“I can already taste it.”

I fell asleep. Or, rather, into a state of dying delirium.

But something was niggling at me. I couldn’t say what. Whatever it was, it was disturbing my dying.

I came to. I knew what it was that was bothering me.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?” came Richard Parker’s voice faintly.

“Why do you have an accent?”

“I don’t. It is you who has an accent.”

“No, I don’t. You pronounce the ‘ze’.”

“I pronounce ze ‘ze’, as it should be. You speak with warm marbles in your mouth. You have an Indian accent.”

“You speak as if your tongue were a saw and English words were made of wood. You have a French accent.”

It was utterly incongruous. Richard Parker was born in Bangladesh and raised in Tamil Nadu, so why should he have a French accent? Granted, Pondicherry was once a French colony, but no one would have me believe that some of the zoo animals had frequented the Alliance Francaise on rue Dumas.

It was very perplexing. I fell into a fog again.

I woke up with a gasp. Someone was there! This voice coming to my ears was neither a wind with an accent nor an animal speaking up. It was someone else! My heart beat fiercely, making one last go at pushing some blood through my worn-out system. My mind made a final attempt at being lucid.

“Only an echo, I fear,” I heard, barely audibly.

“Wait, I’m here!” I shouted.

“An echo at sea…”

“No, it’s me!”

“That this would end!”

“My friend!”

“I’m wasting away…”

“Stay, stay!”

I could barely hear him.

I shrieked.

He shrieked back.

It was too much. I would go mad.

I had an idea.

“My name,” I roared to the elements with my last breath, “is Piscine Molitor Patel.” How could an echo create a name? “Do you hear me? I am Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel!”

“What? Is someone there?”

“Yes, someone’s there!”

“What! Can it be true? Please, do you have any food? Anything at all. I have no food left. I haven’t eaten anything in days. I must have something. I’ll be grateful for whatever you can spare. I beg you.”

“But I have no food either,” I answered, dismayed. “I haven’t eaten anything in days myself. I was hoping you would have food. Do you have water? My supplies are very low.”

“No, I don’t. You have no food at all? Nothing?”

“No, nothing.”

There was silence, a heavy silence.

“Where are you?” I asked.

“I’m here,” he replied wearily.

“But where is that? I can’t see you.”

“Why can’t you see me?”

“I’ve gone blind.”

“What?” he exclaimed.

“I’ve gone blind. My eyes see nothing but darkness. I blink for nothing. These last two days, if my skin can be trusted to measure time. It only can tell me if it’s day or night.”

I heard a terrible wail.

“What? What is it, my friend?” I asked.

He kept wailing.

“Please answer me. What is it? I’m blind and we have no food and water, but we have each other. That is something. Something precious. So what is it, my dear brother?”

“I too am blind!”

“What?”

“I too blink for nothing, as you say.”

He wailed again. I was struck dumb. I had met another blind man on another lifeboat in the Pacific!

“But how could you be blind?” I mumbled.

“Probably for the same reason you are. The result of poor hygiene on a starving body at the end of its tether.”

We both broke down. He wailed and I sobbed. It was too much, truly it was too much.

“I have a story,” I said, after a while.

“A story?”

“Yes.”

“Of what use is a story? I’m hungry.”

“It’s a story about food.”

“Words have no calories.”

“Seek food where food is to be found.”

“That’s an idea.”

Silence. A famishing silence.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Here. And you?”

“Here.”

I heard a splashing sound as an oar dipped into water. I reached for one of the oars I had salvaged from the wrecked raft. It was so heavy. I felt with my hands and found the closest oarlock. I dropped the oar in it. I pulled on the handle. I had no strength. But I rowed as best I could.

“Let’s hear your story,” he said, panting.

“Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it.”

He stopped rowing. “What a beautiful story!”

“Thank you.”

“I have tears in my eyes.”

“I have another element,” I said.

“What is it?”

“The banana fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it—and afterwards that person felt better.”

“It takes the breath away!” he exclaimed.

“Thank you.”

A pause.

“But you don’t have any bananas?”

“No. An orang-utan distracted me.”

“A what?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Any toothpaste?”

“No.”

“Delicious on fish. Any cigarettes?”

“I ate them already.”

“You ate them?”

“I still have the filters. You can have them if you like.”

“The filters? What would I do with cigarette filters without the tobacco? How could you eat cigarettes?”

“What should I have done with them? I don’t smoke.”

“You should have kept them for trading.”

“Trading? With whom?”

“With me!”

“My brother, when I ate them I was alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific.”

“So?”

“So, the chance of meeting someone in the middle of the Pacific with whom to trade my cigarettes did not strike me as an obvious prospect.”

“You have to plan ahead, you stupid boy! Now you have nothing to trade.”

“But even if I had something to trade, what would I trade it for? What do you have that I would want?”

“I have a boot,” he said.

“A boot?”

“Yes, a fine leather boot.”

“What would I do with a leather boot in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific? Do you think I go for hikes in my spare time?”

“You could eat it!”

“Eat a boot? What an idea.”

“You eat cigarettes—why not a boot?”

“The idea is disgusting. Whose boot, by the way?”

“How should I know?”

“You’re suggesting I eat a complete stranger’s boot?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I’m flabbergasted. A boot. Putting aside the fact that I am a Hindu and we Hindus consider cows sacred, eating a leather boot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot might exude in addition to all the filth it might step in while shod.”

“So no boot for you.”

“Let’s see it first.”

“No.”

“What? Do you expect me to trade something with you sight unseen?”

“We’re both blind, may I remind you.”

“Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitiful salesman are you? No wonder you’re starved for customers.”

“That’s right. I am.”

“Well, the boot?”

“It’s a leather boot.”

“What kind of leather boot?”

“The regular kind.”

“Which means?”

“A boot with a shoelace and eyelets and a tongue. With an inner sole. The regular kind.”

“What colour?”

“Black.”

“In what condition?”

“Worn. The leather soft and supple, lovely to the touch.”

“And the smell?”

“Of warm, fragrant leather.”

“I must admit—I must admit—it sounds tempting!”

“You can forget about it.”

“Why?”

Silence.

“Will you not answer, my brother?”

“There’s no boot.”

“No boot?”

“No.”

“That makes me sad.”

“I ate it.”

“You ate the boot?”

“Yes.”

“Was it good?”

“No. Were the cigarettes good?”

“No. I couldn’t finish them.”

“I couldn’t finish the boot.”

“Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it and afterwards that person felt better.”