Chapter 36
The cities are large and memorably crowded in India, but when you leave them you travel through vast stretches of country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I remember wondering where 950 million Indians could be hiding.
I could say the same of his house.
I’m a little early. I’ve just set foot on the cement steps of the front porch when a teenager bursts out the front door. He’s wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseball equipment, and he’s in a hurry. When he sees me he stops dead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollers into the house, “Dad! The writer’s here.” To me he says, “Hi,” and rushes off.
His father comes to the front door. “Hello,” he says.
“That was your son?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes.” To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips. “I’m sorry you didn’t meet properly. He’s late for practice. His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick.”
I’m in the entrance hall. “I didn’t know you had a son,” I say. There’s a barking. A small mongrel mutt, black and brown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps up against my legs. “Or a dog,” I add.
“He’s friendly. Tata, down!”
Tata ignores him. I hear “Hello.” Only this greeting is not short and forceful like Nick’s. It’s a long, nasal and softly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reaching for me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at my pants.
I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room, looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty in pink, very much at home. She’s holding an orange cat in her arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeply sunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossed arms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down to the floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about being stretched on the rack in this manner.
“And this is your daughter,” I say.
“Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin is comfortable like that?”
Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed.
“Hello, Usha,” I say.
She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behind his leg.
“What are you doing, little one?” he says. “Why are you hiding?”
She doesn’t reply, only looks at me with a smile and hides her face.
“How old are you, Usha?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply.
Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel, bends down and picks up his daughter.
“You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You’re four years old. One, two, three, four.”
At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose with his index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She giggles and buries her face in the crook of his neck.
This story has a happy ending.
Part Two.
The Pacific Ocean
Chapter 37
The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart. From the lifeboat I saw something in the water.
I cried, “Richard Parker, is that you? It’s so hard to see. Oh, that this rain would stop! Richard Parker? Richard Parker? Yes, it is you!”
I could see his head. He was struggling to stay at the surface of the water.
“Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to see you, Richard Parker! Don’t give up, please. Come to the lifeboat. Do you hear this whistle? Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! You heard right. Swim, swim! You’re a strong swimmer. It’s not a hundred feet.”
He had seen me. He looked panic-stricken. He started swimming my way. The water about him was shifting wildly. He looked small and helpless.
“Richard Parker, can you believe what has happened to us? Tell me it’s a bad dream. Tell me it’s not real. Tell me I’m still in my bunk on the Tsimtsum and I’m tossing and turning and soon I’ll wake up from this nightmare. Tell me I’m still happy. Mother, my tender guardian angel of wisdom, where are you? And you, Father, my loving worrywart? And you, Ravi, dazzling hero of my childhood? Vishnu preserve me, Allah protect me, Christ save me, I can’t bear it! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Treeeeee!”
I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I had never experienced such intense pain, such a ripping of the nerves, such an ache of the heart.
He would not make it. He would drown. He was hardly moving forward and his movements were weak. His nose and mouth kept dipping underwater. Only his eyes were steadily on me.
“What are you doing, Richard Parker? Don’t you love life? Keep swimming then! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Kick with your legs. Kick! Kick! Kick!”
He stirred in the water and made to swim.
“And what of my extended family-birds, beasts and reptiles? They too have drowned. Every single thing I value in life has been destroyed. And I am allowed no explanation? I am to suffer hell without any account from heaven? In that case, what is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it no more than to shine at practicalities-the getting of food, clothing and shelter? Why can’t reason give greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a vast net if there’s so little fish to catch?”
His head was barely above water. He was looking up, taking in the sky one last time. There was a lifebuoy in the boat with a rope tied to it. I took hold of it and waved it in the air.
“Do you see this lifebuoy, Richard Parker? Do you see it? Catch hold of it! Humpf! I’ll try again. Humpf!”
He was too far. But the sight of the lifebuoy flying his way gave him hope. He revived and started beating the water with vigorous, desperate strokes.
“That’s right! One, two. One, two. One, two. Breathe when you can. Watch for the waves. Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Treeeeee!”
My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But there was no time for frozen shock. It was shock in activity. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwilling to let go, wanted to fight to the very end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don’t know.
“Isn’t it ironic, Richard Parker? We’re in hell yet still we’re afraid of immortality. Look how close you are! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Treeeeee! Hurrah, hurrah! You’ve made it, Richard Parker, you’ve made it. Catch! Humpf!”
I threw the lifebuoy mightily. It fell in the water right in front of him. With his last energies he stretched forward and took hold of it.
“Hold on tight, I’ll pull you in. Don’t let go. Pull with your eyes while I pull with my hands. In a few seconds you’ll be aboard and we’ll be together. Wait a second. Together? We’ll be together. Have I gone mad?”
I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope.
“Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker! Let go, I said. I don’t want you here, do you understand? Go somewhere else. Leave me alone. Get lost. Drown! Drown!”
He was kicking vigorously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I missed and lost hold of the oar.
I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end closer to Richard Parker.
I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air.
He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard.
“Oh my God!”
Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughing three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin, eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn. His head was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth.