The Hungry Tide

by Amitav Ghosh

The demon wanted the boy that Dhona had brought on his boat; it was an age since he had been able to sate his appetite for human beings, and he was now riven with a longing for the taste of Dukhey’s flesh. In exchange he would give Dhona wealth beyond

imagining, as much as could be carried on the boats. Overcome by greed, Dhona assented to the bargain and at once the creatures of the forest, the demons and ghosts, even the bees themselves, began to load Dhona’s boats with a great cargo of honey and wax. Soon the vessels were full and could carry no more and then it was time for Dhona to keep his part of the bargain. Summoning Dukhey, he told him to go ashore to fetch some firewood.

Bon Bibi was far away, but she crossed the waters in an instant. She revived the boy, taking him into her lap while her brother, Shah Jongoli, dealt a terrible chastisement to the demon. Then, transporting Dukhey to her home, she nursed him back to health. When it was time for him to return, she sent him back to his mother with a treasure trove of honey and wax. Thus did Bon Bibi show the world the law of the forest, which was that the rich and greedy would be punished while the poor and righteous were rewarded.

“No, you can’t use the word—to say it is to call it.”

The creatures had snapped their claws on the cartilage and would not let go. Fokir and Tutul had only to peel them off with a net and drop them into a pot filled with leaves. The sight made Piya laugh: so this was where the word “crabby” came from, a creature so stubborn that it would rather be captured than let go?

Kanai understood now that the animal’s roar had a direct connection with her anxiety. “You shouldn’t worry,” he said, trying to reassure her. “I’m sure Fokir will take all the right precautions. He knows what to do.” “Him?” Anger seethed in her voice as she said this. “If you knew him you wouldn’t say that. Whatever other people do, he does just the opposite. The other fishermen—my father, my brothers, everyone—when they’re out there at night, they tie their boats together in midstream so they won’t be defenseless if they’re attacked. But Fokir won’t do that; he’ll be off on his own somewhere without another human being in sight.”

For if you compared it to the ways in which dolphins’ echoes mirrored the world, speech was only a bag of tricks that fooled you into believing that you could see through the eyes of another being.

After days of squatting and sitting cross-legged it was strange to have a support behind your back and to be able to swing your legs freely without worrying about tipping over. She could still feel the rocking motion of the boat in her limbs, and the sighing of the wind blowing through the mangroves was still in her ears.

“Are you a clean man, Kanai-babu?” Kanai sat up, startled. “What do you mean?” Fokir shrugged. “You know—are you good at heart?” “I think so,” Kanai said. “My intentions are good, anyway. As for the rest, who knows?” “But don’t you ever want to know for sure?”

And almost always, no matter what the proximate cause, he was the target of their rage: the interpreter, the messenger, the amanuensis. He was the life preserver that held them afloat in a tide of incomprehension; the meaninglessness that surrounded them became, as it were, his fault, because he was its only named feature.

Kanai’s head filled with visions of the ways in which the tide country dealt out death. The tiger, people said, killed you instantly, with a swipe of its forepaw, breaking the joint between your shoulder and neck. You felt no pain when it happened; you were dead already of the shock induced by the tiger’s roar just before the moment of impact. There was undeniably a quality of mercy to this—to the human mind, at least.

“Kanai, the dreamers have everyone to speak for them,” she said. “But those who’re patient, those who try to be strong, who try to build things—no one ever sees any poetry in that, do they?”