought it crashing down into the water. The oar hammered into the head of the crocodile just as it was surfacing to make another lunge, and the force of the impact snapped shut the gaping jaws. The oar splintered and the blade broke from the handle and went cartwheeling across the water. The river bubbled again as the reptile sank out of sight: for a moment after its submersion a ghostly outline of its shape remained imprinted on the surface and Piya saw that it was almost as large as the boat.
Meanwhile, Fokir had dropped to his haunches and seized a pair of oars. The current had already carried the boat several hundred feet from the creek where the dolphins had been foraging. Now Fokir began to heave at the oars, turning the boat from one creek into another, laboring to lengthen the distance.
After some twenty minutes of furious rowing they came to an inlet that curved deep into the interior of a thickly forested island. Fokir kept the boat moving until they reached a spot where the boat was well sheltered from the currents of the main channel. Here, after dropping anchor, he tore off his drenched T-shirt and reached for a gamchha to wipe away the sweat that was pouring down his chest.
After he had caught his breath, he glanced at Piya and said, “Lusibari?”
Piya was only too glad to assent. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s head for Lusibari. It’s time.”
Part Two
The Flood: Jowar
BEGINNING AGAIN
I had thought that on the way to Lusibari my face would lose the flush it had acquired in Morichjhãpi: the brisk air of the river would cool my skin and the rocking of Horen’s boat would slow the pace of my heart. But no, exactly the opposite happened: with every turn a new vista seemed to open in front of me. I could not keep still. I put away my umbrella and stood up, opening my arms as if to embrace the wind. My dhoti became a sail and I a mast, tugging the boat toward the horizon.
“Saar,” cried Horen, “sit down! The boat will roll over — you’ll fall.”
“Horen, you are the best of boatmen. You’ll find a way of keeping us afloat.”
“Saar,” said Horen, “what’s the matter with you today? You don’t seem like your old self.”
“You are right, Horen. I am not my old self anymore. And it’s you who’s responsible.”
“And how’s that, Saar?”
“Wasn’t it you who took me to Morichjhãpi?”
“No, Saar. It was the storm.”
Forever modest, our Horen. “All right, then. It was the storm.” I laughed. “It was the storm that showed me that a man can be transformed even in retirement, that he can begin again.”
“Begin what, Saar?”
“Begin a new life, Horen, a new life. The next time we come to Morichjhãpi my students will be waiting. I’ll teach as I have never taught before.”
“And what will you teach them, Saar? What will the lesson be?”
“Why, I’ll tell them about —”
And what indeed was I to tell them about? Expert boatman that he was, Horen had found a way of spilling the wind from my sails.
I sat down. This was a matter that needed careful thought.