again – but it turns out it wasn’t.’
Kanai put an arm around her shoulders. ‘It must have been very hard for you.’
Nilima raised a hand to wipe her eyes. ‘I still remember coming here to get him,’ she said. ‘He was standing here shouting, “The Matla will rise! The Matla will rise!” His clothes were all soiled and there was mud on his face. I’ll never get that image out of my head.’
A long-buried memory stirred in Kanai’s mind. ‘“The Matla will rise.” Is that what he was saying? He must have been thinking of that story he used to tell.’
‘What story?’ Nilima said sharply.
‘Don’t you remember? About the viceroy who built this port, and Mr Piddington, the man who invented the word “cyclone”, and how he predicted that the Matla would rise to drown Canning?’
‘Stop!’ Nilima clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Please don’t talk about it, Kanai. I can’t bear to remember all that. That’s why I wanted you to deal with this packet of his. I just don’t have the strength to revisit all of that.’
‘Of course,’ said Kanai, remorsefully. ‘I know it’s hard for you. I won’t mention it.’
Then too, Kanai remembered, there had been a long wait on the embankment. Not because of the tides or the mud, but because of a simple lack of boats heading in the right direction. He had sat with Nilima in a tea-stall while Nirmal was sent to stand atop the embankment to watch for boats.
Nirmal, Kanai remembered, had not been very effective at keeping watch. On his most recent visit to a bookshop, in Calcutta, he had bought a copy of a Bangla translation of Rainer Maria Rilke’s Duino Elegies – the translator, Buddhadeb Basu, was a poet he had once known. All the while he was meant to be watching for a boat, Nirmal’s attention had kept returning to his recent acquisition. For fear of Nilima he hadn’t dared to open the book. Instead, he had held it aslant across his chest, and stolen glances whenever he could.
Fortunately for them, they had not had to depend on Nirmal to find a boat. Someone had come to their rescue of his own accord. ‘Aré Mashima! You here?’ Before they could look around, a young man had come running up the embankment to touch Nilima’s feet.
‘Is it Horen?’ Nilima had said, squinting closely at his face. ‘Horen Naskor? Is it you?’
‘Yes, Mashima; it’s me.’ He was squat of build and heavily muscled, his face broad and flat, with eyes permanently narrowed against the sun. He was dressed in a threadbare lungi and a mud-stained vest.
‘And what are you doing in Canning, Horen?’ Nilima said.
‘Jongol korté geslam, I went to “do jungle” yesterday, Mashima,’ Horen replied, ‘and Bon Bibi granted me enough honey to fill two bottles. I came here to sell them.’
At this point Kanai had whispered into Nilima’s ear, ‘Who is Bon Bibi?’
‘The goddess of the forest,’ Nilima had whispered back. ‘In these parts, people believe she rules over all the animals of the jungle.’
‘O?’ Kanai had been astonished to think that a grown-up, a big strong man at that, could entertain such an idea. He had been unable to suppress the snort of laughter that rose to his lips.
‘Kanai!’ Nilima had been quick to scold. ‘Don’t act like you know everything. You’re not in Calcutta now.’
Kanai’s laugh had caught Horen’s attention too, and he had stooped to bring their faces level. ‘And who is this, Mashima?’
‘My nephew – my sister’s son,’ Nilima had explained. ‘He got into trouble in school so his parents sent him here – to teach him a lesson.’
‘You should send him over to me, Mashima,’ Horen had said with a smile. ‘I have three children of my own, and my oldest is not much smaller than him. I know what has to be done to teach a boy a lesson.’
‘Do you hear that, Kanai?’ Mashima had said. ‘That’s what I’ll do if there’s any nonsense from you – I’ll send you to live with Horen.’
This prospect had instantly sobered Kanai, removing the smile from his face. He had been greatly relieved when Horen had turned away from him to reach for Nilima’s luggage.
‘So, Mashima, are you waiting for a boat?’
‘Yes, Horen. We’ve been sitting here a long time.’
‘No more sitting, Mashima!’ Horen had said, hefting one of her bags on to his shoulders. ‘My own boat is here – I’ll take all of you home.’
Nilima had made a few unconvincing protests. ‘But it’s out of your way, Horen, isn’t it?’
‘Not far,’ Horen had said. ‘And you’ve done so much for Kusum. Why can’t I do this? You just wait here – I’ll bring the boat around.’
With that he had gone hurrying away, along the embankment. After he was out of earshot, Kanai had said to Nilima, ‘Who is that man? And what was he talking about? Who is Kusum?’
Horen was a fisherman, Nilima had explained, and he lived on an island called Satjelia, not far from Lusibari. He was younger than he looked, probably not yet twenty, but like many other tide country boys, he had been married off early – at the age of fourteen in his case. This was why he was already a father of three while still in his teens.
As for Kusum, she was a girl from his village, a fifteen-year-old, whom he had put into the care of the Women’s Union in Lusibari. Her father had died while foraging for firewood and her mother, without other means of support, had been forced to look for a job in the city. ‘It wasn’t safe for her on her own,’ Nilima had said. ‘All kinds of people tried to take advantage of her. Someone was even trying to sell her off. If Horen hadn’t rescued her who knows what might have happened?’
This had piqued Kanai’s interest. ‘Why?’ he had said. ‘What might have happened?’
Nilima’s eyes had grown sad, as they tended to do when she was reminded of those of the world’s ills she was powerless to remedy. ‘She might have been forced to lose her self-respect and honour; it happens often enough to poor girls who’re caught in that kind of situation.’
‘Oh?’ For all his precocity Kanai was unable to unravel the precise implications of Nilima’s euphemisms – yet he had understood enough of their meaning for his breath to quicken.
‘And where is this girl now?’ he had said.
‘In Lusibari,’ Nilima had replied. ‘You’ll meet her. Our Women’s Union is still looking after her.’
The conversation had ended, Kanai remembered, with his sprinting up the embankment to stand beside Nirmal. Kanai had scanned the river with eager eyes, looking for Horen’s boat. Till then the prospect of going to Lusibari had inspired nothing other than bored resentment, but the prospect of meeting this Kusum was something to look forward to.
