The siege went on for many days and we were powerless to affect the outcome. All we heard were rumours: that despite careful rationing, food had run out and the settlers had been reduced to eating grass. The police had destroyed the tubewells and there was no potable water left; the settlers were drinking from puddles and ponds and an epidemic of cholera had broken out.
"One of the settlers managed to get through the police cordon by swimming across the Garal River -an amazing feat in its own right. But not content with that, the young man had somehow made his way to Kolkata where he talked at length to the newspapers. A furore broke out, citizens groups filed petitions, questions were asked in the legislature and finally the High Court ruled that barricading the settlers was illegal; the siege would have to be lifted.
The settlers, it seemed, had won a notable victory. The day after the news reached us, I saw Horen waiting near the badh. Neither he nor I needed to say anything: I packed my jhola and went down to his boad. We set off.
There was a lightness in our hearts now; we thought we would find the people of Morichjhapi celebrating, in a spirit of vindication. But such was not the case: on getting there we saw that the siege had taken a terrible toll. And even though it had been lifted now, the police were not gone; they continued to patrol the island, urging the settlers to abandon their homes.
It was terrible to see Kusum: her bones protruded from her skin, like the ribs of a drum, and she was too weak to rise from her mat. Fokir, young as he was, appeared to have weathered the siege in better health and it was he who was looking after his mother.
Summing up the situation, I assumed that Kusum had starved herself in order to feed Fokir. But the truth was not quite so simple. For much of the time, Kusum had kept Fokir indoors, fearing to let him out because of the swarming police. But from time to time he had managed to go outside and catch a few crabs and fish. These, at Kusum's insistence, he had mainly eaten himself, while she had subsisted on a kind of wild green known as jadu-palong. Palatable enough at first, these leaves had proved deadly in the end, for they had caused severed dysentery. The latter, on top of the lack of proper nutrition, had proved most debilitating.
Fortunately, we had taken the precaution of buying some essential provisions on the way -rice, daal, oil- and we now occupied ourselves in storing these in Kusum's dwelling. But Kusum would have non of it. She roused herself from her mat, and hefted some of the bags on her shoulders. Fokir and Horen were made to pick up the others.
"Wait", I said. "what are you doing? Where are you taking those? They're meant for you".
"I can't keep them, Saar; we're rationing everything. I have to take them to the leader of my ward".
Although I could see the point of this, I persuaded her that she did not need to part with every last handful of rice and daal: to put aside a little for herself would not be immoral, given she was a mother with a child to provide for.
As we were measuring out the cupfuls she should keep for herself, she began to cry. The sight of her tears came as a shock to both Horen and myself. Kusum had never till now shown any flagging in courage and confidence; to see her break down was unbearably painful. Fokir went to stand behind her, putting an arm around her neck, while Horen sat beside her and patted her shoulder. I alone was frozen, unable to respond except in words.
"What is it, Kusum?" I said. "What are you thinking of?"
"Saar," she said, wiping her face, "the worst part was not the hunger or the thirst. It was to sit here, helpless, and listen to the policemen making their announcements, hearing them say that our lives, our existence, was worth less that dirt or dust. "This island has to be saved for its trees, it has to be saved for its animals, it is part of a reserve forest, it belongs to a project to save tigers, which is paid for by people from all around the world. "Every day, sitting here, with hunger gnawing at our bellies, we would listen to these words, over and over again. Who are these people, I wondered, who love animals so much that they are willing to kill us for them? Do they know what is being done in their names? Where do they live, these people, do they have children, do they have mothers, fathers? As I thought of these things it seemed to me that this whole world has become a place of animals, and our fault, our crime, was that we were just human beings, trying to live as human beings always have, from the water and the soil. No human being could think this a crime unless they have forgotten that this is how humans have always lived -by fishing, by clearing land and by planting the soil."
Her words, and the sight of her wasted face, affected me so much -useless schoolmaster that I am -that my head reeled and I had lie down on a mat.
Extracted from "The hungry tide", Amitav Ghosh.
#BAD2011
"One of the settlers managed to get through the police cordon by swimming across the Garal River -an amazing feat in its own right. But not content with that, the young man had somehow made his way to Kolkata where he talked at length to the newspapers. A furore broke out, citizens groups filed petitions, questions were asked in the legislature and finally the High Court ruled that barricading the settlers was illegal; the siege would have to be lifted.
The settlers, it seemed, had won a notable victory. The day after the news reached us, I saw Horen waiting near the badh. Neither he nor I needed to say anything: I packed my jhola and went down to his boad. We set off.
There was a lightness in our hearts now; we thought we would find the people of Morichjhapi celebrating, in a spirit of vindication. But such was not the case: on getting there we saw that the siege had taken a terrible toll. And even though it had been lifted now, the police were not gone; they continued to patrol the island, urging the settlers to abandon their homes.
It was terrible to see Kusum: her bones protruded from her skin, like the ribs of a drum, and she was too weak to rise from her mat. Fokir, young as he was, appeared to have weathered the siege in better health and it was he who was looking after his mother.
Summing up the situation, I assumed that Kusum had starved herself in order to feed Fokir. But the truth was not quite so simple. For much of the time, Kusum had kept Fokir indoors, fearing to let him out because of the swarming police. But from time to time he had managed to go outside and catch a few crabs and fish. These, at Kusum's insistence, he had mainly eaten himself, while she had subsisted on a kind of wild green known as jadu-palong. Palatable enough at first, these leaves had proved deadly in the end, for they had caused severed dysentery. The latter, on top of the lack of proper nutrition, had proved most debilitating.
Fortunately, we had taken the precaution of buying some essential provisions on the way -rice, daal, oil- and we now occupied ourselves in storing these in Kusum's dwelling. But Kusum would have non of it. She roused herself from her mat, and hefted some of the bags on her shoulders. Fokir and Horen were made to pick up the others.
"Wait", I said. "what are you doing? Where are you taking those? They're meant for you".
"I can't keep them, Saar; we're rationing everything. I have to take them to the leader of my ward".
Although I could see the point of this, I persuaded her that she did not need to part with every last handful of rice and daal: to put aside a little for herself would not be immoral, given she was a mother with a child to provide for.
As we were measuring out the cupfuls she should keep for herself, she began to cry. The sight of her tears came as a shock to both Horen and myself. Kusum had never till now shown any flagging in courage and confidence; to see her break down was unbearably painful. Fokir went to stand behind her, putting an arm around her neck, while Horen sat beside her and patted her shoulder. I alone was frozen, unable to respond except in words.
"What is it, Kusum?" I said. "What are you thinking of?"
"Saar," she said, wiping her face, "the worst part was not the hunger or the thirst. It was to sit here, helpless, and listen to the policemen making their announcements, hearing them say that our lives, our existence, was worth less that dirt or dust. "This island has to be saved for its trees, it has to be saved for its animals, it is part of a reserve forest, it belongs to a project to save tigers, which is paid for by people from all around the world. "Every day, sitting here, with hunger gnawing at our bellies, we would listen to these words, over and over again. Who are these people, I wondered, who love animals so much that they are willing to kill us for them? Do they know what is being done in their names? Where do they live, these people, do they have children, do they have mothers, fathers? As I thought of these things it seemed to me that this whole world has become a place of animals, and our fault, our crime, was that we were just human beings, trying to live as human beings always have, from the water and the soil. No human being could think this a crime unless they have forgotten that this is how humans have always lived -by fishing, by clearing land and by planting the soil."
Her words, and the sight of her wasted face, affected me so much -useless schoolmaster that I am -that my head reeled and I had lie down on a mat.
Extracted from "The hungry tide", Amitav Ghosh.
#BAD2011
