Читать книгу The Hungry Tide - Amitav Ghosh - Страница 15

Despite its small size, the island of Lusibari supported a population of several thousand. Some of its people were descended from the first settlers, who had arrived in the 1920s. Others had come in successive waves, some after the partition of the subcontinent in 1947 and some after the Bangladesh war of 1971. Many had come even more recently, when other nearby islands were forcibly depopulated in order to make room for wildlife conservation projects. As a result, the pressure of population in Lusibari was such that no patch of land was allowed to lie fallow. The green fields that quilted the island were dotted with clusters of mud huts and crossed by many well-trodden pathways. The broadest of these paths were even paved with bricks and shaded with rows of casuarina trees. But these elements of an ordinary rural existence did not entirely conceal the fact that life in Lusibari was lived at the sufferance of a single feature of its topography. This was its bãdh, the tall embankment that encircled its perimeter, holding back the twice-daily flood.

The compound of the Badabon Trust was at the rounded end of the conch-shaped island, a kilometre’s distance from Lusibari village. Nilima lived there in a small building that doubled as a guest house for the Trust’s visitors.

It took a while for Kanai and Nilima to make their way to this end of the island. They had disembarked on the mudspit, near Lusibari village, and by the time they departed for the Trust’s compound, it was near sunset. The vehicle that had been arranged for their transport was new to Kanai – there had been none on the island at the time of his last visit. It was a cycle-van, a bicycle-trolley with a square platform mounted behind the driver’s saddle. The platform served to carry luggage and livestock as well as passengers, who sat on it either with their legs folded or with their feet dangling over the edge. Since the platform was flat, with no handholds, passengers had to cling on as best they could. When the vehicles hit a bump or a pothole, they locked arms to hold each other in place.

‘Are you sure we’ll all fit on that?’ said Kanai dubiously, eyeing the vehicle.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Nilima. ‘Just get on and we’ll hold you down.’

They set off with Kanai’s suitcase lodged among baskets of vegetables and squawking clutches of fowl. The van turned on to a path paved with uncemented bricks, many of which had come loose, leaving gaps in the track’s surface. When the wheels hit these holes, the platform flew up as if to catapult its passengers from the vehicle. Kanai would have gone rocketing off if the others hadn’t kept him in place by holding on to his shirt.

‘I hope you’ll be comfortable in our Guest House,’ said Nilima anxiously. ‘Our set-up is very simple, so don’t expect any luxuries. A room’s been prepared for you and your dinner should be waiting, in a tiffin carrier. I’ve told one of our trainee nurses to make arrangements for your food. If you need anything, just let her know. Her name is Moyna – she should be there now, waiting for us.’

At the mention of the name, the van’s driver corkscrewed around in his seat. ‘Mashima, are you talking about Moyna Mandol?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you won’t find her at the Guest House, Mashima,’ the driver said. ‘Haven’t you heard yet?’

‘What?’

‘Moyna’s husband, that fellow Fokir, has gone missing again. And he’s taken the boy too – their son. Moyna’s running all over the place, asking after them.’

‘No! Is that true?’

‘Yes.’ A couple of other passengers confirmed this with vigorous nods.

Mashima clicked her tongue. ‘Poor Moyna. That fellow gives her so much trouble.’

Kanai had been listening to this exchange and, on seeing the look of consternation on Mashima’s face, said, ‘Will this upset all the arrangements?’

‘No,’ said Mashima. ‘We’ll manage one way or the other. I’m just worried about Moyna. That husband of hers is going to drive her mad one day.’

‘Who is he? Her husband, I mean?’

‘You won’t know him—’ Breaking off in mid-sentence Nilima clutched at Kanai’s arm. ‘Wait! Actually you do know him – not him, I mean, but his mother.’

‘His mother?’

‘Yes. Do you remember a girl called Kusum?’

‘Of course,’ said Kanai. ‘Of course I remember her. She was the only friend I had in this place.’

Nilima gave a slow nod. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember now: you two used to play together. Anyway, this man we’re talking about – Fokir? He’s Kusum’s son. He’s married to Moyna.’

‘Is he the one who’s missing?’

‘Yes, that’s him.’

‘And what about Kusum? What became of her?’

Nilima let out a deep sigh. ‘She ran off, Kanai; it must have been some months after you visited us. For years we didn’t have any news of her, but then she showed up again. It was very unfortunate.’

‘Why? What happened?’

Nilima closed her eyes as if to shut out the memory. ‘She was killed.’

‘How?’

‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Nilima in an undertone. ‘Not now.’

‘And her son?’ Kanai persisted. ‘How old was he when Kusum died?’

‘He was just a child,’ Nilima said. ‘Maybe five years old or so. He was brought up by Horen, who was a relative.’

A large building suddenly came into view, capturing Kanai’s attention. ‘What’s that, over there?’

‘That’s the hospital,’ said Nilima. ‘Is this the first time you’re seeing it?’

‘Yes,’ said Kanai. ‘I haven’t been to Lusibari since it was built.’

The lights that flanked the hospital’s entrance each seemed to be enclosed within a moving, buzzing halo of its own. When the cycle-van rolled past, Kanai saw that this effect was created by clouds of insects. Also clustered beneath the bulbs were groups of schoolchildren, with books open on their laps.

‘Aren’t those electric lights?’ Kanai said in surprise.

‘Yes, they are.’

‘But I thought Lusibari hadn’t got electricity yet?’

‘We have electricity within this compound,’ said Nilima. ‘But just for a few hours each day, from sunset till about nine.’

One of the Trust’s benefactors, Nilima explained, had donated a generator, and the machine was turned on for a few hours each evening so that the hospital’s staff could have a period of heightened activity in which to prepare for the stillness of the night. As for the children, they too were drawn to the hospital by its lights. It was easier to study there than at home, and cheaper too, since it saved oil and candles.

‘And that’s where we’re going,’ said Nilima, pointing ahead, to a two-storey house separated from the hospital by a pond and a stand of coconut trees. Small and brightly painted, the house had the cheerful look of a whitewashed elementary school. The guest rooms were upstairs, Nilima explained, while the flat on the ground floor was the home in which she and her late husband had lived since the mid-1970s. Nirmal’s study, where all his papers were stored, was on the roof.

After Nilima had dismounted from the cycle-van, she handed Kanai a key: ‘This opens the door to your uncle’s study. You should go upstairs and have a look – you’ll find the packet on his desk. I wanted to take you there myself but I’m too tired.’

‘I’ll manage on my own,’ said Kanai. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll see you in the morning.’

Kanai was heading for the stairs with his suitcase, when Nilima called out, as an afterthought, ‘The generator will be switched off at nine, so be prepared. Don’t be caught off guard when the lights go off.’