AUTHOR'S NOTE This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. Inthe spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came out inCanada. It didn't fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, ordamned it with faint praise. Then readers ignored it. Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapezeartist, the media circus made no difference. The book didnot move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kidsstanding in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine wasthe gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on theirteam. It vanished quickly and quietly. The fiasco did not affect me too much. I had alreadymoved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in 1939. Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money. So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if yourealize three things: that a stint in India will beat therestlessness out of any living creature; that a little moneycan go a long way there; and that a novel set in Portugalin 1939 may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939. I had been to India before, in the north, for five months. On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent completelyunprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word. When I told a friend who knew the country well of mytravel plans, he said casually, "They speak a funny Englishin India. They like words like bamboozle." I remembered hiswords as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so theword bamboozle was my one preparation for the rich, noisy,functioning madness of India. I used the word on occasion,and truth be told, it served me well. To a clerk at a trainstation I said, "I didn't think the fare would be soexpensive. You're, not trying to bamboozle me, are you?" Hesmiled and chanted, "No sir! There is no bamboozlementhere. I have quoted you the correct fare."This second time to India I knew better what to expectand I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill stationand write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at atable on a large veranda, my notes spread out in front ofme next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy withmists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries of monkeyswould fill my ears. The weather would be just right,requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, andsomething short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand,for the sake of greater truth, I would turn Portugal into afiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selectivetransforming of reality? The twisting of it to bring out itsessence? What need did I have to go to Portugal? The lady who ran the place would tell me stories aboutthe struggle to boot the British out. We would agree onwhat I was to have for lunch and supper the next day. After my writing day was over, I would go for walks inthe rolling hills of the tea estates. Unfortunately, the novel sputtered, coughed and died. Ithappened in Matheran, not far from Bombay, a small hillstation with some monkeys but no tea estates. It's a miserypeculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is good, as areyour sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life theypractically need birth certificates. The plot you've mappedout for them is grand, simple and gripping. You've doneyour research, gathering the facts - historical, social,climatic, culinary - that will give your story its feel ofauthenticity. The dialogue zips along, crackling with tension. The descriptions burst with colour, contrast and tellingdetail. Really, your story can only be great. But it all addsup to nothing. In spite of the obvious, shining promise of it,there comes a moment when you realize that the whisperthat has been pestering you all along from the back ofyour mind is speaking the flat, awful truth: it won't work. An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a realstory, regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux of it. Thediscovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leavesyou with an aching hunger. From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. Imailed them to a fictitious address in Siberia, with a returnaddress, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk hadstamped the envelope and thrown it into a sorting bin, Isat down, glum and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy? What other bright ideas do you have for your life?" I askedmyself. Well, I still had a little money and I was still feelingrestless. I got up and walked out of the post office toexplore the south of India. I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those whoasked me what I did, doctors being the current purveyorsof magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had abus accident around the next bend, and ‘with all eyes fixedon me I would have to explain, amidst the crying andmoaning of victims, that I meant in law; then, to theirappeal to help them sue the government over the mishap, Iwould have to confess that as a matter of fact it was aBachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of whatmeaning such a bloody tragedy could have, I would have toadmit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. Istuck to the humble, bruised truth. Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "Awriter"? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times thestones were little more than anecdotes, short of breath andshort of life. I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tinyself-governing union Territory south of Madras, on thecoast of Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is aninconsequent part of India - by comparison, Prince EdwardIsland is a giant within Canada - but history has set itapart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that mostmodest of colonial empires, French India. The French wouldhave liked to rival the British, very much so, but the onlyRaj they managed to get was a handful of small ports. They clung to these for nearly three hundred years. Theyleft Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings,broad streets at right angles to each other, street namessuch as rue de la Marine and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis,caps, for the policemen. I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It'sone big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fanswhirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. Theplace is furnished to capacity with identical square tables,each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where youcan, with whoever is at a table. The coffee is good andthey serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man with great shocksof pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to himthat Canada was cold and that French was indeed spokenin parts of it and that I liked India and so on and soforth - the usual light talk between friendly, curious Indiansand foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work witha widening of the eyes and a nodding of the head. It wastime to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiterseye to get the bill. Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that willmake you believe in God."I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Wasthis a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does yourstory take place two thousand years ago in a remote cornerof the Roman Empire?" I asked. "No."Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it takeplace in seventh-century Arabia?""No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a fewyears back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in thevery country you come from.""And it will make me believe in God?""Yes.""That's a tall order.""Not so tall that you can't reach."My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I orderedtwo coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was FrancisAdirubasamy. "Please tell me your story," I said. "You must pay proper attention," he replied. "I will." I brought out pen and notepad. "Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?" heasked. "I went yesterday.""Didyou notice the toy train tracks?""Yes, I did.""A train still runs on Sundays for the amusement of thechildren. But it used to run twice an hour every day. Didyou take note of the names of the stations?""One is called Roseville. It's right next to the rosegarden.""That's right. And the other?""I don't remember.""The sign was taken down. The other station was oncecalled Zootown. The toy train had two stops: Roseville andZootown. Once upon a time there was a zoo in thePondicherry Botanical Garden."He went on. I took notes, the elements of the story. "Youmust talk to him," he said, of the main character. "I knewhim very, very well. He's a grown man now. You must askhim all the questions you want."Later, in Toronto, among nine columns of Patels in thephone book, I found him, the main character. My heartpounded as I dialed his phone number. The voice thatanswered had an Indian lilt to its Canadian accent, lightbut unmistakable, like a trace of incense in the air. "Thatwas a very long time ago," he said. Yet he agreed to meet. We met many times. He showed me the diary he keptduring the events. He showed me the yellowed newspaperclippings that made him briefly, obscurely famous. He toldme his story. All the while I took notes. Nearly a yearlater, after considerable difficulties, I received a tape and areport from the Japanese Ministry of Transport. It was as Ilistened to that tape that I agreed with Mr. Adirubasamythat this was, indeed, a story to make you believe in God. It seemed natural that Mr. Patel's story should be toldmostly in the first person - in his voice and through hiseyes. But any inaccuracies or mistakes are mine. I have a few people to thank. I am most obviouslyindebted to Mr. Patel. My gratitude to him is as boundlessas the Pacific Ocean and I hope that my telling of his taledoes not disappoint him. For getting me started on thestory, I have Mr. Adirubasamy to thank. For helping mecomplete it, I am grateful to three officials of exemplaryprofessionalism: Mr. Kazuhiko Oda, lately of the JapaneseEmbassy in Ottawa; Mr. Hiroshi Watanabe, of OikaShipping Company; and, especially, Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto,of the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired. As forthe spark of life, I owe it to Mr. Moacyr Scliar. Lastly, Iwould like to express my sincere gratitude to that greatinstitution, the Canada Council for the Arts, without whosegrant I could not have brought together this story that hasnothing to do with Portugal in 1939. If we, citizens, do notsupport our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination onthe altar of crude reality and we end up believing innothing and having worthless dreams. PART ONE Toronto and Pondicherry Chapter 1 My suffering left me sad and gloomy. Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religionslowly brought me back to life. I have kept up what somepeople would consider my strange religious practices. After oneyear of high school, I attended the University of Toronto andtook a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors werereligious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religiousstudies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony theory ofIsaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid glandof the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because itsdemeanour - calm, quiet and introspective - did something tosoothe my shattered self. There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths,the case being determined by the forepaws of the animals,since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had thegreat luck one summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situin the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguingcreature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rests onaverage twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habitsof five wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in theearly evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plasticdishes filled with water. We found them still in place late thenext morning, the water of the dishes swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy herein the most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a treein its characteristic upside-down position at the speed ofroughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground, it crawls to itsnext tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated,which is 440 times slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour. The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outsideworld. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents unusualdullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloth'ssenses of taste, touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and itssense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleepingthree-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should sufficeto awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction butyours. Why it should look about is uncertain since, the slothsees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the slothis not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reportedthat firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited littlereaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell shouldnot be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff andavoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that slothsfall to the ground clinging to decayed branches "often". How does it survive, you might ask. Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and sloth-fulness keepit out of harm's way, away from the notice of jaguars, ocelots,harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algaethat is brown during the dry season and green during the wetseason, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss andfoliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, orlike nothing at all but part of a tree. The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfectharmony with its environment. "A good-natured smile is foreveron its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile withmy own eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traitsand emotions onto animals, but many a time during thatmonth in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was inthe presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation orhermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginativelives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing. Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of myfellow religious-studies students - muddled agnostics who didn'tknow which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason,that fool's gold for the bright - reminded me of the three-toedsloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of themiracle of life, reminded me of God. I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists area friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking lot whose mindsare preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they arenot preoccupied with science. I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I wastops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got everypossible student award from the Department of Zoology. If Igot none from the Department of Religious Studies, it is simplybecause there are no student awards in this department (therewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we allknow that). I would have received the Governor General'sAcademic Medal, the University of Toronto's highestundergraduate award, of which no small number of illustriousCanadians have been recipients, were it not for a beef-eatingpink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament ofunbearable good cheer. I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered agreat deal in life, each additional pain is both unbearable andtrifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from Europeanart: there is always a grinning skull at my side to remind meof the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at itand I say, "You've got the wrong fellow. You may not believein life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skullsnickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biologicalnecessity - it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen inlove with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two ofno importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of acloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the RhodesScholarship committee. I love him and I hope his time atOxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth,one day favours me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list ofcities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca,Varanasi, Jerusalem and Paris. I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is anoose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man nonethelessif he's not careful. I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the houselizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver screen, the cowswandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk ofcricket matches, but I love Canada. It is a great country muchtoo cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligentpeople with bad hairdos. Anyway, I have nothing to go hometo in Pondicherry. Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see him in mydreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged withlove. Such is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannotunderstand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously,without any sort of goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart. The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico wereincredibly kind to me. And the patients, too. Victims of canceror car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled andwheeled over to see me, they and their families, though noneof them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled atme, shook my hand, patted me on the head, left gifts of foodand clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fitsof laughing and crying. Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, threesteps, despite nausea, dizziness and general weakness. Bloodtests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodiumwas very high and my potassium low. My body retained fluidsand my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I hadbeen grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was adeep, dark yellow going on to brown. After a week or so, Icould walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if Ididn't lace them up. My skin healed, though I still have scarson my shoulders and back. The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful,superabundant gush was such a shock that I becameincoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted inthe arms of a nurse. The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada Iused my fingers. The waiter looked at me critically and said,"Fresh off the boat, are you?" I blanched. My fingers, which asecond before had been taste buds savouring the food a littleahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They frozelike criminals caught in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wipedthem guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply thosewords wounded me. They were like nails being driven into myflesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever usedsuch instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste. Chapter 2 He lives in Scarborough. He's a small, slim man - nomore than five foot five. Dark hair, dark eyes. Hair greyingat the temples. Can't be older than forty. Pleasingcoffee-coloured complexion. Mild fall weather, yet puts on abig winter parka with fur-lined hood for the walk to thediner. Expressive face. Speaks quickly, hands flitting about. No small talk. He launches forth. Chapter 3 I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiarconsidering my parents never took to water. One of myfather's earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. Hebecame a good friend of the family. I called him Mamaji,mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffixused in India to indicate respect and affection. When he was ayoung man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a championcompetitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. Helooked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told methat when Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up onbreathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to takehim by the feet and swing him above his head round andround. "It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand abovehis head. "He coughed out water and started breathing air, butit forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That's whyhis chest is so thick and his legs are so skinny."I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first timehe called Mamaji "Mr. Fish" to my face I left a banana peel inhis bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped anda lifetime of counter-obstetric gravity had begun to nudge hisflesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning atthe pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never gotthem to go beyond wading up to their knees at the beach andmaking ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if theywere practising the breast-stroke, made them look as if theywere walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass aheadof them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were runningdown a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi wasjust as unenthusiastic. Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find awilling disciple. The day I came of swimming age, which, toMother's distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought medown to the beach, spread his arms seaward and said, "This ismy gift to you.""And then he nearly drowned you," claimed Mother. I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchfuleye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and scratchedaway at the sand with my hands, turning my head at everystroke to breathe. I must have looked like a child throwing apeculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me atthe surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much moredifficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging. When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turnedour backs on the laughing and the shouting, the running andthe splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, andheaded for the proper rectan-gularity and the formal flatness(and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool. I went there with him three times a week throughout mychildhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early morning ritualwith the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. Ihave vivid memories of this dignified old man stripping down tonakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatlydisposed of each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at thevery end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair ofimported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he wasready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming instruction, which intime became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there wasthe deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease andspeed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turningfrom molten lead to liquid light. It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to thesea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed down andreached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos thatcaught their willing Indian boy. My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteenor so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I finished sospent I could hardly wave to him. Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. Itwas the talk that Father loved. The more vigorously he resistedactually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was hisvacation talk from the workaday talk of running a zoo. Waterwithout a hippopotamus was so much more manageable thanwater with one. Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonialadministration. He had the time of his life. This was in theearly 1930s, when the French were still trying to makePondicherry as Gallic as the British were trying to make therest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamajistudied. Something commercial, I suppose. He was a greatstoryteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower orthe Louvre or the cafés of the Champs-Elysées. All his storieshad to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldestpool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored to theQuai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the1900 Olympics. But none of the times were recognized by theInternational Swimming Federation because the pool was sixmetres too long. The water in the pool came straight from theSeine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," saidMamaji. "The water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foulenough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." Inconspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up hisclaim, he assured us that the French had very low standardsof personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal,another latrine on the Seine, was worse. At least at Delignythey scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic poolis an Olympic pool, touched by immortal glory. Though it wasa cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile. One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvetor du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor pools withroofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was suppliedby the condensation from steam engines from nearby factoriesand so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still abit dingy and tended to be crowded. "There was so much goband spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimmingthrough jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji. The Piscines Hébert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles werebright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian wells. They setthe standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. Therewas the Piscine des Tourelles, of course, the city's other greatOlympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of1924. And there were still others, many of them. But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the gloryof the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic glory ofParis, indeed, of the entire civilized world. "It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in Paris. Therewere two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as bigas small oceans. The indoor pool always had two lanesreserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The waterwas so clean and clear you could have used it to make yourmorning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white,surrounded the pool on two floors. You could look down andsee everyone and everything. The porters who marked yourcabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied werelimping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No amount ofshouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushedhot, soothing water. There was a steam room and an exerciseroom. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. Therewas a bar, a cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two smallbeaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and woodgleamed. It was - it was…"It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, hismemory making too many lengths to mention. Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed. That is how I got my name when I entered this world, alast, welcome addition to my family, three years after Ravi: Piscine Molitor Patel. Chapter 4 Our good old nation was just seven years old as a republicwhen it became bigger by a small territory. Pondicherry enteredthe union of India on November 1,1954. One civic achievementcalled for another. A portion of the grounds of the PondicherryBotanical Garden was made available rent-free for an excitingbusiness opportunity and - lo and behold - India had a brandnew zoo, designed and run according to the most modern,biologically sound principles. It was a huge zoo, spread overnumberless acres, big enough to require a train to explore it,though it seemed to get smaller as I grew older, train included. Now it's so small it fits in my head. You must imagine a hotand humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. Theriot of flowers is incessant. There are trees, shrubs andclimbing plants in profusion - peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of theforest, red silk cottons, jacarandas, mangoes, jackfruits andmany others that would remain unknown to you if they didn'thave neat labels at their feet. There are benches. On thesebenches you see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting,young couples, who steal glances at each other shyly andwhose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch. Suddenly,amidst the tall and slim trees up ahead, you notice two giraffesquietly observing you. The sight is not the last of yoursurprises. The next moment you are startled by a furiousoutburst coming from a great troupe of monkeys, only outdonein volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to aturnstile. You distractedly pay a small sum of money. Youmove on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond alow wall? Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indianrhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when you turn yourhead you see the elephant that was there all along, so big youdidn't notice it. And in the pond you realize those arehippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, themore you see. You are in Zootown! Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel inMadras. An abiding interest in animals led him to the zoobusiness. A natural transition, you might think, fromhotelkeeping to zookeeping. Not so. In many ways, running azoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare. Consider: the guestsnever leave their rooms; they expect not only lodging but fullboard; they receive a constant flow of visitors, some of whomare noisy and unruly. One has to wait until they saunter totheir balconies, so to speak, before one can clean their rooms,and then one has to wait until they tire of the view and returnto their rooms before one can clean their balconies; and thereis much cleaning to do, for the guests are as unhygienic asalcoholics. Each guest is very particular about his or her diet,constantly complains about the slowness of the service, andnever, ever tips. To speak frankly, many are sexual deviants,either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenziedlasciviousness or openly depraved, in either case regularlyaffronting management with gross outrages of free sex andincest. Are these the sorts of guests you would want towelcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source ofsome pleasure and many headaches for Mr. San tosh Patel,founder, owner, director, head of a staff of fifty-three, and myfather. To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but thefondest memories of growing up in a zoo. I lived the life of aprince. What maharaja's son had such vast, luxuriant groundsto play about? What palace had such a menagerie? My alarmclock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were noSwiss clocks, but the lions could be counted upon to roar theirheads off between five-thirty and six every morning. Breakfastwas punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys,hill mynahs and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school under thebenevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of bright-eyedotters and burly American bison and stretching and yawningorang-utans. I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwisepeafowl might excrete on me. Better to go by the trees thatsheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault thereat that early hour was the bats' discordant concerts ofsqueaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by theterraria to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green,or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it mightbe birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or blackswans or one-wattled cassowaries, or something smaller, silverdiamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds,Nanday conures, orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that theelephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears would be up anddoing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, thegibbons, the deer, the tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes, themongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was outthe main gate I had one last impression that was bothordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the iridescentsnout of a mandrill; the stately silence of a giraffe; the obese,yellow open mouth of a hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of amacaw parrot up a wire fence; the greeting claps of a shoebill'sbill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all theseriches were had quickly, as I hurried to school. It was afterschool that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to havean elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of findinga hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick through your hair for ticksnacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantryyour head is. I wish I could convey the perfection of a sealslipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point topoint or a lion merely turning its head. But language foundersin such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want tofeel it. In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise andsunset. That is when most animals come to life. They stir andleave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They showtheir raiments. They sing their songs. They turn to each otherand perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye andthe listening ear is great. I spent more hours than I can counta quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions oflife that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weirdand delicate as to stupefy the senses. I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as Ihave about God and religion. Well-meaning but misinformedpeople think animals in the wild are "happy" because they are"free". These people usually have a large, handsome predator inmind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an aardvarkis rarely exalted). They imagine this wild animal roaming aboutthe savannah on digestive walks after eating a prey thataccepted its lot piously, or going for callis-thenic runs to stayslim after overindulging. They imagine this animal overseeing itsoffspring proudly and tenderly, the whole family watching thesetting of the sun from the limbs of trees with sighs ofpleasure. The life of the wild animal is simple, noble andmeaningful, they imagine. Then it is captured by wicked menand thrown into tiny jails. Its "happiness" is dashed. It yearnsmightily for "freedom" and does all it can to escape. Beingdenied its "freedom" for too long, the animal becomes ashadow of itself, its spirit broken. So some people imagine. This is not the way it is. Animals in the wild lead lives of compulsion and necessitywithin an unforgiving social hierarchy in an environment wherethe supply of fear is high and the supply of food low andwhere territory must constantly be defended and parasitesforever endured. What is the meaning of freedom in such acontext? Animals in the wild are, in practice, free neither inspace nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory -that is, as a simple physical possibility - an animal could pickup and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundariesproper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happenthan for a member of our own species, say a shopkeeper withall the usual ties - to family, to friends, to society - to dropeverything and walk away from his life with only the sparechange in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man,boldest and most intelligent of creatures, won't wander fromplace to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why wouldan animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? Forthat is what animals are, conservative, one might even sayreactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They wantthings to be just so, day after day, month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in theirspatial relations. An animal inhabits its space, whether in a zooor in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move about achessboard - significantly. There is no more happenstance, nomore "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or abear or a deer than in the location of a knight on achessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose. In the wild,animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons,season after season. In a zoo, if an animal is not in its normalplace in its regular posture at the usual hour, it meanssomething. It may be the reflection of nothing more than aminor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by akeeper has made a menacing impression. A puddle has formedthat bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But itcould mean something more. At its worst, it could be that mostdreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a herald oftrouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, tocross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All this becausea stork is not standing where it usually stands! But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of thequestion. If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chasedthe people who lived there out into the street and said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!" - do you think theywould shout and dance for joy? They wouldn't. Birds are notfree. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With whatright do you throw us out? This is our home. We own it. Wehave lived here for years. We're calling the police, youscoundrel."Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainlywhat animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is the key totheir minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill thetwo relentless imperatives of the wild: the avoidance of enemiesand the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zooenclosure - whether cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium,aviary or aquarium - is just another territory, peculiar only inits size and in its proximity to human territory. That it is somuch smaller than what it would be in nature stands toreason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of tastebut of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals what we havedone for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a smallspace what in the wild is spread out. Whereas before for usthe cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds amile that way, the lookout next to it, the berries somewhereelse - all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches andpoison ivy - now the river flows through taps at hand's reachand we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat wherewe have cooked, and we can surround the whole with aprotective wall and keep it clean and warm. A house is acompressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilledclose by and safely. A sound zoo enclosure is the equivalentfor an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace orthe like, present in every human habitation). Finding within itall the places it needs - a lookout, a place for resting, foreating and drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc. - andfinding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing sixdays a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space inthe same way it would lay claim to a new space in the wild,exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of itsspecies, with sprays of urine perhaps. Once this moving-in ritualis done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like anervous tenant, and even less like a prisoner, but rather like alandholder, and it will behave in the same way within itsenclosure as it would in its territory in the wild, includingdefending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such anenclosure is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animalthan its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the animal'sneeds, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, withoutjudgment, a given, like the spots on a leopard. One might evenargue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it wouldopt for living in a zoo, since the major difference between azoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies andthe abundance of food in the first, and their respectiveabundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room serviceand unlimited access to a doctor or be homeless without a soulto care for you? But animals are incapable of suchdiscernment. Within the limits of their nature, they make dowith what they have. A good zoo is a place of carefully worked-out coincidence: exactly where an animal says to us, "Stay out!" with its urineor other secretion, we say to it, "Stay in!" with our barriers. Under such conditions of diplomatic peace, all animals arecontent and we can relax and have a look at each other. In the literature can be found legions of examples of animalsthat could escape but did not, or did and returned. There isthe case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlockedand had swung open. Increasingly anxious, the chimp began toshriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly - with a deafeningclang each time - until the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurriedover to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in aEuropean zoo stepped out of their corral when the gate wasleft open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearbyforest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and couldsupport more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly returned totheir corral. In another zoo a worker was walking to his worksite at an early hour, carrying planks of wood, when, to hishorror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, headingstraight for him at a confident pace. The man dropped theplanks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately startedsearching for the escaped bear. They found it back in itsenclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it hadclimbed out, by way of a tree that had fallen over. It wasthought that the noise of the planks of wood falling to theground had frightened it. But I don't insist. I don't mean to defend zoos. Close themall down if you want (and let us hope that what wildliferemains can survive in what is left of the natural world). Iknow zoos are no longer in people's good graces. Religion facesthe same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague themboth. The Pondicherry Zoo doesn't exist any more. Its pits arefilled in, the cages torn down. I explore it now in the onlyplace left for it, my memory. Chapter 5 My name isn't the end of the story about my name. Whenyour name is Bob no one asks you, "How do you spell that?"Not so with Piscine Molitor Patel. Some thought it was P. Singh and that I was a Sikh, andthey wondered why I wasn't wearing a turban. In my university days I visited Montreal once with somefriends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I couldn't bearto have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, sowhen the man on the phone asked, "Can I ‘ave your name?"I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrivedfor "Ian Hoolihan". It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes soprofoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even unto ournames. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also knownas Levi, Nathaniel who is also Bartholomew, Judas, not Iscariot,who took the name Thaddeus, Simeon who went by Niger,Saul who became Paul. My Roman soldier stood in the schoolyard one morningwhen I was twelve. I had just arrived. He saw me and a flashof evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointedat me and shouted, "It's Pissing Patel!"In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filedinto the class. I walked in last, wearing my crown of thorns. The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. Thewords would waft across the yard to my ears, unprovoked,uncalled for: "Where's Pissing? I've got to go." Or: "You'refacing the wall. Are you Pissing?" Or something of the sort. Iwould freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretendingnot to have heard. The sound would disappear, but the hurtwould linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated. Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the daywore on, the geography lesson, which in the morning had beenas compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the TharDesert; the history lesson, so alive when the day was young,became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so preciseat first, became muddled. In their afternoon fatigue, as theywiped their foreheads and the backs of their necks with theirhandkerchiefs, without meaning to offend or get a laugh, eventeachers forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name anddistorted it in a shameful way. By nearly imperceptiblemodulations I could hear the change. It was as if their tongueswere charioteers driving wild horses. They could manage wellenough the first syllable, the Pea, but eventually the heat wastoo much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steedsand could no longer rein them in for the climb to the secondsyllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing,and next time round, all was lost. My hand would be up togive an answer, and I would be acknowledged with a "Yes,Pissing." Often the teacher wouldn't realize what he had justcalled me. He would look at me wearily after a moment,wondering why I wasn't coming out with the answer. Andsometimes the class, as beaten down by the heat as he was,wouldn't react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I alwaysheard the slur. I spent my last year at St. Joseph's School feeling like thepersecuted prophet Muhammad in Mecca, peace be upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira thatwould mark the beginning of Muslim time, I planned myescape and the beginning of a new time for me. After St. Joseph's, I went to Petit Seminaire, the best privateEnglish-medium secondary school in Pondicherry. Ravi wasalready there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer fromfollowing in the footsteps of a popular older sibling. He was theathlete of his generation at Petit Seminaire, a fearsome bowlerand a powerful batter, the captain of the town's best cricketteam, our very own Kapil Dev. That I was a swimmer madeno waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that thosewho live by the sea are suspicious of swimmers, just as thosewho live in the mountains are suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in someone's shadow wasn't my escape, though Iwould have taken any name over "Pissing", even "Ravi'sbrother". I had a better plan than that. I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in thevery first class. Around me were other alumni of St. Joseph's. The class started the way all new classes start, with the statingof names. We called them out from our desks in the order inwhich we happened to be sitting. "Ganapathy Kumar," said Ganapathy Kumar. "Vipin Nath," said Vipin Nath. "Shamshool Hudha," said Shamshool Hudha. "Peter Dharmaraj," said Peter Dharmaraj. Each name elicited a tick on a list and a brief mnemonicstare from the teacher. I was terribly nervous. "Ajith Giadson," said Ajith Giadson, four desks away…"Sampath Saroja," said Sampath Saroja, three away…"Stanley Kumar," said Stanley Kumar, two away…"Sylvester Naveen," said Sylvester Naveen, right in front ofme. It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here Icome. I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I picked up a piece ofchalk and said as I wrote: My name is Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as- I double underlined the first two letters of my given name-Pi PatelFor good measure I addedπ = 3.14and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with adiameter, to evoke that basic lesson of geometry. There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. Iwas holding my breath. Then he said, "Very well, Pi. Sit down. Next time you will ask permission before leaving your desk.""Yes, sir."He ticked my name off And looked at the next boy. "Mansoor Ahamad," said Mansoor Ahamad. I was saved. "Gautham Selvaraj," said Gautham Selvaraj. I could breathe. "Arun Annaji," said Arun Annaji. A new beginning. I repeated the stunt with every teacher. Repetition isimportant in the training not only of animals but also ofhumans. Between one commonly named boy and the next, Irushed forward and emblazoned, sometimes with a terriblescreech, the details of my rebirth. It got to be that after a fewtimes the boys sang along with me, a crescendo that climaxed,after a quick intake of air while I underlined the proper note,with such a rousing rendition of my new name that it wouldhave been the delight of any choirmaster. A few boys followedup with a whispered, urgent "Three! Point! One! Four!" as Iwrote as fast as I could, and I ended the concert by slicingthe circle with such vigour that bits of chalk went flying. When I put my hand up that day, which I did every chanceI had, teachers granted me the right to speak with a singlesyllable that was music to my ears. Students followed suit. Eventhe St. Joseph's devils. In fact, the name caught on. Truly weare a nation of aspiring engineers: shortly after, there was aboy named Omprakash who was calling himself Omega, andanother who was passing himself off as Upsilon, and for awhile there was a Gamma, a Lambda and a Delta. But I wasthe first and the most enduring of the Greeks at PetitSeminaire. Even my brother, the captain of the cricket team,that local god, approved. He took me aside the next week. "What's this I hear about a nickname you have?" he said. I kept silent. Because whatever mocking was to come, it wasto come. There was no avoiding it. "I didn't realize you liked the colour yellow so much."The colour yellow? I looked around. No one must hear whathe was about to say, especially not one of his lackeys. "Ravi,what do you mean?" I whispered. "It's all right with me, brother. Anything's better than‘Pissing'. Even ‘Lemon Pie'."As he sauntered away he smiled and said, "You look a bitred in the face."But he held his peace. And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with acorrugated tin roof, in that elusive, irrational number with whichscientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge. Chapter 6 He's an excellent cook. His overheated house is alwayssmelling of something delicious. His spice rack looks like anapothecary's shop. When he opens his refrigerator or hiscupboards, there are many brand names I don't recognize;in fact, I can't even tell what language they're in. We arein India. But he handles Western dishes equally well. Hemakes me the most zestyyet subtle macaroni and cheese I'veever had. And his vegetarian tacos would be the envy of allMexico. I notice something else: his cupboards are jam-packed. Behind every door, on every shelf, stand mountains ofneatly stacked cans and packages. A reserve of food to lastthe siege of Leningrad. Chapter 7It was my luck to have a few good teachers in my youth,men and women who came into my dark head and lit amatch. One of these was Mr. Satish Kumar, my biology teacherat Petit Seminaire and an active Communist who was alwayshoping Tamil Nadu would stop electing movie stars and go theway of Kerala. He had a most peculiar appearance. The top ofhis head was bald and pointy, yet he had the most impressivejowls I have ever seen, and his narrow shoulders gave way toa massive stomach that looked like the base of a mountain,except that the mountain stood in thin air, for it stoppedabruptly and disappeared horizontally into his pants. It's amystery to me how his stick-like legs supported the weightabove them, but they did, though they moved in surprisingways at times, as if his knees could bend in any direction. Hisconstruction was geometric: he looked like two triangles, a smallone and a larger one, balanced on two parallel lines. Butorganic, quite warty actually, and with sprigs of black hairsticking out of his ears. And friendly. His smile seemed to takeup the whole base of his triangular head. Mr. Kumar was the first avowed atheist I ever met. Idiscovered this not in the classroom but at the zoo. He was aregular visitor who read the labels and descriptive notices intheir entirety and approved of every animal he saw. Each tohim was a triumph of logic and mechanics, and nature as awhole was an exceptionally fine illustration of science. To hisears, when an animal felt the urge to mate, it said "GregorMendel", recalling the father of genetics, and when it was timeto show its mettle, "Charles Darwin", the father of naturalselection, and what we took to be bleating, grunting, hissing,snorting, roaring, growling, howling, chirping and screechingwere but the thick accents of foreigners. When Mr. Kumarvisited the zoo, it was to take the pulse of the universe, andhis stethoscopic mind always confirmed to him that everythingwas in order, that everything was order. He left the zoo feelingscientifically, refreshed. The first time I saw his triangular formteetering and tottering about the zoo, I was shy to approachhim. As much as I liked him as a teacher, he was a figure ofauthority, and I, a subject. I was a little afraid of him. Iobserved him at a distance. He had just come to therhinoceros pit. The two Indian rhinos were great attractions atthe zoo because of the goats. Rhinos are social animals, andwhen we got Peak, a young wild male, he was showing signsof suffering from isolation and he was eating less and less. Asa stopgap measure, while he searched for a female, Fatherthought of seeing if Peak couldn't be accustomed to living withgoats. If it worked, it would save a valuable animal. If it didn't,it would only cost a few goats. It worked marvellously. Peakand the herd of goats became inseparable, even when Summitarrived. Now, when the rhinos bathed, the goats stood aroundthe muddy pool, and when the goats ate in their corner, Peakand Summit stood next to them like guards. The livingarrangement was very popular with the public. Mr. Kumar looked up and saw me. He smiled and, onehand holding onto the railing, the other waving, signalled me tocome over. "Hello, Pi," he said. "Hello, sir. It's good of you to come to the zoo.""I come here all the time. One might say it's my temple. This is interesting…" He was indicating the pit. "If we hadpoliticians like these goats and rhinos we'd have fewer problemsin our country. Unfortunately we have a prime minister whohas the armour plating of a rhinoceros without any of its goodsense."I didn't know much about politics. Father and Mothercomplained regularly about Mrs. Gandhi, but it meant little tome. She lived far away in the north, not at the zoo and not inPondicherry. But I felt I had to say something. "Religion will save us," I said. Since when I could remember,religion had been very close to my heart. "Religion?" Mr. Kumar grinned broadly. "I don't believe inreligion. Religion is darkness."Darkness? I was puzzled. I thought, Darkness is the lastthing that religion is. Religion is light. Was he testing me? Washe saying, "Religion is darkness," the way he sometimes said inclass things like "Mammals lay eggs," to see if someone wouldcorrect him? ("Only platypuses, sir.")"There are no grounds for going beyond a scientificexplanation of reality and no sound reason for believinganything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, closeattention to detail and a little scientific knowledge will exposereligion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist." -Did he say that? Or am I remembering the lines of lateratheists? At any rate, it was something of the sort. I had neverheard such words. "Why tolerate darkness? Everything is here and clear, if onlywe look carefully."He was pointing at Peak. Now though I had greatadmiration for Peak, I had never thought of a rhinoceros as alight bulb. He spoke again. "Some people say God died during thePartition in 1947. He may have died in 1971 during the war. Or he may have died yesterday here in Pondicherry in anorphanage. That's what some people say, Pi. When I was yourage, I lived in bed, racked with polio. I asked myself every day,‘Where is God? Where is God? Where is God?' God nevercame. It wasn't God who saved me - it was medicine. Reasonis my prophet and it tells me that as a watch stops, so wedie. It's the end. If the watch doesn't work properly, it must befixed here and now by us. One day we will take hold of themeans of production and there will be justice on earth."This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right - lovingand brave - but the details seemed bleak. I said nothing. Itwasn't for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid thatin a few words thrown out he might destroy something that Iloved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? Whata terrible disease that must be if it could kill God in a man. He walked off, pitching and rolling in the wild sea that wasthe steady ground. "Don't forget the test on Tuesday. Studyhard, 3.14!""Yes, Mr. Kumar."He became my favourite teacher at Petit Seminaire and thereason I studied zoology at the University of Toronto. I felt akinship with him. It was my first clue that atheists are mybrothers and sisters of a different faith, and every word theyspeak speaks of faith. Like me, they go as far as the legs ofreason will carry them - and then they leap. I'll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in mycraw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while. We must allpass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played withdoubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguished night inprayer, if He burst out from the Cross, "My God, my God,why have you forsaken me?" then surely we are also permitteddoubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as aphilosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means oftransportation. Chapter 8 We commonly say in the trade that the most dangerousanimal in a zoo is Man. In a general way we mean how ourspecies' excessive predatoriness has made the entire planet ourprey. More specifically, we have in mind the people who feedfishhooks to the otters, razors to the bears, apples with smallnails in them to the elephants and hardware variations on thetheme: ballpoint pens, paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands,combs, coffee spoons, horseshoes, pieces of broken glass, rings,brooches and other jewellery (and not just cheap plasticbangles: gold wedding bands, too), drinking straws, plasticcutlery, ping-pong balls, tennis balls and so on. The obituary ofzoo animals that have died from being fed foreign bodies wouldinclude gorillas, bison, storks, rheas, ostriches, seals, sea lions,big cats, bears, camels, elephants, monkeys, and most everyvariety of deer, ruminant and songbird. Among zookeepers,Goliath's death is famous; he was a bull elephant seal, a greatbig venerable beast of two tons, star of his European zoo,loved by all visitors. He died of internal bleeding after someonefed him a broken beer bottle. The cruelty is often more active and direct. The literaturecontains reports on the many torments inflicted upon zooanimals: a shoebill dying of shock after having its beaksmashed with a hammer; a moose stag losing its beard, alongwith a strip of flesh the size of an index finger, to a visitor'sknife (this same moose was poisoned six months later); amonkey's arm broken after reaching out for proffered nuts; adeer's antlers attacked with a hacksaw; a zebra stabbed with asword; and other assaults on other animals, with walking sticks,umbrellas, hairpins, knitting needles, scissors and whatnot, oftenwith an aim to taking an eye out or to injuring sexual parts. Animals are also poisoned. And there are indecencies evenmore bizarre: onanists breaking a sweat on monkeys, ponies,birds; a religious freak who cut a snake's head off; a derangedman who took to urinating in an elk's mouth. At Pondicherry we were relatively fortunate. We were sparedthe sadists who plied European and American zoos. Nonetheless, our golden agouti vanished, stolen by someonewho ate it, Father suspected. Various birds - pheasants,peacocks, macaws - lost feathers to people greedy for theirbeauty. We caught a man with a knife climbing into the penfor mouse deer; he said he was going to punish evil Ravana(who in the Ramayana took the form of a deer when hekidnapped Sita, Rama's consort). Another man was nabbed inthe process of stealing a cobra. He was a snake charmerwhose own snake had died. Both were saved: the cobra froma life of servitude and bad music, and the man from apossible death bite. We had to deal on occasion with stonethrowers, who found the animals too placid and wanted areaction. And we had the lady whose sari was caught by alion. She spun like a yo-yo, choosing mortal embarrassmentover mortal end. The thing was, it wasn't even an accident. She had leaned over, thrust her hand in the cage and wavedthe end of her sari in the lion's face, with what intent wenever figured out. She was not injured; there were manyfascinated men who came to her assistance. Her flusteredexplanation to Father was, "Whoever heard of a lion eating acotton sari? I thought lions were carnivores." Our worsttroublemakers were the visitors who gave food to the animals. Despite our vigilance, Dr. Atal, the zoo veterinarian, could tellby the number of animals with digestive disturbances which hadbeen the busy days at the zoo. He called "tidbit-itis" the casesof enteritis or gastritis due to too many carbohydrates,especially sugar. Sometimes we wished people had stuck tosweets. People have a notion that animals can eat anythingwithout the least consequence to their health. Not so. One ofour sloth bears became seriously ill with severe hemorrhagicenteritis after being given fish that had gone putrid by , a manwho was convinced he was doing a good deed. Just beyond the ticket booth Father had had painted on awall in bright red letters the question: DO YOU KNOW WHICH IS THE MOSTDANGEROUS ANIMAL IN THE ZOO? An arrow pointed to a small curtain. There were so manyeager, curious hands that pulled at the curtain that we had toreplace it regularly. Behind it was a mirror. But I learned at my expense that Father believed there wasanother animal even more dangerous than us, and one thatwas extremely common, too, found on every continent, in everyhabitat: the redoubtable species Animalus anthropomorphicus,the animal as seen through human eyes. We've all met one,perhaps even owned one. It is an animal that is "cute","friendly", "loving", "devoted", "merry", "under-standing". Theseanimals lie in ambush in every toy store and children's zoo. Countless stories are told of them. They are the pendants ofthose "vicious", "bloodthirsty", "depraved" animals that inflamethe ire of the maniacs I have just mentioned, who vent theirspite on them with walking sticks and umbrellas. In both caseswe look at an animal and see a mirror. The obsession withputting ourselves at the centre of everything is the bane notonly of theologians but also of zoologists. I learned the lesson that an animal is an animal, essentiallyand practically removed from us, twice: once with Father andonce with Richard Parker. It was on a Sunday morning. I was quietly playing on myown. Father called out. "Children, come here."Something was wrong. His tone of voice set off a smallalarm bell in my head. I quickly reviewed my conscience. Itwas clear. Ravi must be in trouble again. I wondered what hehad done this time. I walked into the living room. Mother wasthere. That was unusual. The disciplining of children, like thetending of animals, was generally left to Father. Ravi walked inlast, guilt written all over his criminal face. "Ravi, Piscine, I have a very important lesson for you today.""Oh really, is this necessary?" interrupted Mother. Her facewas flushed. I swallowed. If Mother, normally so unruffled, so calm, wasworried, even upset, it meant we were in serious trouble. Iexchanged glances with Ravi. "Yes, it is," said Father, annoyed. "It may very well savetheir lives."Save our lives! It was no longer a small alarm bell thatwas ringing in my head - they were big bells now, like theones we heard from Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, not farfrom the zoo. "But Piscine? He's only eight," Mother insisted. "He's the one who worries me the most.""I'm innocent!" I burst out. "It's Ravi's fault, whatever it is. He did it!""What?" said Ravi. "I haven't done anything wrong." Hegave me the evil eye. "Shush!" said Father, raising his hand. He was looking atMother. "Gita, you've seen Piscine. He's at that age when boysrun around and poke their noses everywhere."Me? A run-arounder? An everywhere-nose-poker? Not so,not so! Defend me, Mother, defend me, I implored in myheart. But she only sighed and nodded, a signal that theterrible business could proceed. "Come with me," said Father. We set out like prisoners off to their execution. We left the house, went through the gate, entered the zoo. It was early and the zoo hadn't opened yet to the public. Animal keepers and groundskeepers were going about theirwork. I noticed Sitaram, who oversaw the orang-utans, myfavourite keeper. He paused to watch us go by. We passedbirds, bears, apes, monkeys, ungulates, the terrarium house, therhinos, the elephants, the giraffes. We came to the big cats, our tigers, lions and leopards. Babu, their keeper, was waiting for us. We went round anddown the path, and he unlocked the door to the cat house,which was at the centre of a moated island. We entered. Itwas a vast and dim cement cavern, circular in shape, warmand humid, and smelling of cat urine. All around were greatbig cages divided up. by thick, green, iron bars. A yellowishlight filtered down from the skylights. Through the cage exitswe could see the vegetation of the surrounding island, floodedwith sunlight. The cages were empty - save one: Mahisha, ourBengal tiger patriarch, a lanky, hulking beast of 550 pounds,had been detained. As soon as we stepped in, he loped up tothe bars of his cage and set off a full-throated snarl, ears flatagainst his skull and round eyes fixed on Babu. The soundwas so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the whole cathouse. My knees started quaking. I got close to Mother. Shewas trembling, too. Even Father seemed to pause and steadyhimself. Only Babu was indifferent to the outburst and to thesearing stare that bored into him like a drill. He had a testedtrust in iron bars. Mahisha started pacing to and fro againstthe limits of his cage. Father turned to us. "What animal is this?" he bellowedabove Mahisha's snarling. "It's a tiger," Ravi and I answered in unison, obedientlypointing out the blindingly obvious. "Are tigers dangerous?""Yes, Father, tigers are dangerous.""Tigers are very dangerous," Father shouted. "I want you tounderstand that you are never - under any circumstances -to touch a tiger, to pet a tiger, to put your hands through thebars of a cage, even to get close to a cage. Is that clear? Ravi?"Ravi nodded vigorously. "Piscine?"I nodded even more vigorously. He kept his eyes on me. I nodded so hard I'm surprised my neck didn't snap andmy head fall to the floor. I would like to say in my own defence that though I mayhave anthropomorphized the animals till they spoke fluentEnglish, the pheasants complaining in uppity British accents oftheir tea being cold and the baboons planning their bankrobbery getaway in the flat, menacing tones of Americangangsters, the fancy was always conscious. I quite deliberatelydressed wild animals in tame costumes of my imagination. But Inever deluded myself as to the real nature of my playmates. My poking nose had more sense than that. I don't knowwhere Father got the idea that his youngest son was itching tostep into a cage with a ferocious carnivore. But wherever thestrange worry came from - and Father was a worrier - hewas clearly determined to rid himself of it that very morning. "I'm going to show you how dangerous tigers are," hecontinued. "I want you to remember this lesson for the rest ofyour lives."He turned to Babu and nodded. Babu left. Mahisha's eyesfollowed him and did not move from the door he disappearedthrough. He returned a few seconds later carrying a goat withits legs tied. Mother gripped me from behind. Mahisha's snarlturned into a growl deep in the throat. Babu unlocked, opened, entered, closed and locked a cagenext to the tiger's cage. Bars and a trapdoor separated thetwo. Immediately Mahisha was up against the dividing bars,pawing them. To his growling he now added explosive, arrestedwoofs. Babu placed the goat on the floor; its flanks wereheaving violently, its tongue hung from its mouth, and its eyeswere spinning orbs. He untied its legs. The goat got to its feet. Babu exited the cage in the same careful way he had enteredit. The cage had two floors, one level with us, the other at theback, higher by about three feet, that led outside to the island. The goat scrambled to this second level. Mahisha, nowunconcerned with Babu, paralleled the move in his cage in afluid, effortless motion. He crouched and lay still, his slowlymoving tail the only sign of tension. Babu stepped up to the trapdoor between the cages andstarted pulling it open. In anticipation of satisfaction, Mahishafell silent. I heard two things at that moment: Father saying"Never forget this lesson" as he looked on grimly, and thebleating of the goat. It must have been bleating all along, onlywe couldn't hear it before. I could feel Mother's hand pressed against my poundingheart. The trapdoor resisted with sharp cries. Mahisha was besidehimself - he looked as if he were about to burst through thebars. He seemed to hesitate between staying where he was, atthe place where his prey was closest but most certainly out ofreach, and moving to the ground level, further away but wherethe trapdoor was located. He raised himself and started snarlingagain. The goat started to jump. It jumped to amazing heights. Ihad no idea a goat could jump so high. But the back of thecage was a high and smooth cement wall. With sudden ease the trapdoor slid open. Silence fell again,except for bleating and the click-click of the goat's hoovesagainst the floor. A streak of black and orange flowed from one cage to thenext. Normally the big cats were not given food one day a week,to simulate conditions in the wild. We found out later thatFather had ordered that Mahisha not be fed for three days. I don't know if I saw blood before turning into Mother'sarms or if I daubed it on later, in my memory, with a bigbrush. But I heard. It was enough to scare the livingvegetarian daylights out of me. Mother bundled us out. Wewere in hysterics. She was incensed. "How could you, Santosh? They're children! They'll bescarred for the rest of their lives."Her voice was hot and tremulous. I could see she had tearsin her eyes. I felt better. "Gita, my bird, it's for their sake. What if Piscine had stuckhis hand through the bars of the cage one day to touch thepretty orange fur? Better a goat than him, no?"His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. He looked contrite. Henever called her "my bird" in front of us. We were huddled around her. He joined us. But the lessonwas not over, though it was gentler after that. Father led us to the lions and leopards. "Once there was a madman in Australia who was a blackbelt in karate. He wanted to prove himself against the lions. Helost. Badly. The keepers found only half his body in themorning.""Yes, Father."The Himalayan bears and the sloth bears. "One strike of the claws from these cuddly creatures andyour innards will be scooped out and splattered all over theground.""Yes, Father."The hippos. "With those soft, flabby mouths of theirs they'll crush yourbody to a bloody pulp. On land they can outrun you.""Yes, Father."The hyenas. "The strongest jaws in nature. Don't think that they'recowardly or that they only eat carrion. They're not and theydon't! They'll start eating you while you're still alive.""Yes, Father."The orang-utans. "As strong as ten men. They'll break your bones as if theywere twigs. I know some of them were once pets and youplayed with them when they were small. But now they'regrown-up and wild and unpredictable.""Yes, Father."The ostrich. "Looks flustered and silly, doesn't it? Listen up: it's one ofthe most dangerous animals in a zoo. Just one kick and yourback is broken or your torso is crushed.""Yes, Father."The spotted deer. "So pretty, aren't they? If the male feels he has to, he'llcharge you and those short little antlers will pierce you likedaggers.""Yes, Father."The Arabian camel. "One slobbering bite and you've lost a chunk of flesh.""Yes, Father."The black swans. "With their beaks they'll crack your skull. With their wingsthey'll break your arms.""Yes, Father."The smaller birds. "They'll cut through your fingers with their beaks as if theywere butter.""Yes, Father."The elephants. "The most dangerous animal of all. More keepers andvisitors are killed by elephants than by any other animal in azoo. A young elephant will most likely dismember you andtrample your body parts flat. That's what happened to onepoor lost soul in a European zoo who got into the elephanthouse through a window. An older, more patient animal willsqueeze you against a wall or sit on you. Sounds funny - butthink about it!""Yes, Father.""There are animals we haven't stopped by. Don't thinkthey're harmless. Life will defend itself no matter how small itis. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous. It may not killyou, but it will certainly injure you. It will scratch you and biteyou, and you can look forward to a swollen, pus-filled infection,a high fever and a ten-day stay in the hospital.""Yes, Father."We came to the guinea pigs, the only other animals besidesMahisha to have been starved at Father's orders, having beendenied their previous evening's meal. Father unlocked the cage. He brought out a bag of feed from his pocket and emptied iton the floor. "You see these guinea pigs?""Yes, Father."The creatures were trembling with weakness as theyfrantically nibbled their kernels of corn. "Well…" He leaned down and scooped one up. "They're notdangerous." The other guinea pigs scattered instantly. Father laughed. He handed me the squealing guinea pig. Hemeant to end on a light note. The guinea pig rested in my arms tensely. It was a youngone. I went to the cage and carefully lowered it to the floor. Itrushed to its mother's side. The only reason these guinea pigsweren't dangerous - didn't draw blood with their teeth andclaws - was that they were practically domesticated. Otherwise,to grab a wild guinea pig with your bare hands would be liketaking hold of a knife by the blade. The lesson was over. Ravi and I sulked and gave Father thecold shoulder for a week. Mother ignored him too. When Iwent by the rhinoceros pit I fancied the rhinos' heads werehung low with sadness over the loss of one of their dearcompanions. But what can you do when you love your father? Life goeson and you don't touch tigers. Except that now, for havingaccused Ravi of an unspecified crime he hadn't committed, Iwas as good as dead. In years subsequent, when he was inthe mood to terrorize me, he would whisper to me, "Just waittill we're alone. You're the next goat!" Chapter 9 Getting animals used to the presence of humans is at theheart of the art and science of zookeeping. The key aim is todiminish an animal's flight distance, which is the minimumdistance at which an animal wants to keep a perceived enemy. A flamingo in the wild won't mind you if you stay more thanthree hundred yards away. Cross that limit and it becomestense. Get even closer and you trigger a flight reaction fromwhich the bird will not cease until the three-hundred-yard limitis set again, or until heart and lungs fail. Different animals havedifferent flight distances and they gauge them in different ways. Cats look, deer listen, bears smell. Giraffes will allow you tocome to within thirty yards of them if you are in a motor car,but will run if you are 150 yards away on foot. Fiddler crabsscurry when you're ten yards away; howler monkeys stir intheir branches when you're at twenty; African buffaloes react atseventy-five. Our tools for diminishing flight distance are the knowledgewe have of an animal, the food and shelter we provide, theprotection we afford. When it works, the result is anemotionally stable, stress-free wild animal that not only staysput, but is healthy, lives a very long time, eats without fuss,behaves and socializes in natural ways and - the best sign -reproduces. I won't say that our zoo compared to the zoos ofSan Diego or Toronto or Berlin or Singapore, but you can'tkeep a good zookeeper down. Father was a natural. He madeup for a lack of formal training with an intuitive gift and akeen eye. He had a knack for looking at an animal andguessing what was on its mind. He was attentive to hischarges, and they, in return, multiplied, some to excess. Chapter 10 Yet there will always be animals that seek to escape fromzoos. Animals that are kept in unsuitable enclosures are themost obvious example. Every animal has particular habitatneeds that must be met. If its enclosure is too sunny or toowet or too empty, if its perch is too high or too exposed, ifthe ground is too sandy, if there are too few branches tomake a nest, if the food trough is too low, if there is notenough mud to wallow in - and so many other ifs - then theanimal will not be at peace. It is not so much a question ofconstructing an imitation of conditions in the wild as of gettingto the essence of these conditions. Everything in an enclosuremust be just right - in other words, within the limits of theanimal's capacity to adapt. A plague upon bad zoos with badenclosures! They bring all zoos into disrepute. Wild animals that are captured when they are fully matureare another example of escape-prone animals; often they aretoo set in their ways to reconstruct their subjective worlds andadapt to a new environment. But even animals that were bred in zoos and have neverknown the wild, that are perfectly adapted to their enclosuresand feel no tension in the presence of humans, will havemoments of excitement that push them to seek to escape. Allliving things contain a measure of madness that moves them instrange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can besaving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it,no species would survive. Whatever the reason for wanting to escape, sane or insane,zoo detractors should realize that animals don't escape tosomewhere but from something. Something within theirterritory has frightened them - the intrusion of an enemy, theassault of a dominant animal, a startling noise - and set off aflight reaction. The animal flees, or tries to. I was surprised toread at the Toronto Zoo - a very fine zoo, I might add - thatleopards can jump eighteen feet straight up. Our leopardenclosure in Pondicherry had a wall sixteen feet high at theback; I surmise that Rosie and Copycat never jumped out notbecause of constitutional weakness but simply because they hadno reason to. Animals that escape go from the known into theunknown - and if there is one thing an animal hates above allelse, it is the unknown. Escaping animals usually hide in thevery first place they find that gives them a sense of security,and they are dangerous only to those who happen to getbetween them and their reckoned safe spot. Chapter 12 Consider the case of the female black leopard that escapedfrom the Zurich Zoo in the winter of 1933. She was new tothe zoo and seemed to get along with the male leopard. Butvarious paw injuries hinted at matrimonial strife. Before anydecision could be taken about what to do, she squeezedthrough a break in the roof bars of her cage and vanished inthe night. The discovery that a wild carnivore was free in theirmidst created an uproar among the citizens of Zurich. Trapswere set and hunting dogs were let loose. They only rid thecanton of its few half-wild dogs. Not a trace of the leopard wasfound for ten weeks. Finally, a casual labourer came upon itunder a barn twenty-five miles away and shot it. Remains ofroe-deer were found nearby. That a big, black, tropical catmanaged to survive for more than two months in a Swisswinter without being seen by anyone, let alone attackinganyone, speaks plainly to the fact that escaped zoo animals arenot dangerous absconding criminals but simply wild creaturesseeking to fit in. And this case is just one among many. If you took the cityof Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it, you wouldbe amazed at the animals that would fall out. It would pourmore than cats and dogs, I tell you. Boa constrictors, Komododragons, crocodiles, piranhas, ostriches, wolves, lynx, wallabies,manatees, porcupines, orang-utans, wild boar - that's the sortof rainfall you could expect on your umbrella. And theyexpected to find - ha! In the middle of a Mexican tropicaljungle, imagine! Ha! Ha! It's laughable, simply laughable. Whatwere they thinking? Chapter 11 At times he gets agitated. It's nothing I say (I say verylittle). It's his own story that does it. Memory is an oceanand he bobs on its surface. I worry that he'll want to stop. But he wants to tell me his story. He goes on. After allthese years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind. He's a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a SouthIndian vegetarian feast. I told him Hike spicy food. I don'tknow why I said such a stupid thing. It's a complete lie. Iadd dollop of yogurt after dollop of yogurt. Nothing doing. Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die,my skin goes beet red, my eyes well up with tears, myhead feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tractstarts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictorthat has swallowed a lawn mower. Chapter 13 So you see, if you fall into a lion's pit, the reason the lionwill tear you to pieces is not because it's hungry - be assured,zoo animals are amply fed - or because it's bloodthirsty, butbecause you've invaded its territory. As an aside, that is why acircus trainer must always enter the lion ring first, and in fullsight of the lions. In doing so, he establishes that the ring ishis territory, not theirs, a notion that he reinforces by shouting,by stomping about, by snapping his whip. The lions areimpressed. Their disadvantage weighs heavily on them. Noticehow they come in: mighty predators though they are, "kings ofbeasts", they crawl in with their tails low and they keep to theedges of the ring, which is always round so that they havenowhere to hide. They are in the presence of a stronglydominant male, a super-alpha male, and they must submit tohis dominance rituals. So they open their jaws wide, they situp, they jump through paper-covered hoops, they crawlthrough tubes, they walk backwards, they roll over. "He's aqueer one," they think dimly. "Never seen a top lion like him. But he runs a good pride. The larder's always full and - let'sbe honest, mates - his antics keep us busy. Napping all thetime does get a bit boring. At least we're not riding bicycles likethe brown bears or catching flying plates like the chimps."Only the trainer better make sure he always remains superalpha. He will pay dearly if he unwittingly slips to beta. Muchhostile and aggressive behaviour among animals is theexpression of social insecurity. The animal in front of you mustknow where it stands, whether above you or below you. Socialrank is central to how it leads its life. Rank determines whomit can associate with and how; where and when it can eat;where it can rest; where it can drink; and so on. Until itknows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearableanarchy. It remains nervous, jumpy, dangerous. Luckily for thecircus trainer, decisions about social rank among higher animalsare not always based on brute force. Hediger (1950) says,"When two creatures meet, the one that is able to intimidate itsopponent is recognized as socially superior, so that a socialdecision does not always depend on a fight; an encounter insome circumstances may be enough." Words of a wise animalman. Mr. Hediger was for many years a zoo director, first ofthe Basel Zoo and then of the Zurich Zoo. He was a man wellversed in the ways of animals. It's a question of brain over brawn. The nature of the circustrainer's ascendancy is psychological. Foreign surroundings, thetrainer's erect posture, calm demeanour, steady gaze, fearlessstep forward, strange roar (for example, the snapping of awhip or the blowing of a whistle) - these are so many factorsthat will fill the animal's mind with doubt and fear, and makeclear to it where it stands, the very thing it wants to know. Satisfied, Number Two will back down and Number One canturn to the audience and shout, "Let the show go on! Andnow, ladies and gentlemen, through hoops of real fire…" Chapter 14 It is interesting to note that the lion that is the mostamenable to the circus trainer's tricks is the one with thelowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It hasthe most to gain from a close relationship with the super-alphatrainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A closerelationship will also mean protection from the other membersof the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the public nodifferent from the others in size and apparent ferocity, that willbe the star of the show, while the trainer leaves the beta andgamma lions, more cantankerous subordinates, sitting on theircolourful barrels on the edge of the ring. The same is true of other circus animals and is also seen inzoos. Socially inferior animals are the ones that make the moststrenuous, resourceful efforts to get to know their keepers. They prove to be the ones most faithful to them, most in needof their company, least likely to challenge them or be difficult. The phenomenon has been observed with big cats, bison, deer,wild sheep, monkeys and many other animals. It is a factcommonly known in the trade. Chapter 15 His house is a temple. In the entrance hall hangs aframed picture of Ganesha, he of the elephant head. He sitsfacing out - rosy-coloured, pot-bellied, crowned and smiling- three hands holding various objects, the fourth held palmout in blessing and in greeting. He is the lord overcomer ofobstacles, the god of good luck, the god of wisdom, thepatron of learning. Simpatico in the highest. He brings asmile to my lips. At his feet is an attentive rat. His vehicle. Because when Lord Ganesha travels, he travels atop a rat. On the wall opposite the picture is a plain wooden Cross. In the living room, on a table next to the sofa, there isa small framed picture of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe,flowers tumbling from her open mantle. Next to it is aframed photo of the black-robed Kaaba, holiest sanctum ofIslam, surrounded by a ten-thousandfold swirl of thefaithful. On the television set is a brass statue of Shiva asNataraja, the cosmic lord of the dance, who controls themotions of the universe and the flow of time. He dances onthe demon of ignorance, his four arms held out inchoreographic gesture, one foot on the demon's back, theother lifted in the air. When Nataraja brings this footdown, they say time will stop. There is a shrine in the kitchen. It is set in a cupboardwhose door he has replaced with a fretwork arch. The archpartly hides the yellow light bulb that in the evenings lightsup the shrine. Two pictures rest behind a small altar: tothe side, Ganesha again, and in the centre, in a largerframe, smiling and blue-skinned, Krishna playing the flute. Both have smears of red and yellow powder on the glassover their foreheads. In a copper dish on the altar arethree silver murtis, representations. He identifies them forme with a pointed finger: Lakshmi; Shakti, the mothergoddess, in the form of Par va ft; and Krishna, this timeas a playful baby crawling on all fours. In between thegoddesses is a stone Shivayoni linga, which looks like halfan avocado with a phallic stump rising from its centre, aHindu symbol representing the male and female energies ofthe universe. To one side of the dish is a small conch shellset on a pedestal; to the other, a small silver handbell. Grains of rice lie about, as well as a flower just beginningto wilt. Many of these items are anointed with dabs ofyellow and red. On the shelf below are various articles of devotion: abeaker full of water; a copper spoon; a lamp with a wickcoiled in oil; sticks of incense; and small bowls full of redpowder, yellow powder, grains of rice and lumps of sugar. There is another Virgin Mary in the dining room. Upstairs in his office there is a brass Ganesha sittingcross-legged next to the computer, a wooden Christ on theCross from Brazil on a wall, and a green prayer rug in acorner. The Christ is expressive - He suffers. The prayerrug lies in its own clear space. Next to it, on a lowbookstand, is a book covered by a cloth. At the centre ofthe cloth is a single Arabic word, intricately woven, fourletters: an alif, two lams and a ha. The word God in Arabic. The book on the bedside table is a Bible. Chapter 16 We are all born like Catholics, aren't we - in limbo, withoutreligion, until some figure introduces us to God? After thatmeeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change,it is usually for the lesser rather than the greater; many peopleseem to lose God along life's way. That was not my case. Thefigure in question for me was an older sister of Mother's, of amore traditional mind, who brought me to a temple when Iwas a small baby. Auntie Rohini was delighted to meet hernewborn nephew and she thought she would include MotherGoddess in the delight. "It will be his symbolic first outing," shesaid. "It's a samskara!" Symbolic indeed. We were in Madurai;I was the fresh veteran of a seven-hour train journey. Nomatter. Off we went on this Hindu rite of passage, Mothercarrying me, Auntie propelling her. I have no consciousmemory of this first go-around in a temple, but some smell ofincense, some play of light and shadow, some flame, someburst of colour, something of the sultriness and mystery of theplace must have stayed with me. A germ of religious exaltation,no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left togerminate. It has never stopped growing since that day. I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkumpowder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets, because ofgarlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because ofthe clanging of bells to announce one's arrival to God, becauseof the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating ofdrums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floorsdown dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because ofthe fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lampscircling in the darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung,because of elephants standing around to bless, because ofcolourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheadscarrying, variously signified, the same word - faith. I becameloyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what theymeant or what they were for. It is my heart that commandsme so. I feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware ofPresence, not personal the way we usually feel presence, butsomething larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sightof the murti, of God Residing, in the inner sanctum of atemple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place whereeverything is born, and it is my sweet luck to behold its livingcore. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. Ihunger for prasad, that sugary offering to God that comesback to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel theheat of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyesand forehead. But religion is more than rite and ritual. There is what therite and ritual stand for. Here too I am a Hindu. The universemakes sense to me through Hindu eyes. There is Brahman,the world soul, the sustaining frame upon which is woven,warp and weft, the cloth of being, with all its decorativeelements of space and time. There is Brahman nirguna, withoutqualities, which lies beyond understanding, beyond description,beyond approach; with our poor words we sew a suit for it -One, Truth, Unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being- and try to make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always burststhe seams. We are left speechless. But there is also Brahmansaguna, with qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva,Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can approach it with someunderstanding; we can discern certain attributes - loving,merciful, frightening - and we feel the gentle pull ofrelationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to ourlimited senses, Brahman expressed not only in gods but inhumans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everythinghas a trace of the divine in it. The truth of life is thatBrahman is no different from atman, the spiritual force withinus, what you might call the soul. The individual soul touchesupon the world soul like a well reaches for the water table. That which sustains the universe beyond thought and language,and that which is at the core of us and struggles forexpression, is the same thing. The finite within the infinite, theinfinite within the finite. If you ask me how Brahman andatman relate precisely, I would say in the same way the Father,the Son and the Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thingis clear: atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with theAbsolute, and it travels in this life on a pilgrimage where it isborn and dies, and is born again and dies again, and again,and again, until it manages to shed the sheaths that imprison ithere below. The paths to liberation are numerous, but thebank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma,where the liberation account of each of us is credited ordebited depending on our actions. This, in a holy nutshell, is Hinduism, and I have been aHindu all my life. With its notions in mind I see my place inthe universe. But we should not cling! A plague upon fundamentalists andliteralists! I am reminded of a story of Lord Krishna when hewas a cowherd. Every night he invites the milkmaids to dancewith him in the forest. They come and they dance. The nightis dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the beat ofthe music gets ever faster - the girls dance and dance anddance with their sweet lord, who has made himself soabundant as to be in the arms of each and every girl. But themoment the girls become possessive, the moment each oneimagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes. So it isthat we should not be jealous with God. I know a woman here in Toronto who is very dear to myheart. She was my foster mother. I call her Auntieji and shelikes that. She is Québécoise. Though she has lived in Torontofor over thirty years, her French-speaking mind still slips onoccasion on the understanding of English sounds. And so,when she first heard of Hare Krishnas, she didn't hear right. She heard "Hairless Christians", and that is what they were toher for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that infact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity forlove, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the waythey see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, andChristians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims. Chapter 17 First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in theimpression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the originallandscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers,battlefields and forests, holy mountains and deep seas wheregods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, indoing so, define who and why we are. I first heard of thetremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love, Lord Krishna led me tomeet one man. I was fourteen years old - and a well-content Hindu on aholiday - when I met Jesus Christ. It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, butone of the times he did we went to Munnar, just over inKerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some ofthe highest tea estates in the world. It was early May and themonsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu werebeastly hot. We made it to Munnar after a winding, five-hourcar ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as havingmint in your mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited aTata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toureda cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs - aspecies of wild goat - in a national park. ("We have some inour zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father tosome Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for walks in the teaestates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy alittle busy. By late afternoon Father and Mother were as settledin the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunningthemselves at a window. Mother read while Father chatted withfellow guests. There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bearcomparison with the tall hills - mountains, you might call them- that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, aswe were having breakfast, that they did stand out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across theriver from the hotel, had a Hindu temple high on its side; thehill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while thehill on the left was crowned with a Christian church. On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was comingto an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite attending anominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church- and I wasn't about to dare the deed now. I knew very littleabout the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and greatviolence. But good schools. I walked around the church. It wasa building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, withthick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrowwindows impossible to look in through. A fortress. I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid arounda corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the door wasa small board with the words Parish Priest and AssistantPriest on it. Next to each was a small sliding block. Both thepriest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me ingold letters, which I could plainly see. One priest was workingin his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while theother was seated on a bench at a round table in the largevestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receivingvisitors. He sat facing the door and the windows, a book in hishands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read alittle more, looked up again. It was done in a way that wasleisurely, yet alert and composed. After some minutes, he closedthe book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on thetable and sat there, his expression serene, showing neitherexpectation nor resignation. The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and bencheswere of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a whitecassock - it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with asense of peace. But more than the setting, what arrested mewas my intuitive understanding that he was there - open,patient - in case someone, anyone, should want to talk to him;a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness ofthe conscience, he would listen with love. He was a manwhose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfortand guidance to the best of his ability. I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into myheart and thrilled me. He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but hedidn't. He retreated further into the rectory, that's all, leavingthe door between the vestibule and the next room as open asthe outside door. I noted this, how both doors were wideopen. Clearly, he and his colleague were still available. I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. Mystomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a Christianwho would shout at me, "What are you doing here? How dareyou enter this sacred place, you defiler? Get out, right now!"There was no one. And little to be understood. I advancedand observed the inner sanctum. There was a painting. Wasthis the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angrygod who had to be appeased with blood. Dazed women staringup in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. Acharismatic bird. Which one was the god? To the side of thesanctum was a painted wooden sculpture. The victim again,bruised and bleeding in bold colours. I stared at his knees. They were badly scraped. The pink skin was peeled back andlooked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that werefire-engine red. It was hard to connect this torture scene withthe priest in the rectory. The next day, at around the same time, I let myself IN. Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment thatcomes down heavily. My experience with Father Martin was notat all like that. He was very kind. He served me tea andbiscuits in a tea set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; hetreated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story. Orrather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story. And what a story. The first thing that drew me in wasdisbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who pays theprice? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, "Piscine, a lionslipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two ofthem ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks andgrey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on ourgolden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Somethingmust be done. I have decided that the only way the lions canatone for their sins is if I feed you to them.""Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up.""Hallelujah, my son.""Hallelujah, Father."What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology. I asked for another story, one that I might find moresatisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in itsbag - religions abound with stories. But Father Martin mademe understand that the stories that came before it - and therewere many - were simply prologue to the Christians. Theirreligion had one Story, and to it they came back again andagain, over and over. It was story enough for them. I was quiet that evening at the hotel. That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand. The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of thieves, bullies,kidnappers and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but theaccount of one long, bad day for Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals of fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn't imagine Lord Krishna consenting to bestripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streetsand, to top it off, crucified - and at the hands of merehumans, to boot. I'd never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monstersdid, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions - that'swhat they were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinityshould not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soulcannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong ofthis Christian God to let His avatar die. That is tantamount toletting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannotbe fake. If God on the Cross is God shamming a humantragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son must be real. Father Martin assured methat it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, evenresurrected. The Son must have the taste of death forever inHis mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be acertain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horrormust be real. Why would God wish that upon Himself? Whynot leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what isbeautiful, spoil what is perfect? Love. That was Father Martin's answer. And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story ofbaby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of eating a bit ofdirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with awagging finger. "You shouldn't eat dirt, you naughty boy," shescolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of alland everything, in sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does ashe is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees inKrishna's mouth the whole complete entire timeless universe, allthe stars and planets of space and the distance between them,all the lands and seas of the earth and the life in them; shesees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow;she sees all ideas and all emotions, all pity and all hope, andthe three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature,village or galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit ofdirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your mouth,"she says reverently. There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana thedwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land as hecan cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitorand his puny request. He consents. Immediately Vishnu takeson his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth,with the second the heavens, and with the third he boots Baliinto the netherworld. Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to bereminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over thestruggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king ofLanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross would have kept himdown. When push came to shove, he transcended his limitedhuman frame with strength no man could have and weaponsno man could handle. That is God as God should be. With shine and power andmight. Such as can rescue and save and put down evil. This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffersfrom thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who isheckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers whodon't get it and opponents who don't respect Him - what kindof a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles, yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few tosatisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water isbriefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on theorder of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred timesbetter. This Son is a god who spent most of His time tellingstories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestriangod - and in a hot place, at that - with a stride like anyhuman stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks alongthe way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was aregular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours,with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son? Love, said Father Martin. And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Amongan obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on the confinesof a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has asingle grey hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant,only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles inthe dirt? Wait a minute. This is more than Brahman with aserious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This isBrahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practicallyunmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son, He must beas abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What couldjustify such divine stinginess? Love, repeated Father Martin. I'll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find hisdivinity utterly compelling. You can keep your sweaty, chattySon to yourself. That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance. I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Eachtime, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled againstedge of cup, I asked questions. The answer was always the same. He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greaterindignation against Him, found more flaws to Him. He's petulant! It's morning in Bethany and God is hungry;God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It's not theseason for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. TheSon mutters, "May you never bear fruit again," and instantlythe fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark,I ask you, is it the fig tree's fault that it's not the season forfigs? What kind of a thing is that to do to an innocent fig tree,wither it instantly? I couldn't get Him out of my head. Still can't. I spent threesolid days thinking about Him. The more He bothered me, theless I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him,the less I wanted to leave Him. On our last day, a few hours before we were to leaveMunnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me now asa typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symboliclevel, that's creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religionwhere the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run overmany centuries, with innumerable generations passing along thebaton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianitybustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a religion as swift as aswallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime,expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost orsaved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but inessence it exists only at one time: right now. I booted up that hill. Though Father Martin was not IN -alas, his block was slid over - thank God he was in. Short of breath I said, "Father, I would like to be aChristian, please."He smiled. "You already are, Piscine - in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here inMunnar you met Christ."He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump,actually. His hand went BOOM BOOM BOOM on my head. I thought I would explode with joy. "When you come back, we'll have tea again, my son.""Yes, Father."It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ. I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was nowmy house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. Then Iraced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on theright - to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesusof Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in myway. Chapter 18 Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteenyears old and I was exploring my hometown. The Muslimquarter wasn't far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhoodwith Arabic writing and crescent moons inscribed on thefacades of the houses. I came to Mullah Street. I had a peek at the Jamia Masjid,the Great Mosque, being careful to stay on the outside, ofcourse. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity's -fewer gods, greater violence, and I had never heard anyonesay good things about Muslim schools - so I wasn't about tostep in, empty though the place was. The building, clean andwhite except for various edges painted green, was an openconstruction unfolding around an empty central room. Longstraw mats covered the floor everywhere. Above, two slim,fluted minarets rose in the air before a background of soaringcoconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious or, for thatmatter, interesting about the place, but it was pleasant andquiet. I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series ofattached single-storey dwellings with small shaded porches. Theywere rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. Oneof the dwellings was a small shop. I noticed a rack of dustybottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-fullof candies. But the main ware was something else, somethingflat, roundish and white. I got close. It seemed to be some sortof unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. Theylooked like three-day-old nans. Who would eat these, Iwondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it wouldbreak. A voice said, "Would you like to taste one?"I nearly jumped out of my skin. It's happened to all of us: there's sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of colour, yourmind is elsewhere - so you don't make out what is right infront of you. Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads,was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and thebread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a patof fresh cow dung. "I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you!" I burst out. I was justabout ready to run away. "Don't worry," he said calmly. "It will feed a cow. Haveanother one."He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough andrubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed down. "So you make these," I said, to make conversation. "Yes. Here, let me show you how." He got off his platformand waved me into his house. It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by anoven, was the bakery, and the other, separated by a flimsycurtain, was his bedroom. The bottom of the oven was coveredwith smooth pebbles. He was explaining to me how the breadbaked on these heated pebbles when the nasal call of themuezzin wafted through the air from the mosque. I knew itwas the call to prayer, but I didn't know what it entailed. Iimagined it beckoned the Muslim faithful to the mosque, muchlike bells summoned us Christians to church. Not so. The bakerinterrupted himself mid-sentence and said, "Excuse me." Heducked into the next room for a minute and returned with arolled-up carpet, which he unfurled on the floor of his bakery,throwing up a small storm of flour. And right there before me,in the midst of his workplace, he prayed. It was incongruous,but it was I who felt out of place. Luckily, he prayed with hiseyes closed. He stood straight. He muttered in Arabic. He brought hishands next to his ears, thumbs touching the lobes, looking as ifhe were straining to hear Allah replying. He bent forward. Hestood straight again. He fell to his knees and brought hishands and forehead to the floor. He sat up. He fell forwardagain. He stood. He started the whole thing again. Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise, Ithought. Hot-weather yoga for the Bedouins. Asanas withoutsweat, heaven without strain. He went through the cycle four times, muttering throughout. When he had finished - with a right-left turning of the headand a short bout of meditation - he opened his eyes, smiled,stepped off his carpet and rolled it up with a flick of the handthat spoke of old habit. He returned it to its spot in the nextroom. He came back to me. "What was I saying?" he asked. So it went the first time I saw a Muslim pray - quick,necessary, physical, muttered, striking. Next time I was prayingin church - on my knees, immobile, silent before Christ on theCross - the image of this callisthenic communion with God inthe middle of bags of flour kept coming to my mind. Chapter 19 I went to see him again. "What's your religion about?" I asked. His eyes lit up. "It is about the Beloved," he replied. I challenge anyone to understand Islam, its spirit, and not tolove it. It is a beautiful religion of brotherhood and devotion. The mosque was truly an open construction, to God and tobreeze. We sat cross-legged listening to the imam until the timecame to pray. Then the random pattern of sitters disappearedas we stood and arranged ourselves shoulder to shoulder inrows, every space ahead being filled by someone from behinduntil every line was solid and we were row after row ofworshippers. It felt good to bring my forehead to the ground. Immediately it felt like a deeply religious contact. Chapter 20 He was a Sufi, a Muslim mystic. He sought fana, union withGod, and his relationship with God was personal and loving. "Ifyou take two steps towards God," he used to tell me, "Godruns to you!"He was a very plain-featured man, with nothing in his looksor in his dress that made memory cry hark. I'm not surprisedI didn't see him the first time we met. Even when I knew himvery well, encounter after encounter, I had difficulty recognizinghim. His name was Satish Kumar. These are common namesin Tamil Nadu, so the coincidence is not so remarkable. Still, itpleased me that this pious baker, as plain as a shadow and ofsolid health, and the Communist biology teacher and sciencedevotee, the walking mountain on stilts, sadly afflicted with polioin his childhood, carried the same name. Mr. and Mr. Kumartaught me biology and Islam. Mr. and Mr. Kumar led me tostudy zoology and religious studies at the University of Toronto. Mr. and Mr. Kumar were the prophets of my Indian youth. We prayed together and we practised dhikr, the recitation ofthe ninety-nine revealed names of God. He was a hafiz, onewho knows the Qur'an by heart, and he sang it in a slow,simple chant. My Arabic was never very good, but I loved itssound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolledjust beneath my comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazedinto this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, justone man's voice, but it was as deep as the universe. I described Mr. Kumar's place as a hovel. Yet no mosque,church or temple ever felt so sacred to me. I sometimes cameout of that bakery feeling heavy with glory. I would climb ontomy bicycle and pedal that glory through the air. One such time I left town and on my way back, at a pointwhere the land was high and I could see the sea to my leftand down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was inheaven. The spot was in fact no different from when I hadpassed it not long before, but my way of seeing it hadchanged. The feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy andprofound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas before theroad, the sea, the trees, the air, the sun all spoke differently tome, now they spoke one language of unity. Tree took accountof road, which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea,which shared things with sun. Every element lived inharmonious relation with its neighbour, and all was kith andkin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like the centreof a small circle coinciding with the centre of a much largerone. Atman met Allah. One other time I felt God come so close to me. It was inCanada, much later. I was visiting friends in the country. Itwas winter. I was out alone on a walk on their large propertyand returning to the house. It was a clear, sunny day after anight of snowfall. All nature was blanketed in white. As I wascoming up to the house, I turned my head. There was a woodand in that wood, a small clearing. A breeze, or perhaps it wasan animal, had shaken a branch. Fine snow was falling throughthe air, glittering in the sunlight. In that falling golden dust inthat sun-splashed clearing, I saw the Virgin Mary. Why her, Idon't know. My devotion to Mary was secondary. But it washer. Her skin was pale. She was wearing a white dress and ablue cloak; I remember being struck by their pleats and folds. When I say I saw her, I don't quite mean it literally, thoughshe did have body and colour. I felt I saw her, a visionbeyond vision. I stopped and squinted. She looked beautiful andsupremely regal. She was smiling at me with loving kindness. After some seconds she left me. My heart beat with fear andjoy. The presence of God is the finest of rewards. Chapter 21 I am sitting in a downtown café, after, thinking. I havejust spent most of an afternoon with him. Our encountersalways leave me weary of the glum contentment thatcharacterizes my life. What were those words he used thatstruck me? Ah, yes: "dry, yeastless factuality", "the betterstory". I take pen and paper out and write: Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; ‘ lastingfeelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the moralsense, which strikes one as more important than anintellectual understanding of things; an alignment of theuniverse along moral lines, not intellectual ones; arealization that the founding principle of existence is whatwe call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly,not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless ineluctably. I pause. What of God's silence? I think it over. I add: An intellect confounded yet a trusting sense of presenceand of ultimate purpose. Chapter 22 I can well imagine an atheist's last words: "White, white! L-L-Love! My God!" - and the deathbed leap of faith. Whereasthe agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he staysbeholden to dry, yeastless factuality, might try to explain thewarm light bathing him by saying, "Possibly a f-f-failingoxygenation of the b-b-brain," and, to the very end, lackimagination and miss the better story. Chapter 23 Alas, the sense of community that a common faith brings toa people spelled trouble for me. In time, my religious doingswent from the notice of those to whom it didn't matter andonly amused, to that of those to whom it did matter - andthey were not amused. "What is your son doing going to temple?" asked the priest. "Your son was seen in church crossing himself," said theimam. "Your son has gone Muslim," said the pandit. Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of mybemused parents. You see, they didn't know. They didn't knowthat I was a practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagersalways hide a few things from their parents, isn't that so? Allsixteen-year-olds have secrets, don't they? But fate decided thatmy parents and I and the three wise men, as I shall call them,should meet one day on the Goubert Salai seaside esplanadeand that my secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy,hot Sunday afternoon and the Bay of Bengal glittered under ablue sky. Townspeople were out for a stroll. Children screamedand laughed. Coloured balloons floated in the air. Ice creamsales were brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn't they have just walked by with a nod and asmile? It was not to be. We were to meet not just one wiseman but all three, and not one after another but at the sametime, and each would decide upon seeing us that right thenwas the golden occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, thezoo director, he of the model devout son. When I saw thefirst, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, mysmile had frozen into a mask of horror. When it was clear thatall three were converging on us, my heart jumped beforesinking very low. The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that allthree of them were approaching the same people. Each musthave assumed that the others were there for some businessother than pastoral and had rudely chosen that moment todeal with it. Glances of displeasure were exchanged. My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blockedby three broadly smiling religious strangers. I should explainthat my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himselfas part of the New India - rich, modern and as secular as icecream. He didn't have a religious bone in his body. He was abusinessman, pronounced busynessman in his case, ahardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned withinbreeding among the lions than any over-arching moral orexistential scheme. It's true that he had all new animals blessedby a priest and there were two small shrines at the zoo, oneto Lord Ganesha and one to Hanuman, gods likely to please azoo director, what with the first having the head of an elephantand the second being a monkey, but Father's calculation wasthat this was good for business, not good for his soul, a matterof public relations rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worrywas alien to him; it was financial worry that rocked his being. "One epidemic in the collection," he used to say, "and we'll endup in a road crew breaking up stones." Mother was mum,bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and aBaptist education had precisely cancelled each other out as faras religion was concerned and had left her serenely impious. Isuspect she suspected that I had a different take on thematter, but she never said anything when as a child Idevoured the comic books of the Ramayana and theMahabharata and an illustrated children's Bible and otherstories of the gods. She herself was a big reader. She waspleased to see me with my nose buried in a book, any book,so long as it wasn't naughty. As for Ravi, if Lord Krishna hadheld a cricket bat rather than a flute, if Christ had appearedmore plainly to him as an umpire, if the prophet Muhammad,peace be upon him, had shown some notions of bowling, hemight have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn't, and so heslumbered. After the "Helios" and the "Good days", there was anawkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with pridein his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to seehim join our choir soon."My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised. "You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comeswithout fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge of the HolyQur'an is coming along nicely." So said the imam. My parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous. The pandit spoke. "You're both wrong. He's a good Hinduboy. I see him all the time at the temple coming for darshanand performing puja."My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded. "There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. Heis Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian.""I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted theimam. "Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu,lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!"The three wise men stared at each other, breathless anddisbelieving. Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul. All eyes fell upon me. "Piscine, can this be true?" asked the imam earnestly. "Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many gods.""And Muslims have many wives," responded the pandit. The priest looked askance at both of them. "Piscine," henearly whispered, "there is salvation only in Jesus.""Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion," said thepandit. "They strayed long ago from God's path," said the imam. "Where's God in your religion?" snapped the priest. "Youdon't have a single miracle to show for it. What kind ofreligion is that, without miracles?""It isn't a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs allthe time, that's what! We Muslims stick to the essential miracleof existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing - these aremiracles enough for us.""Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to knowthat God is truly with us.""Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be withyou - you tried to kill him! You banged him to a cross withgreat big nails. Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? Theprophet Muhammad - peace be upon him - brought us theword of God without any undignified nonsense and died at aripe old age.""The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours inthe middle of the desert? Those were drooling epileptic fitsbrought on by the swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun frying his brains!""If the Prophet - p.b.u.h. - were alive, he would havechoice words for you," replied the imam, with narrowed eyes. "Well, he's not! Christ is alive, while your old ‘p.b.u.h.' isdead, dead, dead!"The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said, "Thereal question is, why is Piscine dallying with these foreignreligions?"The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out oftheir heads. They were both native Tamils. "God is universal," spluttered the priest. The imam nodded strong approval. "There is only one God.""And with their one god Muslims are always causing troublesand provoking riots. The proof of how bad Islam is, is howuncivilized Muslims are," pronounced the pandit. "Says the slave-driver of the caste system," huffed the imam. "Hindus enslave people and worship dressed-up dolls.""They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows," thepriest chimed in. "While Christians kneel before a white man! They are theflunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of allnon-white people.""And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the imam forgood measure. "What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage,"is whether Piscine wants real religion - or myths from acartoon strip.""God - or idols," intoned the imam gravely. "Our gods - or colonial gods," hissed the pandit. It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It lookedas if they might come to blows. Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" heinterjected. "I would like to remind you there is freedom ofpractice in this country."Three apoplectic faces turned to him. "Yes! Practice - :singular!" the wise men screamed inunison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks, jumped toattention in the air to emphasize their point. They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or thespontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came downquickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Fatherand Mother stared on, at a loss for words. The pandit spoke first. "Mr. Patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In these troubled times it's good to see a boy so keen onGod. We all agree on that." The imam and the priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It'simpossible. He must choose.""I don't think it's a crime, but I suppose you're right,"Father replied. The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, asdid Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Motherlooked at me. A silence fell heavily on my shoulders. "Hmmm, Piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feelabout the question?""Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.' I just want to loveGod," I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face. My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. Ithappened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi onthe esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, atwinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heardour conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to myheart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, "Isuppose that's what we're all trying to do - love God."I thought it very funny that he should say that, he whohadn't stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I hadhad the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. Youcan't reprimand a boy for wanting to love God. The three wisemen pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces. Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, thenthought better, said, "Ice cream, anyone?" and headed for theclosest ice cream wallah before we could answer. Mother gazedat me a little longer, with an expression that was both tenderand perplexed. That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Fatherbought three ice cream sandwiches. We ate them in unusualsilence as we continued on our Sunday walk. Chapter 24 Ravi had a field day of it when he found out. "So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" hesaid, bringing the palms of his hands together in front of hisface in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" Hecrossed himself. "Or will it be to Rome for your coronation asthe next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter,making clear the spelling of his mockery. "Have you found timeyet to get the end of your pecker cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if you go to temple on Thursday,mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church onSunday, you only need to convert to three more religions to beon holiday for the rest of your life." And other lampoonery ofsuch kind. Chapter 25 And that wasn't the end of it. There are always those whotake it upon themselves to defend God, as if Ultimate Reality,as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weakand helpless. These people walk by a widow deformed byleprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed inrags living in the street, and they think, "Business as usual."But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story. Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputterangry words. The degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening. These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that Godmust be defended, not on the outside. They should direct theiranger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil fromwithin that has been let out. The main battlefield for good isnot the open ground of the public arena but the small clearingof each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homelesschildren is very hard, and it is to their defence, not God's, thatthe self-righteous should rush. Once an oaf chased me away from the Great Mosque. When I went to church the priest glared at me so that I couldnot feel the peace of Christ. A Brahmin sometimes shooed meaway from darshan. My religious doings were reported to myparents in the hushed, urgent tones of treason revealed. As if this small-mindedness did God any good. To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity. I stopped attending Mass at Our Lady of ImmaculateConception and went instead to Our Lady of Angels. I nolonger lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I wentto temple at crowded times when the Brahmins were toodistracted to come between God and me. Chapter 26 A few days after the meeting on the esplanade, I took mycourage into my hands and went to see Father at his office. "Father?""Yes, Piscine.""I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug."My words intruded slowly. He looked up from his papersafter some seconds. "A what? What?""I would like to pray outside without getting my pants dirty. And I'm attending a Christian school without having receivedthe proper baptism of Christ.""Why do you want to pray outside? In fact, why do youwant to pray at all?""Because I love God.""Aha." He seemed taken aback by my answer, nearlyembarrassed by it. There was a pause. I thought he was goingto offer me ice cream again. "Well, Petit Seminaire is Christianonly in name. There are many Hindu boys there who aren'tChristians. You'll get just as good an education without beingbaptized. Praying to Allah won't make any difference, either.""But I want to pray to Allah. I want to be a Christian.""You can't be both. You must be either one or the other.""Why can't I be both?""They're separate religions! They have nothing in common.""That's not what they say! They both claim Abraham astheirs. Muslims say the God of the Hebrews and Christians isthe same as the God of the Muslims. They recognize David,Moses and Jesus as prophets.""What does this have to do with us, Piscine? We're Indians!""There have been Christians and Muslims in India forcenturies! Some people say Jesus is buried in Kashmir."He said nothing, only looked at me, his brow furrowed. Suddenly business called. "Talk to Mother about it."She was reading. "Mother?""Yes, darling.""I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug.""Talk to Father about it.""I did. He told me to talk to you about it.""Did he?" She laid her book down. She looked out in thedirection of the zoo. At that moment I'm sure Father felt ablow of chill air against the back of his neck. She turned tothe bookshelf. "I have a book here that you'll like." She alreadyhad her arm out, reaching for a volume. It was Robert LouisStevenson. This was her usual tactic. "I've already read that, Mother. Three times.""Oh." Her arm hovered to the left. "The same with Conan Doyle," I said. Her arm swung to the right. "R. K. Narayan? You can'tpossibly have read all of Narayan?""These matters are important to me, Mother.""Robinson Crusoe!""Mother!""But Piscine!" she said. She settled back into her chair, apath-of-least-resistance look on her face, which meant I had toput up a stiff fight in precisely the right spots. She adjusted acushion. "Father and I find your religious zeal a bit of amystery.""It is a Mystery.""Hmmm. I don't mean it that way. Listen, my darling, ifyou're going to be religious, you must be either a Hindu, aChristian or a Muslim. You heard what they said on theesplanade.""I don't see why I can't be all three. Mamaji has twopassports. He's Indian and French. Why can't I be a Hindu, aChristian and a Muslim?""That's different. France and India are nations on earth.""How many nations are there in the sky?"She thought for a second. "One. That's the point. Onenation, one passport.""One nation in the sky?""Yes. Or none. There's that option too, you know. These areterribly old-fashioned things you've taken to.""If there's only one nation in the sky, shouldn't all passportsbe valid for it?"A cloud of uncertainty came over her face. "Bapu Gandhi said - ""Yes, I know what Bapu Gandhi said." She brought a handto her forehead. She had a weary look, Mother did. "Goodgrief," she said. Chapter 27 Later that evening I overheard my parents speaking. "You said yes?" said Father. "I believe he asked you too. You referred him to me,"replied Mother. "Did I?""You did.""I had a very busy day…""You're not busy now. You're quite comfortably unemployedby the looks of it. If you want to march into his room andpull the prayer rug from under his feet and discuss thequestion of Christian baptism with him, please go ahead. Iwon't object.""No, no." I could tell from his voice that Father was settlingdeeper into his chair. There was a pause. "He seems to be attracting religions the way a dog attractsfleas," he pursued. "I don't understand it. We're a modernIndian family; we live in a modern way; India is on the cuspof becoming a truly modern and advanced nation - and herewe've produced a son who thinks he's the reincarnation of SriRamakrishna.""If Mrs. Gandhi is what being modern and advanced isabout, I'm not sure I like it," Mother said. "Mrs. Gandhi will pass! Progress is unstoppable. It is adrumbeat to which we must all march. Technology helps andgood ideas spread - these are two laws of nature. If you don'tlet technology help you, if you -resist good ideas, you condemnyourself to dinosaurhood! I am utterly convinced of this. Mrs. Gandhi and her foolishness will pass. The New India willcome."(Indeed she would pass. And the New India, or one familyof it, would decide to move to Canada.)Father went on: "Did you hear when he said, ‘Bapu Gandhisaid, "All religions are true"'?""Yes."…"Bapu Gandhi? The boy is getting to be on affectionateterms with Gandhi? After Daddy Gandhi, what next? UncleJesus? And what's this nonsense - has he really become aMuslim?""It seems so.""A Muslim! A devout Hindu, all right, I can understand. AChristian in addition, it's getting to be a bit strange, but I canstretch my mind. The Christians have been here for a longtime - Saint Thomas, Saint Francis Xavier, the missionaries andso on. We owe them good schools.""Yes.""So all that I can sort of accept. But Muslim? It's totallyforeign to our tradition. They're outsiders.""They've been here a very long time too. They're a hundredtimes more numerous than the Christians.""That makes no difference. They're outsiders.""Perhaps Piscine is marching to a different drumbeat ofprogress.""You're defending the boy? You don't mind it that he'sfancying himself a Muslim?""What can we do, Santosh? He's taken it to heart, and it'snot doing anyone any harm. Maybe it's just a phase. It toomay pass - like Mrs. Gandhi.""Why can't he have the normal interests of a boy his age? Look at Ravi. All he can think about is cricket, movies andmusic.""You think that's better?""No, no. Oh, I don't know what to think. It's been a longday." He sighed. "I wonder how far he'll go with theseinterests."Mother chuckled. "Last week he finished a book called TheImitation of Christ.""The Imitation of Christ! I say again, I wonder how farhe'll go with these interests!" cried Father. They laughed. Chapter 28 I loved my prayer rug. Ordinary in quality though it was, itglowed with beauty in my eyes. I'm sorry I lost it. Wherever Ilaid it I felt special affection for the patch of ground beneath itand the immediate surroundings, which to me is a clearindication that it was a good prayer rug because it helped meremember that the earth is the creation of God and sacred thesame all over. The pattern, in gold lines upon a background ofred, was plain: a narrow rectangle with a triangular peak atone extremity to indicate the qibla, the direction of prayer, andlittle curlicues floating around it, like wisps of smoke or accentsfrom a strange language. The pile was soft. When I prayed, theshort, unknotted tassels were inches from the tip of myforehead at one end of the carpet and inches from the tip ofmy toes at the other, a cozy size to make you feel at homeanywhere upon this vast earth. I prayed outside because I liked it. Most often I unrolled myprayer rug in a corner of the yard behind the house. It was asecluded spot in the shade of a coral tree, next to a wall thatwas covered with bou-gainvillea. Along the length of the wallwas a row of potted poinsettias. The bougainvillea had alsocrept through the tree. The contrast between its purple bractsand the red flowers of the tree was very pretty. And whenthat tree was in bloom, it was a regular aviary of crows,mynahs, babblers, rosy pastors, sun-birds and parakeets. Thewall was to my right, at a wide angle. Ahead of me and to myleft, beyond the milky, mottled shade of the tree, lay thesun-drenched open space of the yard. The appearance ofthings changed, of course, depending on the weather, the timeof day, the time of year. But it's all very clear in my memory,as if it never changed. I faced Mecca with the help of a line Iscratched into the pale yellow ground and carefully kept up. Sometimes, upon finishing my prayers, I would turn andcatch sight of Father or Mother or Ravi observing me, untilthey got used to the sight. My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. Mother playedalong nicely, Father looked on stonily, and Ravi was mercifullyabsent because of a cricket match, which did not prevent himfrom commenting at great length on the event. The watertrickled down my face and down my neck; though just abeaker's worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain. Chapter 29 Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leaveeverything they've known for a great unknown beyond thehorizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities thatmakes you feel like a beggar? Why enter this jungle offoreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult? The answer is the same the world over: people move in thehope of a better life. The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered thatfrom the deep furrows that appeared on Father's foreheadwhen he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversationthat I caught between him and Mother and Mamaji andothers. It's not that I didn't understand the drift of what theysaid - it's that I wasn't interested. The orang-utans were aseager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never asked after thenews from Delhi; the rhinos and goats continued to live inpeace; the birds twittered; the clouds carried rain; the sun washot; the earth breathed; God was - there was no Emergencyin my world. Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976,the Tamil Nadu government was brought down by Delhi. Ithad been one of Mrs. Gandhi's most vocal critics. The takeoverwas smoothly enforced - Chief Minister Karunanidhi's ministryvanished quietly into "resignation" or house arrest - and whatdoes the fall of one local government matter when the wholecountry's Constitution has been suspended these last eightmonths? But it was to Father the crowning touch in Mrs. Gandhi's dictatorial takeover of the nation. The camel at thezoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back. He shouted, "Soon she'll come down to our zoo and tell usthat her jails are full, she needs more space. Could we putDesai with the lions?"Morarji Desai was an opposition politician. No friend of Mrs. Gandhi's. It makes me sad, my father's ceaseless worrying. Mrs. Gandhi could have personally bombed the zoo, it would havebeen fine with me if Father had been gay about it. I wish hehadn't fretted so much. It's hard on a son to see his fathersick with worry. But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and nonemore so than small b business, the one that risks the shirt onits back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, likea museum, it is at the service of popular education andscience. And by this token, not much of a money-makingventure, for the Greater Good and the Greater Profit are notcompatible aims, much to Father's chagrin. The truth was, wewere not a rich family, certainly not by Canadian standards. We were a poor family that happened to own a lot of animals,though not the roof above their heads (or above ours, for thatmatter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its inhabitants in thewild, is precarious. It is neither big enough a business to beabove the law nor small enough to survive on its margins. Toprosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democraticelections, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom ofassociation, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India'sConstitution. Impossible to enjoy the animals otherwise. Long-term, bad politics is bad for business. People move because of the wear and tear of anxiety. Because of the gnawing feeling that no matter how hard theywork their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up inone year will be torn down in one day by others. Because ofthe impression that the future is blocked up, that they mightdo all right but not their children. Because of the feeling thatnothing will change, that happiness and prosperity are possibleonly somewhere else. The New India split to pieces and collapsed in Father's mind. Mother assented. We would bolt. It was announced to us one evening during dinner. Raviand I were thunderstruck. Canada! If Andhra Pradesh, justnorth of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey's hop across astrait, was the dark side of the moon, imagine what Canadawas. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was likeTimbuktu, by definition a place permanently far away. Chapter 30 He's married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off,when I hear him say, "I would like you to meet my wife."I look up and there beside him is… Mrs. Patel. "Hello," shesays, extending her hand and smiling. "Piscine has beentelling me lots about you." I can't say the same of her. Ihad no idea. She's on her way out, so we talk only a fewminutes. She's also Indian but has a more typicallyCanadian accent. She must be second generation. She's alittle younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hairwoven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in aprotective plastic film. She's a pharmacist. When I say,"Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel," she replies, "Please, make itMeena." After a quick kiss between husband and wife, she'soff on a working Saturday. This house is more than a box full of icons. I startnoticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were thereall along, but I hadn't seen them because I wasn't lookingfor them. He's a shy man. Life has taught him not to show offwhat is most precious to him. Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract? "I've made a special chutney for you," he says. He'ssmiling. No, he is. Chapter 31 They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and theteacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to seethe zoo. "All these years and I've never seen it. It's so closeby, too. Will you show it to me?" he asked. "Yes, of course," I replied. "It would be an honour." Weagreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school. I worried all that day. I scolded myself, "You fool! Why didyou say the main gate? At any time there will be a crowd ofpeople there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You'llnever recognize him!" If I walked by him without seeing him‘he would be hurt. He would think I had changed my mindand didn't want to be seen with a poor Muslim baker. Hewould leave without saying a word. He wouldn't be angry - hewould accept my claims that it was the sun in my eyes - buthe wouldn't want to come to the zoo any more. I could see ithappening that way. I had to recognize him. I would hide andwait until I was certain it was him, that's what I would do. ButI had noticed before that it was when I tried my hardest torecognize him that I was least able to pick him out. The veryeffort seemed to blind me. At the appointed hour I stopd squarely before the main gateof the zoo and started rubbing my eyes with both hands. "What are you doing?"It was Raj, a friend. "I'm busy.""You're busy rubbing your eyes?""Go away.""Let's go to Beach Road.""I'm waiting for someone.""Well, you'll miss him if you keep rubbing your eyes likethat.""Thank you for the information. Have fun on Beach Road.""How about Government Park?""I can't, I tell you.""Come on.""Please, Raj, move on!"He left. I went back to rubbing my eyes. "Will you help me with my math homework, Pi?"It was Ajith, another friend. "Later. Go away.""Hello, Piscine."It was Mrs. Radhakrishna, a friend of Mother's. In a fewmore words I eased her on her way. "Excuse me. Where's Laporte Street?"A stranger. "That way.""How much is admission to the zoo?"Another stranger. "Five rupees. The ticket booth is right there.""Has the chlorine got to your eyes?"It was Mamaji. "Hello, Mamaji. No, it hasn't.""Is your father around?""I think so.""See you tomorrow morning.""Yes, Mamaji.""I am here, Piscine."My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in afamiliar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile welling upin me. "Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you.""Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with youreyes?""No, nothing. Just a bit of dust.""They look quite red.""It's nothing."He headed for the ticket booth but I called him back "No,no. Not for you, master."It was with pride that I waved the ticket collector's handaway and showed Mr. Kumar into the zoo. He marvelled at everything, at how to tall trees came tallgiraffes, how carnivores were supplied with herbivores andherbivores with grass, how some creatures crowded the dayand others the night, how some that needed sharp beaks hadsharp beaks and others that needed limber limbs had limberlimbs. It made me happy that he was so impressed. He quoted from the Holy Qur'an: "In all this there aremessages indeed for a people who use their reason."We came to the zebras. Mr. Kumar had never heard ofsuch creatures, let alone seen one. He was dumbfounded. "They're called zebras," I said. "Have they been painted with a brush?""No, no. They look like that naturally.""What happens when it rains?""Nothing.""The stripes don't melt?""No."I had brought some carrots. There was one left, a large andsturdy specimen. I took it out of the bag. At that moment Iheard a slight scraping of gravel to my right. It was Mr. Kumar, coming up to the railing in his usual limping and rollinggait. "Hello, sir.""Hello, Pi."The baker, a shy but dignified man, nodded at the teacher,who nodded back. An alert zebra had noticed my carrot and had come up tothe low fence. It twitched its ears and stamped the groundsoftly. I broke the carrot in two and gave one half to Mr. Kumar and one half to Mr. Kumar. "Thank you, Piscine," saidone; "Thank you, Pi," said the other. Mr. Kumar went first,dipping his hand over the fence. The zebra's thick, strong,black lips grasped the carrot eagerly. Mr. Kumar wouldn't letgo. The zebra sank its teeth into the carrot and snapped it intwo. It crunched loudly on the treat for a few seconds, thenreached for the remaining piece, lips flowing over Mr. Kumar'sfingertips. He released the carrot and touched the zebra's softnose. It was Mr. Kumar's turn. He wasn't so demanding of thezebra. Once it had his half of the carrot between its lips, he letgo. The lips hurriedly moved the carrot into the mouth. Mr. and Mr. Kumar looked delighted. "A zebra, you say?"said Mr. Kumar. "That's right," I replied. "It belongs to thesame family as the ass and the horse.""The Rolls-Royce of equids," said Mr. Kumar. "What a wondrous creature," said Mr. Kumar. "This one's a Grant's zebra," I said. Mr. Kumar said, "Equus burchelli boehmi."Mr. Kumar said, "Allahu akbar."I said, "It's very pretty."We looked on. Chapter 32 There are many examples of animals coming to surprisingliving arrangements. All are instances of that animal equivalentof anthropomorphism: zoomorphism, where an animal takes ahuman being, or another animal, to be one of its kind. The most famous case is also the most common: the petdog, which has so assimilated humans into the realm ofdoghood as to want to mate with them, a fact that any dogowner who has had to pull an amorous dog from the leg of amortified visitor will confirm. Our golden agouti and spotted paca got along very well,contentedly huddling together and sleeping against each otheruntil the first was stolen. I have already mentioned our rhinoceros-and-goat herd, andthe case of circus lions. There are confirmed stories of drowning sailors being pushedup to the surface of the water and held there by dolphins, acharacteristic way in which these marine mammals help eachother. A case is mentioned in the literature of a stoat and a ratliving in a companion relationship, while other rats presented tothe stoat were devoured by it in the typical way of stoats. We had our own case of the freak suspension of thepredator-prey relationship. We had a mouse that lived forseveral weeks with the vipers. While other mice dropped in theterrarium disappeared within two days, this little brownMethuselah built itself a nest, stored the grains we gave it invarious hideaways and scampered about in plain sight of thesnakes. We were amazed. We put up a sign to bring themouse to the public's attention. It finally met its end in acurious way: a young viper bit it. Was the viper unaware ofthe mouse's special status? Unsocialized to it, perhaps? Whatever the case, the mouse was bitten by a young viper butdevoured - and immediately - by an adult. If there was aspell, it was broken by the young one. Things returned tonormal after that. All mice disappeared down the vipers' gulletsat the usual rate. In the trade, dogs are sometimes used as foster mothers forlion cubs. Though the cubs grow to become larger than theircaregiver, and far more dangerous, they never give theirmother trouble and she never loses her placid behaviour orher sense of authority over her litter. Signs have to be put upto explain to the public that the dog is not live food left forthe lions (just as we had to put up a sign pointing out thatrhinoceros are herbivores and do not eat goats). What could be the explanation for zoomorphism? Can't arhinoceros distinguish big from small, tough hide from soft fur? Isn't it plain to a dolphin what a dolphin is like? I believe theanswer lies in something I mentioned earlier, that measure ofmadness that moves life in strange but saving ways. Thegolden agouti, like the rhinoceros, was in need ofcompanionship. The circus lions don't care to know that theirleader is a weakling human; the fiction guarantees their socialwell-being and staves off violent anarchy. As for the lion cubs,they would positively keel over with fright if they knew theirmother was a dog, for that would mean they were motherless,the absolute worst condition imaginable for any young,warm-blooded life. I'm sure even the adult viper, as itswallowed the mouse, must have felt somewhere in itsundeveloped mind a twinge of regret, a feeling that somethinggreater was just missed, an imaginative leap away from thelonely, crude reality of a reptile. Chapter 33 He shows me family memorabilia. Wedding photos first. A Hindu wedding with Canada prominently on the edges. Ayounger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Fallsfor their honeymoon. Had a lovely time. Smiles to prove it. We move back in time. Photos from his student days atUofT: with friends; in front of St. Mike's; in his room;during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil'sChurch dressed in a white gown; wearing another kind ofwhite gown in a lab of the zoology department; ongraduation day. A smile every time, but his eyes tellanother story. Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ. With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific - andthere is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera didclick regularly - on all the usual important occasions - buteverything was lost. What little there is consists of whatwas assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events. There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of aV.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to me. The photo is crowded with people. A union cabinet ministeris the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in thebackground. Near the edge of the group, I recognize ayounger Mr. Adirubasamy. "Mamaji?" I ask, pointing. "Yes," he says. There's a man next to the minister, with hornrimmedglasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like aplausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his sons. "Is this your father?" I ask. He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's myfather who took the picture."On the same page there's another group shot, mostly ofschoolchildren. He taps the photo. "That's Richard Parker," he says. I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personalityfrom appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white againand a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days,casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He doesn't evenrealize that his picture is being taken. The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photoof the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's a nicebig outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean bluebottom and an attached diving pool. The next page features a photo of the front gate of PetitSeminaire school. An arch has the school's motto painted onit: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness. And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in fournearly irrelevant photographs. He grows sombre. "The worst of it," he says, "is that Ican hardlyremember what my mother looks like any more. I cansee her in my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try tohave a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with hervoice. If I saw her again in the street, it would all comeback. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not toremember what your mother looks like." He closes the book. Chapter 34 Father said, "We'll sail like Columbus!""He was hoping to find India," I pointed out sullenly. We sold the zoo, lock, stock and barrel. To a new country,a new life. Besides assuring our collection of a happy future,the transaction would pay for our immigration and leave uswith a good sum to make a fresh start in Canada (thoughnow, when I think of it, the sum is laughable - how blindedwe are by money). We could have sold our animals to zoos inIndia, but American zoos were willing to pay higher prices. CITES, the Convention on International Trade in EndangeredSpecies, had just come into effect, and the window on thetrading of captured wild animals had slammed shut. The futureof zoos would now lie with other zoos. The Pondicherry Zooclosed shop at just the right time. There was a scramble tobuy our animals. The final buyers were a number of zoos,mainly the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and the soon-to-openMinnesota Zoo, but odd animals were going to Los Angeles,Louisville, Oklahoma City and Cincinnati. And two animals were being shipped to the Canada Zoo. That's how Ravi and I felt. We did not want to go. We didnot want to live in a country of gale-force winds andminus-two-hundred-degree winters. Canada was not on thecricket map. Departure was made easier - as far as getting usused to the idea - by the time it took for all the pre-departurepreparations. It took well over a year. I don't mean for us. Imean for the animals. Considering that animals dispense withclothes, footwear, linen, furniture, kitchenware, toiletries; thatnationality means nothing to them; that they care not a jot forpassports, money, employment prospects, schools, cost ofhousing, healthcare facilities - considering, in short, theirlightness of being, it's amazing how hard it is to move them. Moving a zoo is like moving a city. The paperwork was colossal. Litres of water used up in thewetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-and-so written hundreds oftimes. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Hagglinggone through. Decisions sent higher up for approval. Pricesagreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines signed. Congratulationsgiven. Certificates of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantineregulations clarified. Transportation organized. A fortune spenton telephone calls. It's a joke in the zoo business, a wearyjoke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighsmore than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in tradingan elephant weighs more than a whale., and that you mustnever try to trade a whale, never. There seemed to be a singlefile of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolisvia Delhi and Washington, each with his form, his problem, hishesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon couldn't possiblyhave been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair offhis head and came close to giving up on a number ofoccasions. There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, andour lemurs, rhinos, orang-utans, mandrills, lion-tailed macaques,giraffes, anteaters, tigers, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, zebras,Himalayan and sloth bears, Indian elephants and Nilgiri tahrs,among others, were in demand, but others, Elfie for example,were met with silence. "A cataract operation!" Father shouted,waving the letter. "They'll take her if we do a cataractoperation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?" Some of our other animals wereconsidered "too common", the lions and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these for an extra orang-utan fromthe Mysore Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (Asfor Elfie, she lived out the rest of her days at the TrivandrumZoo.) One zoo asked for "an authentic Brahmin cow" for theirchildren's zoo. Father walked out into the urban jungle ofPondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a nice fathump and horns so straight and at such right angles to itshead that it looked as if it had licked an electrical outlet. Fatherhad its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fittedto the tips, for added authenticity. A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. Ihad never seen real live Americans. They were pink, fat,friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examinedour animals. They put most of them to sleep and then appliedstethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as ifhoroscopes, drew blood in syringes and analyzed it, fondledhumps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded eyes with flashlights,pinched skins, stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. Theymust have thought they were being drafted into the U.S. Army. We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushinghandshakes. The result was that the animals, like us, got their workingpapers. They were future Yankees, and we, future Canucks. Chapter 35 We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on thePanamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Herofficers were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she waslarge and impressive. On our last day in Pondicherry I saidgoodbye to Mamaji, to Mr. and Mr. Kumar, to all my friendsand even to many strangers. Mother was apparelled in herfinest sari. Her long tress, artfully folded back and attached tothe back of her head, was adorned with a garland of freshjasmine flowers. She looked beautiful. And sad. For she wasleaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fieldsand the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, ofbullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and knownshopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of this andthat, India so familiar to her and loved by her. While her men- I fancied myself one already, though I was only sixteen -were in a hurry to get going, were Winnipeggers at heartalready, she lingered. The day before our departure she pointed at a cigarettewallah and earnestly asked, "Should we get a pack or two?"Father replied, "They have tobacco in Canada. And why doyou want to buy cigarettes? We don't smoke."Yes, they have tobacco in Canada - but do they have GoldFlake cigarettes? Do they have Arun ice cream? Are thebicycles Heroes? Are the televisions Onidas? Are the carsAmbassadors? Are the bookshops Higginbothams‘? Such, Isuspect, were the questions that swirled in Mother's mind asshe contemplated buying cigarettes. Animals were sedated, cages were loaded and secured, feedwas stored, bunks were assigned, lines were tossed, andwhistles were blown. As the ship was worked out of the dockand piloted out to sea, I wildly waved goodbye to India. Thesun was shining, the breeze was steady, and seagulls shriekedin the air above us. I was terribly excited. Things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to, butwhat can you do? You must take life the way it comes at youand make the best of it. Chapter 36 The cities are large and memorably crowded in India,but when you leave them you travel through vast stretchesof country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I rememberwondering 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 ofthe front porch when a teenager bursts out the front door. He's wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseballequipment, and he's in a hurry. When he sees me he stopsdead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollersinto 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 andbrown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps upagainst my legs. "Or a dog," I add. "He's friendly. Tata, down!"Tata ignores him. I hear "Hello." Only this greeting isnot short and forceful like Nick's. It's a long, nasal andsoftly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reachingfor me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at mypants. I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room,looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty inpink, very much at home. She's holding an orange cat inher arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeplysunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossedarms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down tothe floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about beinystretched on the rack in this manner. "And this is your daughter," I say. "Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin iscomfortable 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 behindhis leg. "What are you doing, little one?" he says. "Why are youhiding?"She doesn't reply, only looks at me with a smile andhides 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'refour years old. One, two, three, four."At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose withhis index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She gigglesand buries her face in the crook of his neck. This story has a happy ending. PART TWOThe Pacific Ocean Chapter 37 The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallicburp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart. Fromthe 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 thesurface of the water. "Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to seeyou, Richard Parker! Don't give up, please. Come to thelifeboat. Do you hear this whistle? TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! You heard right. Swim, swim! You're a strongswimmer. It's not a hundred feet."He had seen me. He looked panic-stricken. He startedswimming my way. The water about him was shifting wildly. Helooked 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 stillin my bunk on the Tsimtsumand I'm tossing and turning and soon I'll wake up from thisnightmare. Tell me I'm still happy. Mother, my tender guardianangel of wisdom, where are you? And you, Father, my lovingworrywart? And you, Ravi, dazzling hero of my childhood? Vishnu preserve me, Allah protect me, Christ save me, I can'tbear it! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I hadnever experienced such intense pain, such a ripping of thenerves, such an ache of the heart. He would not make it. He would drown. He was hardlymoving forward and his movements were weak. His nose andmouth kept dipping underwater. Only his eyes were steadily onme. "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 andreptiles? They too have drowned. Every single thing I value inlife has been destroyed. And I am allowed no explanation? Iam to suffer hell without any account from heaven? In thatcase, what is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it nomore 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 ananswer? Why such a vast net if there's so little fish to catch?"His head was barely above water. He was looking up, takingin the sky one last time. There was a lifebuoy in the boat witha 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 waygave him hope. He revived and started beating the water withvigorous, desperate strokes. "That's right! One, two. One, two. One, two. Breathe whenyou can. Watch for the waves. TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But therewas no time for frozen shock. It was shock in activity. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwillingto let go, wanted to fight to the very end. Where that part ofme got the heart, I don't know. "Isn't it ironic, Richard Parker? We're in hell yet still we'reafraid 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 frontof him. With his last energies he stretched forward and tookhold of it. "Hold on tight, I'll pull you in. Don't let go. Pull with youreyes while I pull with my hands. In a few seconds you'll beaboard and we'll be together. Wait a second. Together? We'llbe 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. Idon'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. Ithrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I missed and losthold of the oar. I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulledas hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat away. All Iaccomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one endcloser 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 awet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughingthree-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parkerrose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin, eyes blazing as theymet mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn. Hishead was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth. I turned around, stepped over the zebra and threw myselfoverboard. Chapter 38 I don't understand. For days the ship had pushed on,bullishly indifferent to its surroundings. The sun shone, rain fell,winds blew, currents flowed, the sea built up hills, the sea dugup valleys - the Tsimtsum did not care. It moved with theslow, massive confidence of a continent. I had bought a map of the world for the trip; I had set itup in our cabin against a cork billboard. Every morning I gotour position from the control bridge and marked it on themap with an orange-tipped pin. We sailed from Madras acrossthe Bay of Bengal, down through the Strait of Malacca, aroundSingapore and up to Manila. I loved every minute of it. It wasa thrill to be on a ship. Taking care of the animals kept usvery busy. Every night we fell into bed weary to our bones. We were in Manila for two days, a question of fresh feed, newcargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenancework on the engines. I paid attention only to the first two. Thefresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, afemale Congo chimpanzee, part of Father's wheeling anddealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, fourpounds of big black spiders. A chimpanzee is like a smaller,leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholygentleness of its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders andgrimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and Iwould do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, notsomething you and I would do. I thought bananas and achimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanicalcontraption in the dark bowels of a ship. Ravi spent his daysthere, watching the men work. Something was wrong with theengines, he said. Did something go wrong with the fixing ofthem? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. Theanswer is a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet ofwater. We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth dayout, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship vanished into apinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before myeyes and disappeared beneath my feet. All around me was thevomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I feltshock. I felt a great emptiness within me, which then filled withsilence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards. I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. Ithappened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship wasno luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship notdesigned for paying passengers or for their comfort. Therewere all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely becausethe level of noise was so uniform that we slept like babies. Itwas a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoringnor my talking in my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one,was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke upwith a start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. Ilooked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in themorning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping. I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't know why Igot up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi woulddo. He liked the word beckon; he would have said, "Adventurebeckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise was back to normal again, but with adifferent quality perhaps, muffled maybe. I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let'sgo exploring."He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turnedover, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi! I opened the cabin door. I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night itlooked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped atFather and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. Iremember looking at my watch and deciding against it. Fatherliked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck andcatch the dawn.. Maybe I would see a shooting star. I wasthinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed thestairs. We were two levels below the main deck. I had alreadyforgotten about the funny noise. It was only when I had pushed open the heavy doorleading onto the main deck that I realized what the weatherwas like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, butit wasn't so very hard. It certainly wasn't a driving rain, likeyou see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I supposesome of the gusts would have upset umbrellas. But I walkedthrough it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it lookedrough, but to a landlubber the sea is always impressive andforbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching up,and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whippedagainst the side of the ship. But I'd seen that on other daysand the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stablestructure, a feat of engineering. It's designed to stay afloatunder the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surelywouldn't sink a ship? Why, I only had to close a door and thestorm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped therailing and faced the elements. This was adventure. "Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked andchilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there wasenough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Naturecan put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the lighting isdramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for specialeffects is absolutely unlimited. What I had before me was aspectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, thateven Hollywood couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquakestopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneathmy feet was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in hisseat. It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castlethat I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging straightdown. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked atmy hands. My knuckles were white. The thing was, I wasn'tholding on so tightly because of the weather, but becauseotherwise I would fall in towards the ship. The ship was listingto port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough tosurprise me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheerany more. I could see the ship's great black side. A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a stormafter all. Time to return to safety. I let go, hotfooted it to thewall, moved over and pulled open the door. Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. Istumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With the help ofthe handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. Ihad gone down just one level when I saw water. Lots ofwater. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below likea riotous crowd, raging, frothing and boiling. Stairs vanishedinto watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was thiswater doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed tothe spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of what Ishould do next. Down there was where my family was. I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weatherwasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it wasplain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn'tlevel the other way either. There was a noticeable incline goingfrom bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't lookto be eighty feet away. The ship was sinking. My mind couldhardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catchingfire. Where were the officers and the crew? What were theydoing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in thegloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed thesight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow. We had the hatchcovers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good,but at all times the animals were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, notfarm livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heardsome men shouting. The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrousmetallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective scream ofhumans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was itthe ship itself giving up the ghost? I fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves weregetting closer. We were sinking fast. I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shakingthe deck. A gaur - an Indian wild ox - exploded out of therain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. Ilooked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who in God's name hadlet it out? I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where theofficers were, the only people on the ship who spoke English,the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right thiswrong. They would explain everything. They would take care ofmy family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There wasno one on the starboard side. I ran to the port side. I sawthree men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were lookingoverboard. I shouted. They turned. They looked at me and ateach other. They spoke a few words. They came towards mequickly. I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said,"Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I am veryscared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worriedabout my family. I can't get to the level where our cabins are. Is this normal? Do you think - "One of the men interrupted me by thrusting a life jacketinto my arms and shouting something in Chinese. I noticed anorange whistle dangling from the life jacket. The men werenodding vigorously at me. When they took hold of me andlifted me in their strong arms, I thought nothing of it. Ithought they were helping me. I was so full of trust in themthat I felt grateful as they carried me in the air. Only whenthey threw me overboard did I begin to have doubts. Chapter 39 I landed with a trampoline-like bounce on the half-unrolledtarpaulin covering a lifeboat forty feet below. It was a miracle Ididn't hurt myself. I lost the life jacket, except for the whistle,which stayed in my hand. The lifeboat had been loweredpartway and left to hang. It was leaning out from its davits,swinging in the storm, some twenty feet above the water. Ilooked up. Two of the men were looking down at me, pointingwildly at the lifeboat and shouting. I didn't understand whatthey wanted me to do. I thought they were going to jump inafter me. Instead they turned their heads, looked horrified, andthis creature appeared in the air, leaping with the grace of aracehorse. The zebra missed the tarpaulin. It was a male Grant,weighing over five hundred pounds. It landed with a loud crashon the last bench, smashing it and shaking the whole lifeboat. The animal called out. I might have expected the braying of anass or the neighing of a horse. It was nothing of the sort. Itcould only be called a burst of barking, a kwa-ha-ha,kwa-ha-ha, kwa-ha-ha put out at the highest pitch of distress. The creature's lips were widely parted, standing upright andquivering, revealing yellow teeth and dark pink gums. Thelifeboat fell through the air and we hit the seething water. Chapter 40 Richard Parker did not jump into the water after me. Theoar I intended to use as a club floated. I held on to it as Ireached for the lifebuoy, now vacant of its previous occupant. Itwas terrifying to be in the water. It was black and cold and ina rage. I felt as if I were at the bottom of a crumbling well. Water kept crashing down on me. It stung my eyes. It pulledme down. I could hardly breathe. If there hadn't been thelifebuoy I wouldn't have lasted a minute. I saw a triangle slicing the water fifteen feet away. It was ashark's fin. An awful tingle, cold and liquid, went up and downmy spine. I swam as fast as I could to one end of the lifeboat,the end still covered by the tarpaulin. I pushed myself up onthe lifebuoy with my arms. I couldn't see Richard Parker. Hewasn't on the tarpaulin or on a bench. He was at the bottomof the lifeboat. I pushed myself up again. All I could see,briefly, at the other end, was the zebra's head thrashing about. As I fell back into the water another shark's fin glided rightbefore me. The bright orange tarpaulin was held down by a strongnylon rope that wove its way between metal grommets in thetarpaulin and blunt hooks on the side of the boat. I happenedto be treading water at the bow. The tarpaulin was not assecurely fixed going over the stem - which had a very shortprow, what in a face would be called a snub nose - as it waselsewhere around the boat. There was a little looseness in thetarpaulin as the rope went from one hook on one side of thestem to the next hook on the other side. I lifted the oar in theair and I shoved its handle into this looseness, into thislifesaving detail. I pushed the oar in as far as it would go. Thelifeboat now had a prow projecting over the waves, ifcrookedly. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs around theoar. The oar handle pushed up against the tarpaulin, buttarpaulin, rope and oar held. I was out of the water, if only bya fluctuating two, three feet. The crest of the larger waves keptstriking me. I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific,hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in front of me, sharksbeneath me, a storm raging about me. Had I considered myprospects in the light of reason, I surely would have given upand let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before beingeaten. But I don't recall that I had a single thought duringthose first minutes of relative safety. I didn't even noticedaybreak. I held on to the oar, I just held on, God onlyknows why. After a while I made good use of the lifebuoy. I lifted it outof the water and put the oar through its hole. I worked itdown until the ring was hugging me. Now it was only with mylegs that I had to hold on. If Richard Parker appeared, itwould be more awkward to drop from the oar, but one terrorat a time, Pacific before tiger. Chapter 41 The elements allowed me to go on living. The lifeboat didnot sink. Richard Parker kept out of sight. The sharks prowledbut did not lunge. The waves splashed me but did not pull meoff. I watched the ship as it disappeared with much burbling andbelching. Lights flickered and went out. I looked about for myfamily, for survivors, for another lifeboat, for anything thatmight bring me hope. There was nothing. Only rain, maraudingwaves of black ocean and the flotsam of tragedy. The darkness melted away from the sky. The rain stopped. I could not stay in the position I was in forever. I was cold. My neck was sore from holding up my head and from all thecraning I had been doing. My back hurt from leaning againstthe lifebuoy. And I needed to be higher up if I were to seeother lifeboats. I inched my way along the oar till my feet were against thebow of the boat. I had to proceed with extreme caution. Myguess was that Richard Parker was on the floor of the lifeboatbeneath the tarpaulin, his back to me, facing the zebra, whichhe had no doubt killed by now. Of the five senses, tigers relythe most on their sight. Their eyesight is very keen, especiallyin detecting motion. Their hearing is good. Their smell isaverage. I mean compared to other animals, of course. Next toRichard Parker, I was deaf, blind and nose-dead. But at themoment he could not see me, and in my wet condition couldprobably not smell me, and what with the whistling of the windand the hissing of the sea as waves broke, if I were careful,he would not hear me. I had a chance so long as he did notsense me. If he did, he would kill me right away. Could heburst through the tarpaulin, I wondered. Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. Hewas a fierce, 450-pound carnivore. Each of his claws was assharp as a knife. Reason said No. The tarpaulin was sturdycanvas, not a Japanese paper wall. I had landed upon it froma height. Richard Parker could shred it with his claws with alittle time and effort, but he couldn't pop through it like ajack-in-the-box. And he had not seen me. Since he had notseen me, he had no reason to claw his way through it. I slid along the oar. I brought both my legs to one side ofthe oar and placed my feet on the gunnel. The gunnel is thetop edge of a boat, the rim if you want. I moved a little moretill my legs were on the boat. I kept my eyes fixed on thehorizon of the tarpaulin. Any second I expected to see RichardParker rising up and coming for me. Several times I had fits offearful trembling. Precisely where I wanted to be most still -my legs - was where I trembled most. My legs drummedupon the tarpaulin. A more obvious rapping on RichardParker's door couldn't be imagined. The trembling spread tomy arms and it was all I could do to hold on. Each fit passed. When enough of my body was on the boat I pulled myselfup. I looked beyond the end of the tarpaulin. I was surprisedto see that the zebra was still alive. It lay near the stern,where it had fallen, listless, but its stomach was still pantingand its eyes were still moving, expressing terror. It was on itsside, facing me, its head and neck awkwardly propped againstthe boat's side bench. It had badly broken a rear leg. Theangle of it was completely unnatural. Bone protruded throughskin and there was bleeding. Only its slim front legs had asemblance of normal position. They were bent and neatlytucked against its twisted torso. From time to time the zebrashook its head and barked and snorted. Otherwise it layquietly. It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly whiteand intensely black. I was so eaten up by anxiety that Icouldn't dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, thequeer, clean, artistic boldness of its design and the fineness ofits head struck me. Of greater significance to me was thestrange fact that Richard Parker had not killed it. In thenormal course of things he should have killed the zebra. That'swhat predators do: they kill prey. In the present circumstances,where Richard Parker would be under tremendous mentalstrain, fear should have brought out an exceptional level ofaggression. The zebra should have been properly butchered. The reason behind its spared life was revealed shortly. Itfroze my blood - and then brought a slight measure of relief. A head appeared beyond the end of the tarpaulin. It looked atme in a direct, frightened way, ducked under, appeared again,ducked under again, appeared once more, disappeared a lasttime. It was the bear-like, balding-looking head of a spottedhyena. Our zoo had a clan of six, two dominant females andfour subordinate males. They were supposed to be going toMinnesota. The one here was a male. I recognized it by itsright ear, which was badly torn, its healed jagged edgetestimony to old violence. Now I understood why RichardParker had not killed the zebra: he was no longer aboard. There couldn't be both a hyena and a tiger in such a smallspace. He must have fallen off the tarpaulin and drowned. I had to explain to myself how a hyena had come to be onthe lifeboat. I doubted hyenas were capable of swimming inopen seas. I concluded that it must have been on board allalong, hiding under the tarpaulin, and that I hadn't noticed itwhen I landed with a bounce. I realized something else: thehyena was the reason those sailors had thrown me into thelifeboat. They weren't trying to save my life. That was the lastof their concerns. They were using me as fodder. They werehoping that the hyena would attack me and that somehow Iwould get rid of it and make the boat safe for them, nomatter if it cost me my life. Now I knew what they werepointing at so furiously just before the zebra appeared. I never thought that finding myself confined in a small spacewith a spotted hyena would be good news, but there you go. In fact, the good news was double: if it weren't for this hyena,the sailors wouldn't have thrown me into the lifeboat and Iwould have stayed on the ship and I surely would havedrowned; and if I had to share quarters with a wild animal,better the upfront ferocity of a dog than the power and stealthof a cat. I breathed the smallest sigh of relief. As aprecautionary measure I moved onto the oar. I sat astride it,on the rounded edge of the speared lifebuoy, my left footagainst the tip of the prow, my right foot on the gunnel. Itwas comfortable enough and I was facing the boat. I looked about. Nothing but sea and sky. The same whenwe were at the top of a swell. The sea briefly imitated everyland feature - every hill, every valley, every plain. Acceleratedgeotectonics. Around the world in eighty swells. But nowhere onit could I find my family. Things floated in the water but nonethat brought me hope. I could see no other lifeboats. The weather was changing rapidly. The sea, so immense, sobreathtakingly immense, was settling into a smooth and steadymotion, with the waves at heel; the wind was softening to atuneful breeze; fluffy, radiantly white clouds were beginning tolight up in a vast fathomless dome of delicate pale blue. It wasthe dawn of a beautiful day in the Pacific Ocean. My shirt wasalready beginning to dry. The night had vanished as quickly asthe ship. I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was eitherfixed on practical details of immediate survival or transfixed bypain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands at myhead. Chapter 42 She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light,as lovely as the Virgin Mary. The rising sun was behind her. Her flaming hair looked stunning. I cried, "Oh blessed Great Mother, Pondicherry fertilitygoddess, provider of milk and love, wondrous arm spread ofcomfort, terror of ticks, picker-up of crying ones, are you towitness this tragedy too? It's not right that gentleness meethorror. Better that you had died right away. How bitterly gladI am to see you. You bring joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be forlong. What do you know about the sea? Nothing. What do Iknow about the sea? Nothing. Without a driver this bus is lost. Our lives are over. Come aboard if your destination is oblivion- it should be our next stop. We can sit together. You canhave the window seat, if you want. But it's a sad view. Oh,enough of this dissembling. Let me say it plainly: I love you, Ilove you, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Notthe spiders, please."It was Orange Juice - so called because she tended to drool- our prize Borneo orang-utan matriarch, zoo star and motherof two fine boys, surrounded by a mass of black spiders thatcrawled around her like malevolent worshippers. The bananason which she floated were held together by the nylon net withwhich they had been lowered into the ship. When she steppedoff the bananas into the boat, they bobbed up and rolled over. The net became loose. Without thinking about it, only becauseit was at hand's reach and about to sink, I took hold of thenet and pulled it aboard, a casual gesture that would turn outto be a lifesaver in many ways; this net would become one ofmy most precious possessions. The bananas came apart. The black spiders crawled as fastas they could, but their situation was hopeless. The islandcrumbled beneath them. They all drowned. The lifeboat brieflyfloated in a sea of fruit. I had picked up what I thought was a useless net, but did Ithink of reaping from this banana manna? No. Not a singleone. It was banana split in the wrong sense of the term: thesea dispersed them. This colossal waste would later weigh onme heavily. I would nearly go into convulsions of dismay at mystupidity. Orange Juice was in a fog. Her gestures were slow andtentative and her eyes reflected deep mental confusion. She wasin a state of profound shock. She lay flat on the tarpaulin forseveral minutes, quiet and still, before reaching over and fallinginto the lifeboat proper. I heard a hyena's scream. Chapter 43 The last trace I saw of the ship was a patch of oilglimmering on the surface of the water. I was certain I wasn't alone. It was inconceivable that theTsimtsum should sink without eliciting a peep of concern. Rightnow in Tokyo, in Panama City, in Madras, in Honolulu, why,even in Winnipeg, red lights were blinking on consoles, alarmbells were ringing, eyes were opening wide in horror, mouthswere gasping, "My God! The Tsimtsum has sunk!" and handswere reaching for phones. More red lights were starting toblink and more alarm bells were starting to ring. Pilots wererunning to their planes with their shoelaces still untied, suchwas their hurry. Ship officers were spinning their wheels tillthey were feeling dizzy. Even submarines were swervingunderwater to join in the rescue effort. We would be rescuedsoon. A ship would appear on the horizon. A gun would befound to kill the hyena and put the zebra out of its misery. Perhaps Orange Juice could be saved. I would climb aboardand be greeted by my family. They would have been pickedup in another lifeboat. I only had to ensure my survival for thenext few hours until this rescue ship came. I reached from my perch for the net. I rolled it up andtossed it midway on the tarpaulin to act as a barrier, howeversmall. Orange Juice had seemed practically cataleptic. My guesswas she was dying of shock. It was the hyena that worriedme. I could hear it whining. I clung to the hope that a zebra,a familiar prey, and an orang-utan, an unfamiliar one, woulddistract it from thoughts of me. I kept one eye on the horizon, one eye on the other end ofthe lifeboat. Other than the hyena's whining, I heard very littlefrom the animals, no more than claws scuffing against a hardsurface and occasional groans and arrested cries. No majorfight seemed to be taking place. Mid-morning the hyena appeared again. In the precedingminutes its whining had been rising in volume to a scream. Itjumped over the zebra onto the stern, where the lifeboat's sidebenches came together to form a triangular bench. It was afairly exposed position, the distance between bench and gunnelbeing about twelve inches. The animal nervously peered beyondthe boat. Beholding a vast expanse of shifting water seemed tobe the last thing it wanted to see, for it instantly brought itshead down and dropped to the bottom of the boat behind thezebra. That was a cramped space; between the broad back ofthe zebra and the sides of the buoyancy tanks that went allround the boat beneath the benches, there wasn't much roomleft for a hyena. It thrashed about for a moment beforeclimbing to the stern again and jumping back over the zebrato the middle of the boat, disappearing beneath the tarpaulin. This burst of activity lasted less than ten seconds. The hyenacame to within fifteen feet of me. My only reaction was tofreeze with fear. The zebra, by comparison, swiftly reared itshead and barked. I was hoping the hyena would stay under the tarpaulin. Iwas disappointed. Nearly immediately it leapt over the zebraand onto the stern bench again. There it turned on itself a fewtimes, whimpering and hesitating. I wondered what it was goingto do next. The answer came quickly: it brought its head lowand ran around the zebra in a circle, transforming the sternbench, the side benches and the cross bench just beyond thetarpaulin into a twenty-five-foot indoor track. It did one lap -two - three - four - five - and onwards, non-stop, till I lostcount. And the whole time, lap after lap, it went yip yip yipyip yip in a high-pitched way. My reaction, once again, wasvery slow. I was seized by fear and could only watch. Thebeast was going at a good clip, and it was no small animal; itwas an adult male that looked to be about 140 pounds. Thebeating of its legs against the benches made the whole boatshake, and its claws were loudly clicking on their surface. Eachtime it came from the stern I tensed. It was hair-raisingenough to see the thing racing my way; worse still was thefear that it would keep going straight. Clearly, Orange Juice,wherever she was, would not be an obstacle. And the rolled-uptarpaulin and the bulge of the net were even more pitifuldefences. With the slightest of efforts the hyena could be at thebow right at my feet. It didn't seem intent on that course ofaction; every time it came to the cross bench, it took it, and Isaw the upper half of its body moving rapidly along the edgeof the tarpaulin. But in this state, the hyena's behaviour washighly unpredictable and it could decide to attack me withoutwarning. After a number of laps it stopped short at the stern benchand crouched, directing its gaze downwards, to the space belowthe tarpaulin. It lifted its eyes and rested them upon me. Thelook was nearly the typical look of a hyena - blank and frank,the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed,jaw hanging open, big ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright andblack - were it not for the strain that exuded from every cellof its body, an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with afever. I prepared for my end. For nothing. It started runningin circles again. When an animal decides to do something, it can do it for avery long time. All morning the hyena ran in circles going yipyip yip yip yip. Once in a while it briefly stopped at thestern bench, but otherwise every lap was identical to theprevious one, with no variations in movement, in speed, in thepitch or the volume of the yipping, in the counter-clockwisedirection of travel. Its yipping was shrill and annoying in theextreme. It became so tedious and draining to watch that Ieventually turned my head to the side, trying to keep guardwith the corner of my eyes. Even the zebra, which at firstsnorted each time the hyena raced by its head, fell into astupor. Yet every time the hyena paused at the stern bench, myheart jumped. And as much as I wanted to direct my attentionto the horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying backto this maniacal beast. I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but itis a plain fact that the spotted hyena is not well served by itsappearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck andhigh shoulders that slope to the hindquarters look as if they'vecome from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and itsshaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together fromthe leftovers of creation. The colour is a bungled mix of tan,black, yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classyostentation of a leopard's rosettes; they look rather like thesymptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. Thehead is broad and too massive, with a high forehead, like thatof a bear, but suffering from a receding hairline, and with earsthat look ridiculously mouse-like, large and round, when theyhaven't been torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open andpanting. The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly andunwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put togetherlook doglike, but like no dog anyone would want as a pet. But I had not forgotten Father's words. These were notcowardly carrion-eaters. If National Geographic portrayed themas such, it was because National Geographic filmed during theday. It is when the moon rises that the hyena's day starts, andit proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas attack in packswhatever animal can be run down, its flanks opened while stillin full motion. They go for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes,and not only the old or the infirm in a herd - full-grownmembers too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from buttingsand kickings immediately, never giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that can be distracted from itsmother is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, buthyenas also eat young lions and young rhinoceros. They arediligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat,all that will be left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet bedragged away and gnawed down at leisure by young ones inthe lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which bloodhas been spilt will be eaten. Hyenas' stomachs swell visibly asthey swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, theybecome so full they have difficulty moving. Once they'vedigested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which theypick clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidentalcannibalism is a common occurrence during the excitement of afeeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take inthe ear or nostril of a clan member, no hard feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are toomany to admit to disgust at anything. In fact, a hyena's catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate itnearly forces admiration. A hyena will drink from water evenas it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use forits urine: in hot, dry weather it will cool itself by relieving itsbladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing mud bathwith its paws. Hyenas snack on the excrement of herbivoreswith clucks of pleasure. It's an open question as to whathyenas wont eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of thosewhose ears and noses they gobbled down as appetizers) oncethey're dead, after a period of aversion that lasts about oneday. They will even attack motor vehicles - the headlights, theexhaust pipe, the side mirrors. It is not their gastric juices thatlimit hyenas, but the power of their jaws, which is formidable. That was the animal I had racing around in circles beforeme. An animal to pain the eye and chill the heart. Things ended in typical hyena fashion. It stopped at thestern and started producing deep groans interrupted by fits ofheavy panting. I pushed myself away on the oar till only thetips of my feet were holding on to the boat. The animalhacked and coughed. Abruptly it vomited. A gush landedbehind the zebra. The hyena dropped into what it had justproduced. It stayed there, shaking and whining and turningaround on itself,, exploring the furthest confines of animalanguish. It did not move from the restricted space for the restof the day. At times the zebra made noises about the predatorjust behind it, but mostly it lay in hopeless and sullen silence. Chapter 44 The sun climbed through the sky, reached its zenith, beganto come down. I spent the entire day perched on the oar,moving only as much as was necessary to stay balanced. Mywhole being tended towards the spot on the horizon that wouldappear and save me. It was a state of tense, breathlessboredom. Those first hours are associated in my memory withone sound, not one you'd guess, not the yipping of the hyenaor the hissing of the sea: it was the buzzing of flies. Therewere flies aboard the lifeboat. They emerged and flew about inthe way of flies, in great, lazy orbits except when they cameclose to each other, when they spiralled together with dizzyingspeed and a burst of buzzing. Some were brave enough toventure out to where I was. They looped around me, soundinglike sputtering, single-prop airplanes, before hurrying home. Whether they were native to the boat or had come with oneof the animals, the hyena most likely, I can't say. But whatevertheir origin, they didn't last long; they all disappeared withintwo days. The hyena, from behind the zebra, snapped at themand ate a number. Others were probably swept out to sea bythe wind. Perhaps a few lucky ones came to their life's termand died of old age. As evening approached, my anxiety grew. Everything aboutthe end of the day scared me. At night a ship would havedifficulty seeing me. At night the hyena might become activeagain and maybe Orange Juice too. Darkness came. There was no moon. Clouds hid the stars. The contours of things became hard to distinguish. Everythingdisappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. The sea wasquiet and there was hardly any wind, so I couldn't evenground myself in sound. I seemed to be floating in pure,abstract blackness. I kept my eyes fixed on where I thoughtthe horizon was, while my ears were on guard for any sign ofthe animals. I couldn't imagine lasting the night. Sometime during the night the hyena began snarling and thezebra barking and squealing, and I heard a repeated knockingsound. I shook with fright and - I will hide nothing here -relieved myself in my pants. But these sounds came from theother end of the lifeboat. I couldn't feel any shaking thatindicated movement. The hellish beast was apparently stayingaway from me. From nearer in the blackness I began hearingloud expirations and groans and grunts and various wet mouthsounds. The idea of Orange Juice stirring was too much formy nerves to bear, so I did not consider it. I simply ignoredthe thought. There were also noises coming from beneath me,from the water, sudden flapping sounds and swishing soundsthat were over and done with in an instant. The battle for lifewas taking place there too. The night passed, minute by slow minute. Chapter 45 I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn'tconcern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet byimperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea opened uparound me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly itwas day. Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electricallylit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't need to waitthat long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it camealive in me: hope. As things emerged in outline and filled withcolour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh,what it was to bask in it! Things would work out yet. Theworst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would berescued. To think that, to string those words together in mymind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As thehorizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. Theday was clear again and visibility was perfect. I imagined Raviwould greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he wouldsay. "You find yourself a great big lifeboat and you fill it withanimals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father wouldbe unshaven and dishevelled. Mother would look to the skyand take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions ofwhat it was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations onthe theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon mightcurve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile. Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time thatI looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat. The hyenahad attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it waschewing on a piece of hide. My eyes automatically searched forthe wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror. The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten itoff and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A flap ofskin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently, without showyremonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth wasthe only visible sign of distress. Shock, revulsion and angersurged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. Ithought of doing something to, kill it. But I did nothing. Andmy outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. Ididn't have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When yourown life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by aterrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it wassuffering so much - and being such a big, strapping creatureit wasn't at the end of its ordeal - but there was nothing Icould do about it. I felt pity and then I moved on. This is notsomething I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous aboutthe matter. I have not forgotten that poor zebra and what itwent through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it. There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes tothe horizon again. That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticedsomething about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it floated lightlyon the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than itscapacity. We had plenty of freeboard, the distance between thewater and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also meant that whatever end of the boat was facing thewind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beatingagainst the hull, while larger waves made for a tiresome rollingof the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky andincessant motion was making me feel queasy. Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid downthe oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing the waves,with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena,but it wasn't stirring. It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating onmaking my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I hadimagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath thetarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she could get. Not so. Shewas on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the hyena'sindoor track and barely hidden from me by the bulge ofrolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her head only an inch or so andright away I saw her. Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despitethe rolling of the boat I brought myself to a kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juicecame into sight. She was deeply slouched and holding on tothe gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very lowbetween her arms. Her mouth was open and her tongue waslolling about. She was visibly panting. Despite the tragedyafflicting me, despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled oneword: seasickness. The image of a new species popped intomy head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned tomy sitting position. The poor dear looked so humanly sick! Itis a particularly funny thing to read human traits in animals,especially in apes and monkeys, where it is so easy. Simiansare the clearest mirrors we have in the animal world. That iswhy they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I broughtmy hands to my chest, surprised at how I felt. Oh my. Thislaughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. AndOrange Juice had not only cheered me up; she had also takenon both our feelings of seasickness. I was feeling fine now. I returned to scrutinizing the horizon, my hopes high. Besides being deathly seasick, there was something else aboutOrange Juice that was remarkable: she was uninjured. And shehad her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she couldsafely ignore it. The ecosystem on this lifeboat was decidedlybaffling. Since there are no natural conditions in which aspotted hyena and an orang-utan can meet, there being noneof the first in Borneo and none of the second in Africa, thereis no way of knowing how they would relate. But it seemed tome highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that whenbrought together these frugiv-orous tree-dwellers andcarnivorous savannah-dwellers would so radically carve out theirniches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely anorangutan would smell of prey to a hyena, albeit a strange one,one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendoushairballs, nonetheless better-tasting than an exhaust pipe andwell worth looking out for when near trees. And surely ahyena would smell of a predator to an orang-utan, a reasonfor being vigilant when a piece of durian has been dropped tothe ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If goats could be brought to liveamicably with rhinoceros, why not orang-utans with hyenas? That would be a big winner at a zoo. A sign would have to beput up. I could see it already: "Dear Public, Do not be afraidfor the orang-utans! They are in the trees because that iswhere they live, not because they are afraid of the spottedhyenas. Come back at mealtime, or at sunset when they getthirsty, and you will see them climbing down from their treesand moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by thehyenas." Father would be fascinated. Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of whatwould become a dear, reliable friend of mine. There was abumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. Afew seconds later, so close to the boat I could have leaneddown and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a hawksbill,flippers lazily turning, head sticking out of the water. It wasstriking-looking in an ugly sort of way, with a rugged, yellowishbrown shell about three feet long and spotted with patches ofalgae, and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, twosolid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that stared at meintently. The expression was haughty and severe, like that of anill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind. Thequeerest thing about the reptile was simply that it was. Itlooked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in itsshape compared to the sleek, slippery design of fish. Yet it wasplainly in its element and it was I who was the odd one out. It hovered by the boat for several minutes. I said to it, "Go tell a ship I'm here. Go, go." It turned andsank out of sight, back flippers pushing water in alternatestrokes. Chapter 46 Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear,and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of unbendingmy smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was theworst of my life. I have so many bad nights to choose fromthat I've made none the champion. Still, that second night atsea stands in my memory as one of exceptional suffering,different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being amore conventional sort of suffering, the broken-down kindconsisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, anddifferent from later ones in that I still had the strength toappreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night waspreceded by a dreadful evening. I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. Thesun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It was aplacid explosion of orange and red, a great chromaticsymphony, a colour canvas of supernatural proportions, truly asplendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks weremakos - swift, pointy-snouted predators with long, murderousteeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They wereabout six or seven feet long, one was larger still. I watchedthem anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as ifto attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by severalinches, but it dipped below just before reaching us and glidedunderfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so closethis time, then disappeared. The other sharks paid a longervisit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sightat hand's reach below the surface of the water, others deeperdown. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful,differently shaped. I might have considered them more closelyhad my attention not been drawn elsewhere: Orange Juice'shead came into sight. She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in amotion that imitated exactly the way you or I would bring outan arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our ownin a gesture of expansive relaxation. But such was clearly nother disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad andmournful, she began to look about, slowly turning her headfrom side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusingcharacter. She had given birth at the zoo to two young ones,strapping males five and eight years old that were her - andour - pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mindas she searched over the water, unintentionally mimicking whatI had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed meand expressed nothing about it. I was just another animal thathad lost everything and was vowed to death. My moodplummeted. Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. Ithadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It put itsfront legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered afold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A strip of hide cameoff the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in asmooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin,and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth likea river. Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to lifeto defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared its headin an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out ofreach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no more thanexplain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was thehoof beating against the side of the boat. The zebra's attemptsat self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy ofsnarling and biting. It made a gaping wound in the zebra'sside. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it hadfrom behind the zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. Itstarted pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera. Therewas no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowedthere, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches before it. Afterdevouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish,balloon-like stomach bag. But it was heavy, and with thezebra's haunches being higher than its belly - and blood beingslippery - the hyena started to slide into its victim. It plungedhead and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees ofits front legs. It pushed itself out, only to slide back down. Itfinally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra wasbeing eaten alive from the inside. It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming outits nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head straight up, as ifappealing to heaven - the abomination of the moment wasperfectly expressed. Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. Sheraised herself to her full height on her bench. With herincongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like arefrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her giant arms riftedin the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater thanher height - one hand hung over the water, the other reachedacross the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. Shepulled back her lips, showing off enormous canines, and beganto roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for ananimal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was asstartled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and retreated. Butnot for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairson its neck and shoulders stood up and its tail rose straight inthe air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blooddripping from its mouth, it responded to Orange Juice in kind,with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feetapart, wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energiesinto their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort. I could seedeep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until aminute before had been carrying the whistling and whisperingof the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing hadthe circumstances been happier, was all at once filled with thisappalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with theear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderousblasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher range ofwhat my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled thelower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the criesof the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not onemore sound, could push into them and be registered. I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyenawas going to lunge at Orange Juice. I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but theydid. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard. Secondslater there was a hard knock against the boat, followed byanother. The water began to churn around us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the foodso close at hand. Their tail fins flashed out of the water, theirheads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraidwe would capsize - I thought the sharks would actually punchthrough the metal hull and sink us. With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed,but they were not to be distracted from their main business ofroaring in each other's faces. I was certain the shouting matchwould turn physical. Instead it broke off abruptly after a fewminutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises,turned away, and the hyena lowered its head and retreatedbehind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing,stopped knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell atlast. A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust andexcrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about,sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No ship, nothingat all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the daywas ending. When the sun slipped below the horizon, it wasnot only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my familyas well. With that second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain andgrief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thingto acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to losesomeone with whom you can share the experience of growingold, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and niecesand nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and giveit new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whoseguidance and help you seek, who supports you like a treetrunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that islike losing the sun above you. It is like losing - I'm sorry, Iwould rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spentthe whole night weeping and grieving, my face buried in myarms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating. Chapter 47 The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warmand the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that looked likebunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. Itheaved the lifeboat up and down in a regular motion. The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had atwo-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly eruptedvolcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light orgiving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its strictly essential parts, itcontinued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confinedto a tremor in the rear leg and an occasional blinking of theeyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustainso much injury and go on living. The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its nightof rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of taking inso much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juicewas in a dangerous mood too. She was fidgeting and showingher teeth. I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weakin body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into the water ifI tried to balance on the oar. The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and hadbecome perfectly indifferent to the hyena's occasional assaults. Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to anunbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange Juice wasgrunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a suddentheir complaining fused and shot up to top volume. The hyenajumped over the remains of the zebra and made for OrangeJuice. I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It wascertainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on Orange Juice'slife before she even had a chance to defend it. Iunderestimated her. I underestimated her grit. She thumped the beast on the head. It was somethingshocking. It made my heart melt with love and admiration andfear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discardedby her Indonesian owners? Her story was like that of everyinappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is boughtwhen it is small and cute. It gives much amusement to itsowners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itselfincapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makesit harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the sheet from itsnest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokinglypinches a morsel of food from its hands - over some suchseemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger andthe family is frightened. The very next day the pet finds itselfbouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of itshuman brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone inthe vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A clearing iscome to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roarsto life and its wheels kick up dirt and the pet sees all the onesit has known and loved looking at it from the back window asthe Jeep speeds away. It has been left behind. The pet doesnot understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as itshuman siblings are. It waits around for their return, trying toquell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies ofhunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked bydogs. Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She remainedgentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories fromwhen I was a child of her never-ending arms surrounding me,her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at myhair. She was a young female practising her maternal skills. Asshe matured into her full wild self, I observed her at adistance. I thought I knew her so well that I could predict herevery move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also herlimits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made merealize that I was wrong. All my life I had known only a partof her. She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump itwas. The beast's head hit the bench it had just reached,making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flatout, that I thought surely either the bench or its jaw or bothmust break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hairon its body as erect as the hairs on my head, but its hostilitywasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. OrangeJuice's stirring defence brought a glow to my heart. It didn't last long. An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult malespotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it becomeknown among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, hadshe loomed as large on the scales as she did in my heart, itmight have been another matter. But portly and overfed thoughshe was from living in the comfort of a zoo,even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Femaleorang-utans are half the size of males. But it is not simply aquestion of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was farfrom defenceless. What it comes down to is attitude andknowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Wherewould it learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? Anorang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile armsand long canines, but if it does not know how to use these asweapons, they are of little use. The hyena, with only its jaws,will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and howto get it. The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caughtOrange Juice at the wrist before she could strike. Orange Juicehit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blowonly made the beast snarl viciously. She made to bite, but thehyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lackedprecision and coherence. Her fear was something useless thatonly hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertlygot to her throat. Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juicethumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair while herthroat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end shereminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in such ahumanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made anattempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The hyena violently shookher. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, thehyena with her. I heard noises but no longer saw anything. I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficultyI stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in my eyes. Iwas no longer crying because of my family or because of myimpending death. I was far too numb to consider either. I wascrying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to getrest. I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at theend of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it made forthree or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach overthe net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And these efforts in alifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, itfelt like a great trek. When I laid my foot on the middle crossbench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if Ihad just stepped on solid ground. I planted both my feet onthe bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, butsince the capital moment of my life was coming up thisdizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. Iraised my hands to the level of my chest - the weapons Ihad against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her armswere spread wide open and her short legs were folded togetherand slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christon the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded. Theneck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to theeyes and killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself uponthe hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I lookeddown. Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker'shead. It was gigantic. It looked the size of the planet Jupiter tomy dazed senses. His paws were like volumes ofEncyclopaedia Britannica. I made my way back to the bow and collapsed. I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I hadslept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger. Chapter 48 Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. Apanther was terrorizing the Khulna district of Bangladesh, justoutside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was found of her was a tiny hand with a hennapattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was theseventh person killed in two months by the marauder. And itwas growing bolder. The previous victim was a man who hadbeen attacked in broad daylight in his field. The beast draggedhim off into the forest, where it ate a good part of his head,the flesh off his right leg and all his innards. His corpse wasfound hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept a watchnearby that night, hoping to surprise the panther and kill it,but it never appeared. The Forest Department hired aprofessional hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in atree near a river where two of the attacks had taken place. Agoat was tied to a stake on the rivers bank. The hunter waitedseveral nights. He assumed the panther would be an old,wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anythingmore difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger thatstepped into the open one night. A female with a single cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be aboutthree months old, paid little attention to the goat. It raced tothe waters edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followedsuit. Of hunger and thirst, thirst is the greater imperative. Onlyonce the tiger had quenched her thirst did she turn to thegoat to satisfy her hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the other with immobilizing darts. Thisanimal was not the man-eater, but so close to humanhabitation she might pose a threat to the villagers, especially asshe was with cub. He picked up the gun with the darts. Hefired as the tiger was about to fell the goat. The tiger rearedup and snarled and raced away. But immobilizing darts don'tbring on sleep gently, like a good cup of tea; they knock outlike a bottle of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity onthe animal's part makes it act all the faster. The hunter calledhis assistants on the radio. They found the tiger about twohundred yards from the river. She was still conscious. Herback legs had given way and her balance on her front legswas woozy. When the men got close, she tried to get away butcould not manage it. She turned on them, lifting a paw thatwas meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. Shecollapsed and the Pondicherry Zoo had two new tigers. Thecub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. Thehunter, whose name was Richard Parker, picked it up with hisbare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to drink inthe river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at theHowrah train station was evidently a man both befuddled anddiligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly statedthat its name was Richard Parker, that the hunter's first namewas Thirsty and that his family name was None Given. Fatherhad had a good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker'sname had stuck. I don't know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eatingpanther. Chapter 49 In the morning I could not move. I was pinned byweakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was exhausting. Iapplied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as acaravan of camels crossing a desert, some thoughts cametogether. The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, theclouds low, the breeze light. That was one thought. The boatwas rocking gently, that was another. I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had adrop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in threedays. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness broughtme a little strength. Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directlybeneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need consentto be true, but it was only after much deliberation, uponassessing various mental items and points of view, that Iconcluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or amisplaced memory or a fancy or any other such falsity, but asolid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitatedstate. The truth of it would be confirmed as soon as I felt wellenough to investigate. How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long was aconundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I hadmore energy. The feat surely made Richard Parker the largeststowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of tail he took up over a third of thelength of the ship he was on. You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And asa result I perked up and felt much better. We see that insports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger startsstrong but soon loses confidence in his playing. The championracks up the games. But in the final set, when the challengerhas nothing left to lose, he becomes relaxed again, insouciant,daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the championmust work hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was soobviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't evenworth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parchedthroat? I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that Iwas quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the word hadpopped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as ifthe word itself were salty and the more I thought of it, theworse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceedsas a compelling sensation the thirst for water. Only for a fewminutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfortof asphyxiation goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His onlycomplaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that evenGod Incarnate complains about it, imagine the effect on aregular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. Ihave never known a worse physical hell than this putrid tasteand pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at theback of the throat, this sensation that my blood was turning toa thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tigerwas nothing. And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker andfearlessly went exploring for fresh water. The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a springgushed water when I remembered that I was on a genuine,regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfittedwith supplies. That seemed like a perfectly reasonableproposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way toensure the safety of his crew? What ship chandler would notthink of making a little extra money under the noble guise ofsaving lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I hadto do was find it. Which meant I had to move. I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of thetarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the side ofa volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boilingcauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I carefully brought my headover. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did notsee Richard Parker. The hyena was plainly visible, though. Itwas back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking atme. I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet myheart didn't skip a beat. Richard Parker's presence had at leastthat useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog whenthere was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters whentrees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I muttered. The only reason I didn'tstand up and beat it off the lifeboat with a stick was lack ofstrength and stick, not lack of heart. Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say toitself, "Super alpha is watching me - I better not move"? Idon't know. At any rate, it didn't move. In fact, in the way itducked its head it seemed to want to hide from me. But itwas no use hiding. It would get its just deserts soon enough. Richard Parker also explained the animals' strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena had confined itself to such anabsurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waitedso long before killing it. It was fear of the greater beast andfear of touching the greater beast's food. The strained,temporary peace between Orange Juice and the hyena, and myreprieve, were no doubt due to the same reason: in the faceof such a superior predator, all of us were prey, and normalways of preying were affected. It seemed the presence of atiger had saved me from a hyena - surely a textbook exampleof jumping from the frying pan into the fire. But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, tosuch an extent that the hyena had taken liberties. RichardParker's passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways could I account for it: sedation andseasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animalsto lessen their stress. Might he have sedated Richard Parkershortly before the ship sank? Had the shock of the shipwreck- the noises, the falling into the sea, the terrible struggle toswim to the lifeboat - increased the effect of the sedative? Hadseasickness taken over after that? These were the only plausibleexplanations I could come up with. I lost interest in the question. Only water interested me. I took stock of the lifeboat. Chapter 50 It was three and a half feet deep, eight feet wide andtwenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it was printed onone of the side benches in black letters. It also said that thelifeboat was designed to accommodate a maximum of thirty-twopeople. Wouldn't that have been merry, sharing it with somany? Instead we were three and it was awfully crowded. Theboat was symmetrically shaped, with rounded ends that werehard to tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixedrudder, no more than a rearward extension of the keel, whilethe bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with thesaddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The aluminumhull was studded with rivets and painted white. That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not asspacious as might be expected because of the side benches andthe buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length ofthe boat, merging at the bow and stern to form end benchesthat were roughly triangular in shape. The benches were thetop surfaces of the sealed buoyancy tanks. The side bencheswere one and a half feet wide and the end benches werethree feet deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twentyfeet long and five feet wide. That made a territory of onehundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this spacewidthwise were three cross benches, including the one smashedby the zebra. These benches were two feet wide and wereevenly spaced. They were two feet above the floor of the boat- the play Richard Parker had before he would knock hishead against the ceiling, so to speak, if he were beneath abench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches ofspace, the distance between the gunnel, which supported thetarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enoughfor him to stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks oftreated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the buoyancytanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat hadrounded ends and rounded sides, but the interior volume wasrectangular. It seems orange - such a nice Hindu colour - is the colourof survival because the whole inside of the boat and thetarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars andmost every other significant object aboard was orange. Eventhe plastic, beadless whistles were orange. The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on eachside of the bow in stark, black, roman capitals. The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough onthe skin after a while. It had been unrolled to just past themiddle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneaththe tarpaulin, in Richard Parker's den; the middle cross benchwas just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open; andthe third cross bench lay broken beneath the dead zebra. There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel forholding an oar in place, and five oars, since I had lost onetrying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on oneside bench, one rested on the other and one made up mylife-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars as ameans of propulsion. This lifeboat was no racing shell. It was aheavy, solid construction designed for stolid floating, not fornavigating, though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two torow we could have made some headway. I did not grasp all these details - and many more - rightaway. They came to my notice with time and as a result ofnecessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleakfuture, when some small thing, some detail, would transformitself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would nolonger be the small thing it was before, but the most importantthing in the world, the thing that would save my life. Thishappened time and again. How true it is that necessity is themother of invention, how very true. Chapter 51 But that first time I had a good look at the lifeboat I didnot see the detail I wanted. The surface of the stern and sidebenches was continuous and unbroken, as were the sides ofthe buoyancy tanks. The floor lay flat against the hull; therecould be no cache beneath it. It was certain: there was nolocker or box or any other sort of container anywhere. Onlysmooth, uninterrupted orange surfaces. My estimation of captains and ship chandlers wavered. Myhopes for survival flickered. My thirst remained. And what if the supplies were at the bow, beneath thetarpaulin? I turned and crawled back. I felt like a dried-outlizard. I pushed down on the tarpaulin. It was tautly stretched. If I unrolled it, I would give myself access to what suppliesmight be stored below. But that meant creating an openingonto Richard Parker's den. There was no question. Thirst pushed me on. I eased theoar from under the tarpaulin. I placed the lifebuoy around mywaist. I laid the oar across the bow. I leaned over the gunneland with my thumbs pushed from under one of the hooks therope that held down the tarpaulin. I had a difficult time of it. But after the first hook, it was easier with the second and thethird. I did the same on the other side of the stem. Thetarpaulin became slack beneath my elbows. I was lying flat onit, my legs pointed towards the stern. I unrolled it a little. Immediately I was rewarded. The bowwas like the stern; it had an end bench. And upon it, just afew inches from the stem, a hasp glittered like a diamond. There was the outline of a lid. My heart began to pound. Iunrolled the tarpaulin further. I peeked under. The lid wasshaped like a rounded-out triangle, three feet wide and two feetdeep. At that moment I perceived an orange mass. I jerkedmy head back. But the orange wasn't moving and didn't lookright. I looked again. It wasn't a tiger. It was a life jacket. There were a number of life jackets at the back of RichardParker's den. A shiver went through my body. Between the life jackets,partially, as if through some leaves, I had my first,unambiguous, clear-headed glimpse of Richard Parker. It washis haunches I could see, and part of his back. Tawny andstriped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flaton his stomach. He was still except for the breathing motion ofhis sides. I blinked in disbelief at how close he was. He wasright there, two feet beneath me. Stretching, I could havepinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but athin tarpaulin, easily got round. "God preserve me!" No supplication was ever morepassionate yet more gently carried by the breath. I layabsolutely motionless. I had to have water. I brought my hand down and quietlyundid the hasp. I pulled on the lid. It opened onto a locker. I have just mentioned the notion of details that becomelifesavers. Here was one: the lid was hinged an inch or sofrom the edge of the bow bench - which meant that as thelid opened, it became a barrier that closed off the twelve inchesof open space between tarpaulin and bench through whichRichard Parker could get to me after pushing aside the lifejackets. I opened the lid till it fell against the crosswise oar andthe edge of the tarpaulin. I moved onto the stem, facing theboat, one foot on the edge of the open locker, the otheragainst the lid. If Richard Parker decided to attack me frombelow, he would have to push on the lid. Such a push wouldboth warn me and help me fall backwards into the water withthe lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop thetarpaulin from astern, I was in the best position to see himearly and, again, take to the water. I looked about the lifeboat. I couldn't see any sharks. I looked down between my legs. I thought I would faint forjoy. The open locker glistened with shiny new things. Oh, thedelight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, thecreated thing! That moment of material revelation brought anintensity of pleasure - a heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief,thrill, gratitude, all crushed into one - unequalled in my life byany Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-givingoccasion. I was positively giddy with happiness. My eyes immediately fell upon what I was looking for. Whether in a bottle, a tin can or a carton, water isunmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life wasserved in pale golden cans that fit nicely in the hand. DrinkingWater said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the vintners. 500 ml were the contents. There werestacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance. With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. Itwas cool to the touch and heavy. I shook it. The bubble of airinside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to bedelivered from my hellish thirst. My pulse raced at the thought. I only had to open the can. I paused. How would I do that? I had a can - surely I had a can opener? I looked in thelocker. There was a great quantity of things. I rummagedabout. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run itsfruitful course. I had to drink now - or I would die. I couldnot find the desired instrument. But there was no time foruseless distress. Action was needed. Could I prise it open withmy fingernails? I tried. I couldn't. My teeth? It wasn't worthtrying. I looked over the gunnel. The tarpaulin hooks. Short,blunt, solid. I kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holdingthe can with both my hands, I sharply brought it up against ahook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint of dinting, I managed the trick. A pearl of waterappeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged theopposite side of the top against the hook to make anotherhole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat backon the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened mymouth. I tilted the can. My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardlybe described. To the gurgling beat of my greedy throat, pure,delicious, beautiful, crystalline water flowed into my system. Liquid life, it was. I drained that golden cup to the very lastdrop, sucking at the hole to catch any remaining moisture. Iwent, "Ahhhhhh!", tossed the can overboard and got anotherone. I opened it the way I had the first and its contentsvanished just as quickly. That can sailed overboard too, and Iopened the next one. Which, shortly, also ended up in theocean. Another can was dispatched. I drank four cans, twolitres of that most exquisite of nectars, before I stopped. Youmight think such a rapid intake of water after prolonged thirstmight upset my system. Nonsense! I never felt better in mylife. Why, feel my brow! My forehead was wet with fresh,clean, refreshing perspiration. Everything in me, right down tothe pores of my skin, was expressing joy. A sense of well-being quickly overcame me. My mouthbecame moist and soft. I forgot about the back of my throat. My skin relaxed. My joints moved with greater ease. My heartbegan to beat like a merry drum and blood started flowingthrough my veins like cars from a wedding party honking theirway through town. Strength and suppleness came back to mymuscles. My head became clearer. Truly, I was coming back tolife from the dead. It was glorious, it was glorious. I tell you, tobe drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk on water isnoble and ecstatic. I basked in bliss and plenitude for severalminutes. A certain emptiness made itself felt. I touched my belly. Itwas a hard and hollow cavity. Food would be nice now. Amasala dosai with a coconut chutney - hmmmmm! Evenbetter: oothappam! HMMMMM! Oh! I brought my hands tomy mouth - IDLI! The mere thought of the word provoked ashot of pain behind my jaws and a deluge of saliva in mymouth. My right hand started twitching. It reached and nearlytouched the delicious flattened balls of parboiled rice in myimagination. It sank its fingers into their steaming hot flesh… Itformed a ball soaked with sauce… It brought it to my mouth…I chewed… Oh, it was exquisitely painful! I looked into the locker for food. I found cartons of SevenOceans Standard Emergency Ration, from faraway, exoticBergen, Norway. The breakfast that was to make up for ninemissed meals, not to mention odd tiffins that Mother hadbrought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid andvacuum-packed in silver-coloured plastic that was covered withinstructions in twelve languages. In English it said the rationconsisted of eighteen fortified biscuits of baked wheat, animalfat and glucose, and that no more than six should be eaten ina twenty-four-hour period. Pity about the fat, but given theexceptional circumstances the vegetarian part of me wouldsimply pinch its nose and bear it. At the top of the block were the words Tear here to openand a black arrow pointing to the edge of the plastic. Theedge gave way under my fingers. Nine wax-paper-wrappedrectangular bars tumbled out. I unwrapped one. It naturallybroke into two. Two nearly square biscuits, pale in colour andfragrant in smell. I bit into one. Lord, who would havethought? I never suspected. It was a secret held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the best in the world! These biscuitswere amazingly good. They were savoury and delicate to thepalate, neither too sweet nor too salty. They broke up underthe teeth with a delightful crunching sound. Mixed with saliva,they made a granular paste that was enchantment to thetongue and mouth. And when I swallowed, my stomach hadonly one thing to say: Hallelujah! The whole package disappeared in a few minutes, wrappingpaper flying away in the wind. I considered opening anothercarton, but I thought better. No harm in exercising a littlerestraint. Actually, with half a kilo of emergency ration in mystomach, I felt quite heavy. I decided I should find out what exactly was in the treasurechest before me. It was a large locker, larger than its opening. The space extended right down to the hull and ran some littleways into the side benches. I lowered my feet into the lockerand sat on its edge, my back against the stem. I counted thecartons of Seven Ocean. I had eaten one; there were thirty-oneleft. According to the instructions, each 500-gram carton wassupposed to last one survivor three days. That meant I hadfood rations to last me - 31 X 3 - 93 days! The instructionsalso suggested survivors restrict themselves to half a litre ofwater every twenty-four hours. I counted the cans of water. There were 124. Each contained half a litre. So I had waterrations to last me 124 days. Never had simple arithmeticbrought such a smile to my face. What else did I have? I plunged my arm eagerly into thelocker and brought up one marvellous object after another. Each one, no matter what it was, soothed me. I was so sorelyin need of company and comfort that the attention brought tomaking each one of these mass-produced goods felt like aspecial attention paid to me. I repeatedly mumbled, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!" Chapter 52 After a thorough investigation, I made a complete list: ? 192 tablets of anti-seasickness medicine? 124 tin cans of fresh water, each containing 500 millilitres,so 62 litres in all? 32 plastic vomit bags? 31 cartons of emergency rations, 500 grams each, so 15.5kilos in all? 16 wool blankets? 12 solar stills? 10 or so orange life jackets, each with an orange, headlesswhistle attached by a string? 6 morphine ampoule syringes? 6 hand flares? 5 buoyant oars? 4 rocket parachute flares? 3 tough, transparent plastic bags, each with a capacity ofabout 50 litres? 3 can openers? 3 graduated glass beakers for drinking? 2 boxes of waterproof matches? 2 buoyant orange smoke signals? 2 mid-size orange plastic buckets? 2 buoyant orange plastic bailing cups? 2 multi-purpose plastic containers with airtight lids? 2 yellow rectangular sponges? 2 buoyant synthetic ropes, each 50 metres long? 2 non-buoyant synthetic ropes of unspecified length, buteach at least 30 metres long? 2 fishing kits with hooks, lines and sinkers? 2 gaffs with very sharp barbed hooks? 2 sea anchors? 2 hatchets? 2 rain catchers? 2 black ink ballpoint pens? 1 nylon cargo net? 1 solid lifebuoy with an inner diameter of 40 centimetresand an outer diameter of 80 centimetres, and an attached rope? 1 large hunting knife with a solid handle, a pointed endand one edge a sharp blade and the other a sawtoothedblade; attached by a long string to a ring in the locker? 1 sewing kit with straight and curving needles and strongwhite thread? 1 first-aid kit in a waterproof plastic case? 1 signalling mirror? 1 pack of filter-tipped Chinese cigarettes? 1 large bar of dark chocolate? 1 survival manual? 1 compass? 1 notebook with 98 lined pages? 1 boy with a complete set of light clothing but for one lostshoe? 1 spotted hyena? 1 Bengal tiger? 1 lifeboat? 1 ocean? 1 GodI ate a quarter of the large chocolate bar. I examined one ofthe rain catchers. It was a device that looked like an invertedumbrella with a good-sized catchment pouch and a connectingrubber tube. I crossed my arms on the lifebuoy around my waist,brought my head down and fell soundly asleep. Chapter 53 I slept all morning. I was roused by anxiety. That tide offood, water and rest that flowed through my weakened system,bringing me a new lease on life, also brought me the strengthto see how desperate my situation was. I awoke to the realityof Richard Parker. There was a tiger in the lifeboat. I couldhardly believe it, yet I knew I had to. And I had to savemyself. I considered jumping overboard and swimming away,but my body refused to move. I was hundreds of miles fromlandfall, if not over a thousand miles. I couldn't swim such adistance, even with a lifebuoy. What would I eat? What would Idrink? How would I keep the sharks away? How would I keepwarm? How would I know which way to go? There was not ashadow of doubt about the matter: to leave the lifeboat meantcertain death. But what was staying aboard? He would come atme like a typical cat, without a sound. Before I knew it hewould seize the back of my neck or my throat and I would bepierced by fang-holes. I wouldn't be able to speak. The lifebloodwould flow out of me unmarked by a final utterance. Or hewould kill me by clubbing me with one of his great paws,breaking my neck. "I'm going to die," I blubbered through quivering lips. Oncoming death is terrible enough, but worse still isoncoming death with time to spare, time in which all thehappiness that was yours and all the happiness that might havebeen yours becomes clear to you. You see with utter lucidity allthat you are losing. The sight brings on an oppressive sadnessthat no car about to hit you or water about to drown you canmatch. The feeling is truly unbearable. The words Father,Mother, Ravi, India, Winnipeg struck me with searingpoignancy. I was giving up. I would have given up - if a voice hadn'tmade itself heard in my heart. The voice said, "I will not die. Irefuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat theodds, as great as they are. I have survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine. The ‘amazing will be seenevery day. I will put in all the hard work necessary. Yes, solong as God is with me, I will not die. Amen."My face set to a grim and determined expression. I speak inall modesty as I say this, but I discovered at that moment thatI have a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in myexperience. Some of us give up on life with only a resignedsigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others - and Iam one of those - never give up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses we take, theimprobability of success. We fight to the very end. It's not aquestion of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability tolet go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity. Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if hehad been waiting for me to become a worthy opponent. Mychest became tight with fear. "Quick, man, quick," I wheezed. I had to organize mysurvival. Not a second to waste. I needed shelter and rightaway. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But nowthe tarpaulin was unrolled at the bow; there was nothing tohold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at theend of an oar provided real safety from Richard< Parker. Hemight easily reach and nab me. I had to find something else. My mind worked fast. I built a raft. The oars, if you remember, floated. And I hadlife jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy. With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneaththe tarpaulin for the extra oars on the side benches. RichardParker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As Idragged each oar out - you can imagine how carefully - hestirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three oars. A fourth was already resting crosswise on the tarpaulin. Iraised the locker lid to close the opening onto Richard Parker'sden. I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin aroundthe lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now squared by the oars. Myraft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centreas the first move. Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker's growling was now a deep rumble that shookthe air. The hyena responded with a whine, a wavering,high-pitched whine, a sure sign that trouble was on the way. I had no choice. I had to act. I lowered the lid again. Thelife jackets were at hand's reach. Some were right againstRichard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream. I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty graspingit, my hand was trembling so much. I pulled the jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another oneout. And another. I was feeling faint with fear. I was havinggreat difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I couldthrow myself overboard with these life jackets. I pulled a lastone out. I had four life jackets. Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked themthrough the armholes of the life jackets - in one armhole, outthe other - so that the life jackets became secured to the fourcorners of the raft. I tied each one shut. I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With theknife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed the four oars wherethey met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! Ateach corner I made ten knots and still I worried that the oarswould come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing mystupidity. A tiger aboard and I had waited three days andthree nights to save my life! I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied thelifebuoy to each side of the square. I wove the lifebuoy's ropethrough the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of thelifebuoy - all round the raft - as yet another precautionagainst the raft breaking into pieces. The hyena was now screaming at top pitch. One last thing to do. "God, give me the time," I implored. Itook the rest of the buoyant line. There was a hole that wentthrough the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought thebuoyant rope through it and hitched it. I only had to hitch theother end of the rope to the raft and I might be saved. The hyena fell silent. My heart stopped and then beat triplespeed. I turned. "Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu!"I saw a sight that will stay with me for the rest of my days. Richard Parker had risen and emerged. He was not fifteen feetfrom me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena's end had come, andmine. I stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in thrall to theaction before my eyes. My brief experience with the relations ofunconfmed wild animals in lifeboats had made me expect greatnoise and protest when the time came for bloodshed. But ithappened practically in silence. The hyena died neither whiningnor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore emerged from beneath thetarpaulin and made for the hyena. The hyena was leaningagainst the stern bench, behind the zebra's carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight. Instead it shrank to the floor, liftinga forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its facewas of terror. A massive paw landed on its shoulders. RichardParker's jaws closed on the side of the hyena's neck. Its glazedeyes widened. There was a noise of organic crunching aswindpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The hyena shook. Itseyes went dull. It was over. Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, privateand half-hearted, it seemed. He was panting, his tonguehanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook hishead. He sniffed the dead hyena. He raised his head high andsmelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern benchand lifted himself. His feet were wide apart. The rolling of theboat, though gentle, was visibly not to his liking. He lookedbeyond the gunnel at the open seas. He put out a low, meansnarl. He smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. Itturned - turned - turned full round - till he was lookingstraight at me. I wish I could describe what happened next,not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it. Ibeheld Richard Parker from the angle that showed him off togreatest effect: from the back, half-raised, with his head turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were anintentional, even affected, display of mighty art. And what art,what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evidentwas the lithesome grace of it. He was incredibly muscular, yethis haunches were thin and his glossy coat hung loosely on hisframe. His body, bright brownish orange streaked with blackvertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with atailor's eye for harmony by his pure white chest and undersideand the black rings of his long tail. His head was large andround, displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee andsome of the finest whiskers of the cat world, thick, long andwhite. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped likeperfect arches. His carrot orange face had a broad bridge anda pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy dabsof black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yetsubtle, for it brought less attention to itself than it did to theone part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whoserufous lustre shone nearly with a radiance. The patches ofwhite above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouthcame off as finishing touches worthy of a Kathakali dancer. Theresult was a face that looked like the wings of a butterfly andbore an expression vaguely old and Chinese. But when RichardParker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold andunflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possessionon the point of exploding with rage. His ears twitched and thenswivelled right around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly revealed was as long as mylongest finger. Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear. That's when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawnybrown rat materialized on the side bench, nervous andbreathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. Therat leapt onto the tarpaulin and raced my way. At the sight, inshock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and Ipractically fell into the locker. Before my incredulous eyes therodent hopped over the various parts of the raft, jumped ontome and climbed to the top of my head, where I felt its littleclaws clamping down on my scalp, holding on for dear life. Richard Parker's eyes had followed the rat. They were nowfixed on my head. He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of hisbody, moving his forepaws sideways along the side bench. Hedropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I couldsee the top of his head, his back and his long, curled tail. Hisears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at themiddle of the boat. Without effort the front half of his bodyrose in the air and his forepaws came to rest on the rolled-upedge of the tarpaulin. He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, hispaws - so big! so big! His teeth - an entire army battalion ina mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I wasabout to die. But the tarpaulin's strange softness bothered him. He pressedat it tentatively. He looked up anxiously - the exposure to somuch light and open space did not please him either. And therolling motion of the boat continued to unsettle him. For a briefmoment, Richard Parker was hesitating. I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it inmy mind as it sailed through the air - its outstretched clawsand erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker opened his maw and the squealing ratdisappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Itshairless tail vanished like a spaghetti noodle sucked into amouth. He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down andreturned beneath the tarpaulin. My legs instantly becamefunctional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again toblock the open space between bow bench and tarpaulin. I heard loud sniffing and the noise of a body being dragged. His shifting weight made the boat rock a little. I began hearingthe sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the middle of the boat. He was eating the hyena bygreat chunks, voraciously. This chance would not come again. Ireached and retrieved the remaining life jackets - six in all -and the last oar. They would go to improving the raft. Inoticed in passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of catpiss. It was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of theboat. It must have come from Richard Parker. So he wasindeed seasick. I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft werenow tethered. Next I attached a life jacket to each side of theraft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across thehole of the lifebuoy to act as a seat. I turned the last oar intoa footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about two feetfrom the lifebuoy, and tying the remaining life jacket to it. Myfingers trembled as I worked, and my breath was short andstrained. I checked and rechecked all my knots. I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. Nowhitecaps. The wind was low and constant. I looked down. There were fish - big fish with protruding foreheads and verylong dorsal fins, dorados they are called, and smaller fish, leanand long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still - and therewere sharks. I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it didnot float, I was as good as dead. It took to the waterbeautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was suchthat they pushed the oars and the lifebuoy right out of thewater. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched thewater, the fish scattered - except for the sharks. Theyremained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneaththe raft. Richard Parker growled. I felt like a prisoner being pushed off a plank by pirates. I brought the raft as close to the lifeboat as the protrudingtips of the oars would allow. I leaned out and lay my handson the lifebuoy. Through the "cracks" in the floor of the raft -yawning crevasses would be more accurate - I looked directlyinto the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard Richard Parkeragain. I flopped onto the raft on my stomach. I lay flat andspread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft tooverturn at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite rightthrough the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raftsank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dippingunderwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came close, but didnot touch. I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as far as therope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted outof the water and wavered in the air. It was a highly distressingsight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted toget back. This raft business was far too precarious. It onlyneeded a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone,or a large wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven ofcomfort and security. I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too small. Therewas just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft,mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a pond, but not for thePacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer Igot to the lifeboat, the slower I pulled. When I was next to thelifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating. I hesitated for long minutes. I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. Myoptions were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering oversharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parkerwas. Sharks, on the other hand, had not yet proved to bedangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to thelifeboat and to the raft. I let the rope out until I was thirty orso feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightlybalanced my two fears: being too close to Richard Parker andbeing too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so,I looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack ifthe need arose. The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcastand warm all day. Now the temperature dropped, and thedownpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops offresh water plopped loudly and wastefully into the sea, dimplingits surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bowI turned onto my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulledmyself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't insight. I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a raincatcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the survivalmanual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it- only to protect my precious goods from the rain - but thelid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In thevery act of revealing myself to Richard Parker by bringingdown what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise toattract his attention. He was crouched over the hyena. Hishead turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike beingdisturbed while they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. Hisclaws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell backonto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind andcurrent that widened the distance between raft and lifeboat soswiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker toburst forth from the boat, sailing through the air, teeth andclaws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longerI looked, the more unbearable was the expectation. He did not appear. By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my headand tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already soakedto the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell backonto the raft. I wrapped myself with it nonetheless. Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-blackdarkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at the raft toldme that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inchesbeneath me yet too far for my eyes, buffeted the raft. Fingersof water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet mybottom. Chapter 54 It rained all night. I had a horrible, sleepless time of it. Itwas noisy. On the rain catcher the rain made a drummingsound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, itmade a hissing sound, as if I were at the centre of a greatnest of angry snakes. Shifts in the wind changed the directionof the rain so that parts of me that were beginning to feelwarm were soaked anew. I shifted the rain catcher, only to beunpleasantly surprised a few minutes later when the windchanged once more. I tried to keep a small part of me dryand warm, around my chest, where I had placed the survivalmanual, but the wetness spread with perverse determination. Ispent the whole night shivering with cold. I worried constantlythat the raft would come apart, that the knots holding me tothe lifeboat would become loose, that a shark would attack. With my hands I checked the knots and lashings incessantly,trying to read them the way a blind man would read Braille. The rain grew stronger and the sea rougher as the nightprogressed. The rope to the lifeboat tautened with a jerk ratherthan with a tug, and the rocking of the raft became morepronounced and erratic. It continued to float, rising above everywave, but there was no freeboard and the surf of everybreaking wave rode clear across it, washing around me like ariver washing around a boulder. The sea was warmer than therain, but it meant that not the smallest part of me stayed drythat night. At least I drank. I wasn't really thirsty, but I forced myselfto drink. The rain catcher looked like an inverted umbrella, anumbrella blown open by the wind. The rain flowed to itscentre, where there was a hole. The hole was connected by arubber tube to a catchment pouch made of thick, transparentplastic. At first the water had a rubbery taste, but quickly therain rinsed the catcher and the water tasted fine. During those long, cold, dark hours, as the pattering of theinvisible rain got to be deafening, and the sea hissed and coiledand tossed me about, I held on to one thought: RichardParker. I hatched several plans to get rid of him so that thelifeboat might be mine. Plan Number One: Push Him off the Lifeboat. What goodwould that do? Even if I did manage to shove 450 pounds ofliving, fierce animal off the lifeboat, tigers are accomplishedswimmers. In the Sundarbans they have been known to swimfive miles in open, choppy waters. If he found himselfunexpectedly overboard, Richard Parker would simply treadwater, climb back aboard and make me pay the price for mytreachery. Plan Number Two: Kill Him with the Six MorphineSyringes. But I had no idea what effect they would have onhim. Would they be enough to kill him? And how exactly wasI supposed to get the morphine into his system? I couldremotely conceive surprising him once, for an instant, the wayhis mother had been when she was captured - but, tosurprise him long enough to give him six consecutiveinjections‘? Impossible. All I would do by pricking him with aneedle would be to get a cuff in return that would take myhead off. Plan Number Three: Attack Him with All AvailableWeaponry. Ludicrous. I wasn't Tarzan. I was a puny, feeble,vegetarian life form. In India it took riding atop great bigelephants and shooting with powerful rifles to kill tigers. Whatwas I supposed to do here? Fire off a rocket flare in his face? Go at him with a hatchet in each hand and a knife betweenmy teeth? Finish him off with straight and curving sewingneedles? If I managed to nick him, it would be a feat. Inreturn he would tear me apart limb by limb, organ by organ. For if there's one thing more dangerous than a healthy animal,it's an injured animal. Plan Number Four: Choke Him. I had rope. If I stayed atthe bow and got the rope to go around the stern and anoose to go around his neck, I could pull on the rope whilehe pulled to get at me. And so, in the very act of reaching forme, he would choke himself. A clever, suicidal plan. Plan Number Five: Poison Him, Set Him on Fire,Electrocute Him. How? With what? Plan Number Six: Wage a War of Attrition. All I had todo was let the unforgiving laws of nature run their course andI would be saved. Waiting for him to waste away and diewould require no effort on my part. I had supplies for monthsto come. What did he have? Just a few dead animals thatwould soon go bad. What would he eat after that? Better still: where would he get water? He might last for weeks withoutfood, but no animal, however mighty, can do without water forany extended period of time. A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like acandle in the night. I had a plan and it was a good one. Ionly needed to survive to put it into effect. Chapter 55 Dawn came and matters were worse for it. Because now,emerging from the darkness, I could see what before I hadonly felt, the great curtains of rain crashing down on me fromtowering heights and the waves that threw a path over meand trod me underfoot one after another. Dull-eyed, shaking and numb, one hand gripping the raincatcher, the other clinging to the raft, I continued to wait. Sometime later, with a suddenness emphasized by the silencethat followed, the rain stopped. The sky cleared and the wavesseemed to flee with the clouds. The change was as quick andradical as changing countries on land. I was now in a differentocean. Soon the sun was alone in the sky, and the ocean wasa smooth skin reflecting the light with a million mirrors. I was stiff, sore and exhausted, barely grateful to be stillalive. The words "Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, PlanNumber Six" repeated themselves in my mind like a mantraand brought me a small measure of comfort, though I couldn'trecall for the life of me what Plan Number Six was. Warmthstarted coming to my bones. I closed the rain catcher. Iwrapped myself with the blanket and curled up on my side insuch a way that no part of me touched the water. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. It was mid-morning when Iawoke, and hot. The blanket was nearly dry. It had been abrief bout of deep sleep. I lifted myself onto an elbow. All about me was flatness and infinity, an endless panoramaof blue. There was nothing to block my view. The vastness hitme like a punch in the stomach. I fell back, winded. This raftwas a joke. It was nothing but a few sticks and a little corkheld together by string. Water came through every crack. Thedepth beneath would make a bird dizzy. I caught sight of thelifeboat. It was no better than half a walnut shell. It held on tothe surface of the water like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff. It was only a matter of time before gravity pulled it down. My fellow castaway came into view. He raised himself ontothe gunnel and looked my way. The sudden appearance of atiger is arresting in any environment, but it was all the moreso here. The weird contrast between the bright, striped, livingorange of his coat and the inert white of the boat's hull wasincredibly compelling. My overwrought senses screeched to ahalt. Vast as the Pacific was around us, suddenly, between us,it seemed a very narrow moat, with no bars or walls. "Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six," mymind whispered urgently. But what was Plan Number Six? Ahyes. The war of attrition. The waiting game. Passivity. Lettingthings happen. The unforgiving laws of nature. The relentlessmarch of time and the hoarding of resources. That was PlanNumber Six. A thought rang in my mind like an angry shout: "You fooland idiot! You dimwit! You brainless baboon! Plan Number Sixis the wont plan of all! Richard Parker is afraid of the searight now. It was nearly his grave. But crazed with thirst andhunger he will surmount his fear, and he will do whatever isnecessary to appease his need. He will turn this moat into abridge. He will swim as far as he has to, to catch the driftingraft and the food upon it. As for water, have you forgottenthat tigers from the Sundarbans are known to drink salinewater? Do you really think you can outlast his kidneys? I tellyou, if you wage a war of attrition, you will lose it! You willdie! IS THAT CLEAR?" Chapter 56 I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary,how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law orconvention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot,which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind,always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed,happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannereddoubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbeliefand disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorlyarmed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. Youare reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weaponstechnology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics anda number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feelyourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread. Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already awarethat something terribly wrong is going on. Already your lungshave flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered awaylike a snake. Now your tongue drops dead like an opossum,while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles begin to shiver as if they had malaria and yourknees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heartstrains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And sowith the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the mannermost suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. Theyalways pay proper attention to fear. Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself. Fear, which isbut an impression, has triumphed over you. The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear,such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel whenyou are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles inyour memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, eventhe words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard toexpress it. You must fight hard to shine the light of wordsupon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordlessdarkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, youopen yourself to further attacks of fear because you never trulyfought the opponent who defeated you. Chapter 57 It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the ironyof this story that the one who scared me witless to start withwas the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I daresay even wholeness. He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized thegaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a contentedanimal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I wouldlook out from a restaurant table after a good meal, when thetime has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly,Richard Parker had eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all therainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teethwere showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a manner thatwas sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears andvarying the sideways turn of his head. It was all so, well,catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a450-pound tabby. He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked upmy ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished. Prusfen? Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number ofroars and growls, the loudest of these being most likely thefull-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season bymales and oestrous females. It's a cry that travels far and wide,and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers gowoof when they are caught unawares, a short, sharpdetonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump upand run away if they weren't frozen to the spot. When theycharge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl theyuse for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the emotionbehind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on theground, but a little more resonant, or, when it's an infuriatedsnarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening - inboth cases, utterly spine-chilling. Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not asmelodiously or as frequently as small cats, and only as theybreathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It isone of the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from smallcats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good thing thatis. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would dropvery quickly if little kitty could roar its displeasure.) Tigers evengo meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats,but louder and in a deeper range, not as encouraging to oneto bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,majestically silent, that too. I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except forprusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told meabout it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But hehad heard it only once, while on a working visit to the MysoreZoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treatedfor pneumonia. Prusten is the quietest of tiger calls, a puffthrough the nose to express friendliness and harmlessintentions. Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of thehead. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a question. I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being noimmediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart stoppedknocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses. I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realizedthis necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but of himand me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live - or we would die - together. He might bekilled in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes,but it would be foolish to count on such an eventuality. Morelikely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, inwhich his animal toughness would easily outlast my humanfrailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dyingfirst, if we had to come to that sorry business. But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you asecret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A part ofme did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if hedied I would be left alone with despair, a foe even moreformidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it wasthanks to Richard Parker. He kept me from thinking too muchabout my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed meto go on living. I hated him for it, yet at the same time I wasgrateful. I am grateful. It's the plain truth: without RichardParker, I wouldn't be alive today to tell you my story. I looked around at the horizon. Didn't I have here a perfectcircus ring, inescapably round, without a single corner for himto hide in? I looked down at the sea. Wasn't this an idealsource of treats with which to condition him to obey? I noticeda whistle hanging from one of the life jackets. Wouldn't thismake a good whip with which to keep him in line? What wasmissing here to tame Richard Parker? Time? It might be weeksbefore a ship sighted me. I had all the time in the world. Resolve? There's nothing like extreme need to give you resolve. Knowledge? Was I not a zookeeper's son? Reward? Was thereany reward greater than life? Any punishment worse thandeath? I looked at Richard Parker. My panic was gone. Myfear was dominated. Survival was at hand. Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the showbegin. I rose to my feet. Richard Parker noticed. The balancewas not easy. I took a deep breath and shouted, "Ladies andgentlemen, boys and girls, hurry to your seats! Hurry, hurry. You don't want to be late. Sit down, open your eyes, openyour hearts and prepare to be amazed. Here it is, for yourenjoyment and instruction, for your gratification and edification,the show you've been waiting for all your life, THE GREATESTSHOW ON EARTH! Are you ready for the miracle of it? Yes? Well then: they are amazingly adaptable. You've seen them infreezing, snow-covered temperate forests. You've seen them indense, tropical monsoon jungles. You've seen them in sparse,semi-arid scrublands. You've seen them in brackish mangroveswamps. Truly, they would fit anywhere. But you've never seenthem where you are about to see them now! Ladies andgentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, it is mypleasure and honour to present to you: THE PIPATEL,INDO-CANADIAN,TRANS-PACIFIC, FLOATINGCIRCUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"I had an effect on Richard Parker. At the very first blow ofthe whistle he cringed and he snarled. Ha! Let him jump intothe water if he wanted to! Let him try! "TREEEEEE.‘ TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE.' TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"He roared and he clawed the air. But he did not jump. Hemight not be afraid of the sea when he was driven mad byhunger and thirst, but for the time being it was a fear I couldrely on. "TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"He backed off and dropped to the bottom of the boat. Thefirst training session was over. It was a resounding success. Istopped whistling and sat down heavily on the raft, out ofbreath and exhausted. And so it came to be: Plan Number Seven: Keep Him Alive. Chapter 58 I pulled out the survival manual. Its pages were still wet. Iturned them carefully. The manual was written by a BritishRoyal Navy commander. It contained a wealth of practicalinformation on surviving at sea after a shipwreck. It includedsurvival tips such as: ? Always read instructions carefully. ? Do not drink urine. Or sea water. Or bird blood. ? Do not eat jellyfish. Or fish that are armed with spikes. Orthat have parrot-like beaks. Or that puff up like balloons. ? Pressing the eyes of fish will paralyze them. ? The body can be a hero in battle. If a castaway is injured,beware of well-meaning but ill-founded medical treatment. Ignorance is the worst doctor, while rest and sleep are the bestnurses. ? Put up your feet at least five minutes every hour. ? Unnecessary exertion should be avoided. But an idle mindtends to sink, so the mind should be kept occupied withwhatever light distraction may suggest itself. Playing card games,Twenty Questions and I Spy With My Little Eye are excellentforms of simple recreation. Community singing is anothersure-fire way to lift the spirits. Yarn spinning is also highlyrecommended. ? Green water is shallower than blue water. ? Beware of far-off clouds that look like mountains. Look forgreen. Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land. ? Do not go swimming. It wastes energy. Besides, a survivalcraft may drift faster than you can swim. Not to mention thedanger of sea life. If you are hot, wet your clothes instead. ? Do not urinate in your clothes. The momentary warmth isnot worth the nappy rash. ? Shelter yourself. Exposure can kill faster than thirst orhunger. ? So long as no excessive water is lost through perspiration,the body can survive up to fourteen days without water. If youfeel thirsty, suck a button. ? Turtles are an easy catch and make for excellent meals. Their blood is a good, nutritious, salt-free drink; their flesh istasty and filling; their fat has many uses; and the castaway willfind turtle eggs a real treat. Mind the beak and the claws. ? Don't let your morale flag. Be daunted, but not defeated. Remember: the spirit, above all else, counts. If you have thewill to live, you will. Good luck! There were also a few highly cryptic lines distilling the artand science of navigation. I learned that the horizon, as seenfrom a height of five feet on a calm day, was two and a halfmiles away. The injunction not to drink urine was quite unnecessary. Noone called "Pissing" in his childhood would be caught dead witha cup of pee at his lips, even alone in a lifeboat in the middleof the Pacific. And the gastronomic suggestions only confirmedto my mind that the English didn't know the meaning of theword food. Otherwise, the manual was a fascinating pamphleton how to avoid being pickled in brine. Only one importanttopic was not addressed: the establishing of alpha-omegarelationships with major lifeboat pests. I had to devise a training program for Richard Parker. Ihad to make him understand that I was the top tiger and thathis territory was limited to the floor of the boat, the sternbench and the side benches as far as the middle cross bench. I had to fix in his mind that the top of the tarpaulin and thebow of the boat, bordered by the neutral territory of themiddle bench, was my territory and utterly forbidden to him. I had to start fishing very soon. It would not take long forRichard Parker to finish the animal carcasses. At the zoo theadult lions and tigers ate on average ten pounds of meat aday. There were many other things I had to do. I had to find ameans of sheltering myself. If Richard Parker stayed under thetarpaulin all the time, it was for a good reason. To becontinuously outside, exposed to sun, wind, rain and sea, wasexhausting, and not only to the body but also to the mind. Hadn't I just read that exposure could inflict a quick death? Ihad to devise some sort of canopy. I had to tie the raft to the lifeboat with a second rope, incase the first should break or become loose. I had to improve the raft. At present it was seaworthy, buthardly habitable. I would have to make it fit for living in until Icould move to my permanent quarters on the lifeboat. Forexample, I had to find a way to stay dry on it. My skin waswrinkled and swollen all over from being constantly wet. Thathad to change. And I had to find a way to store things onthe raft. I had to stop hoping so much that a ship would rescue me. I should not count on outside help. Survival had to start withme. In my experience, a castaway's worst mistake is to hopetoo much and do too little. Survival starts by paying attentionto what is close at hand and immediate. To look out with idlehope is tantamount to dreaming one's life away. There was much I had to do. I looked out at the empty horizon. There was so muchwater. And I was all alone. All alone. I burst into hot tears. I buried my face in my crossed armsand sobbed. My situation was patently hopeless. Chapter 59 Alone or not, lost or not, I was thirsty and hungry. I pulledon the rope. There was a slight tension. As soon as I lessenedmy grip on it, it slid out, and the distance between the lifeboatand the raft increased. So the lifeboat drifted faster than theraft, pulling it along. I noted the fact without thinking anythingof it. My mind was more focused on the doings of RichardParker. By the looks of it, he was under the tarpaulin. I pulled the rope till I was right next to the bow. I reachedup to the gunnel. As I was crouched, preparing myself for aquick raid on the locker, a series of waves got me thinking. Inoticed that with the raft next to it, the lifeboat had changeddirections. It was no longer perpendicular to the waves butbroadside to them and was beginning to roll from side to side,that rolling that was so unsettling for the stomach. The reasonfor this change became clear to me: the raft, when let out,was acting as a sea anchor, as a drag that pulled on thelifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, wavesand steady winds are usually perpendicular to each other. So, ifa boat is pushed by a wind but held back by a sea anchor, itwill turn until it offers the least resistance to the wind - that is,until it is in line with it and at right angles to the waves, whichmakes for a front-to-back pitching that is much morecomfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to theboat, the dragging effect was gone, and there was nothing tosteer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turnedbroadside and rolled. What may seem like a detail to you was something whichwould save my life and which Richard Parker would come toregret. As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It wasa disconsolate growl, with something indefinably green andqueasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but hewas not much of a sailor. I had a chance yet. Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, Ireceived at that moment a quiet but sinister warning aboutwhat I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such amagnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his vitality, that otherexpressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point ofraising myself over the bow when I heard a gentle thrashingbuzz. I saw something small land in the water next to me. It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two beforebeing swallowed by an underwater mouth. Another cockroachlanded in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroachesplopped into the water on either side of the bow. Each wasclaimed by a fish. The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship. I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thingI saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin above the bow bench,was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. Iwatched it, strangely interested. When it decided it was time, itdeployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering,hovered above the lifeboat momentarily, as if making sure noone had been left behind, and then veered overboard to itsdeath. Now we were two. In five days the populations oforang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and cockroaches hadbeen wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that mightstill be alive in the remains of the animals, there was no otherlife left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me. It was not a comforting thought. I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. Ideliberately did not look under the tarpaulin for fear thatlooking would be like shouting and would attract RichardParker's attention. Only once the lid was leaning against thetarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyondit. A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quitesharp, what every cat cage in a zoo smells of. Tigers are highlyterritorial, and it is with their urine that they mark theboundaries of their territory. Here was good news wearing afoul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below thetarpaulin. Richard Parker's territorial claims seemed to belimited to the floor of the boat. This held promise. If I couldmake the tarpaulin mine, we might get along. I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to theside to see beyond the edge of the lid. There was rainwater,about four inches of it, sloshing about the floor of the lifeboat- Richard Parker's own freshwater pond. He was doing exactlywhat I would be doing in his place: cooling off in the shade. The day was getting beastly hot. He was flat on the floor ofthe boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straightback and splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach andinner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position lookedsilly but was no doubt very pleasant. I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton ofemergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of thepackage. It was remarkable how little it took to make mystomach feel full. I was about to drink from the rain-catcherpouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon thegraduated drinking beakers. If I couldn't go for a dip, could Iat least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not lastforever. I took hold of one of the beakers, leaned over, loweredthe lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dippedthe beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little desertislands surrounded by seaweed. I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a littlediscoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry aboutingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. AllI had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that beaker to thedregs with great satisfaction. Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise methat nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I relievedmyself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I hadjust downed that it was as if a minute hadn't passed and Iwere still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. Ifelt the urge to tilt the beaker into my mouth once more. Iresisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned,my urine looked delicious! I was not suffering yet fromdehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in thesunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it wasguaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of the cannedwater that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. Isplashed my urine on the tarpaulin and over the locker lid tostake my claim. I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker,without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered as a pottedplant. Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to thecontents of the locker and the many promises they held. I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to thelifeboat with it. I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device toproduce fresh water from salt water. It consists of an inflatabletransparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancychamber that has a surface of black rubberized canvasstretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle ofdistillation: sea water lying beneath the sealed cone on theblack canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering onthe inside surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles downand collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone, fromwhich it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped withtwelve solar stills. I read the instructions carefully, as thesurvival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with airand I filled each buoyancy chamber with the requisite ten litresof sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of theflotilla to the lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meantthat not only would I not lose any stills should one of myknots become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a secondemergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The stillslooked pretty and very technological as they floated on thewater, but they also looked flimsy, and I was doubtful of theircapacity to produce fresh water. I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examinedevery knot that held it together, making sure each was tightand secure. After some thought, I decided to transform thefifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakinglycut a notch into it, about halfway down, and with the knife'spoint I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slowbut satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished Ilashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one of thecorners of the raft, flat part, the masthead, rising in the air,handle disappearing underwater. I ran the rope tightly into thenotch, to prevent the oar from slipping down. Next, to ensurethat the mast would stand straight, and to give myself linesfrom which to hang a canopy and supplies, I threaded ropesthrough the holes I had drilled in the masthead and tied themto the tips of the horizontal oars. I strapped the life jacket thathad been attached to the footrest oar to the base of the mast. It would play a double role: it would provide extra flotation tocompensate for the vertical weight of the mast, and it wouldmake for a slightly raised seat for me. I threw a blanket over the lines. It slid down. The angle ofthe lines was too steep. I folded the lengthwise edge of theblanket over once, cut two holes midway down, about a footapart, and linked the holes with a piece of string, which Imade by unweaving a length of rope. I threw the blanket overthe lines again, with the new girdle string going around themasthead. I now had a canopy. It took me a good part of the day to fix up the raft. Therewere so many details to look after. The constant motion of thesea, though gentle, didn't make my work any easier. And Ihad to keep an eye on Richard Parker. The result was nogalleon. The mast, so called, ended hardly a few inches abovemy head. As for the deck, it was just big enough to sit oncross-legged or to lie on in a tight, nearly-to-term fetal position. But I wasn't complaining. It was seaworthy and it would saveme from Richard Parker. By the time I had finished my work, the afternoon wasnearing its end. I gathered a can of water, a can opener, fourbiscuits of survival ration and four blankets. I closed the locker(very softly this time), sat down on the raft and let out therope. The lifeboat drifted away. The main rope tensed, whilethe security rope, which I had deliberately measured out longer,hung limply. I laid two blankets beneath me, carefully foldingthem so that they didn't touch the water. I wrapped the othertwo around my shoulders and rested my back against themast. I enjoyed the slight elevation I gained from sitting on theextra life jacket. I was hardly higher up from the water thanone would be from a floor sitting on a thick cushion; still, Ihoped not to get wet so much. I enjoyed my meal as I watched the sun's descent in acloudless sky. It was a relaxing moment. The vault of the worldwas magnificently tinted. The stars were eager to participate;hardly had the blanket of colour been pulled a little than theystarted to shine through the deep blue. The wind blew with afaint, warm breeze and the sea moved about kindly, the waterpeaking and troughing like people dancing in a circle who cometogether and raise their hands and move apart and cometogether again, over and over. Richard Parker sat up. Only his head and a little of hisshoulders showed above the gunnel. He looked out. I shouted,"Hello, Richard Parker!" and I waved. He looked at me. Hesnorted or sneezed, neither word quite captures it. Prustenagain. What a stunning creature. Such a noble mien. How aptthat in full it is a Royal Bengal tiger. I counted myself lucky ina way. What if I had ended up with a creature that lookedsilly or ugly, a tapir or an ostrich or a flock of turkeys? Thatwould have been a more trying companionship in some ways. I heard a splash. I looked down at the water. I gasped. Ithought I was alone. The stillness in the air, the glory of thelight, the feeling of comparative safety - all had made me thinkso. There is commonly an element of silence and solitude topeace, isn't there? It's hard to imagine being at peace in abusy subway station, isn't it? So what was all this commotion? With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city. Justbelow me, all around, unsuspected by me, were highways,boulevards, streets and roundabouts bustling with submarinetraffic. In water that was dense, glassy and flecked by millionsof lit-up specks of plankton, fish like trucks and buses and carsand bicycles and pedestrians were madly racing about, nodoubt honking and hollering at each other. The predominantcolour was green. At multiple depths, as far as I could see,there were evanescent trails of phosphorescent green bubbles,the wake of speeding fish. As soon as one trail faded, anotherappeared. These trails came from all directions and disappearedin all directions. They were like those time-exposurephotographs you see of cities at night, with the long redstreaks made by the tail lights of cars. Except that here thecars were driving above and under each other as if they wereon interchanges that were stacked ten storeys high. And herethe cars were of the craziest colours. The dorados - theremust have been over fifty patrolling beneath the raft - showedoff their bright gold, blue and green as they whisked by. Otherfish that I could not identify were yellow, brown, silver, blue,red, pink, green, white, in all kinds of combinations, solid,streaked and speckled. Only the sharks stubbornly refused tobe colourful. But whatever the size or colour of a vehicle, onething was constant: the furious driving. There were manycollisions - all involving fatalities, I'm afraid - and a number ofcars spun wildly out of control and collided against barriers,bursting above the surface of the water and splashing down inshowers of luminescence. I gazed upon this urban hurly-burlylike someone observing a city from a hot-air balloon. It was aspectacle wondrous and awe-inspiring. This is surely whatTokyo must look like at rush hour. I looked on until the lights went out in the city. From the Tsimtsum all I had seen were dolphins. I hadassumed that the Pacific, but for passing schools of fish, was asparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since thatcargo ships travel too quickly for fish. You are as likely to seesea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest froma car on a highway. Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play aboutboats and ships much like dogs chase cars: they race alonguntil they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, itis on foot, and quietly, that you must explore a forest. It is thesame with the sea. You must stroll through the Pacific at awalking pace, so to speak, to see the wealth and abundancethat it holds. I settled on my side. For the first time in five days I felt ameasure of calm. A little bit of hope - hard earned, welldeserved, reasonable - glowed in me. I fell asleep. Chapter 60 I awoke once during the night. I pushed the canopy asideand looked out. The moon was a sharply defined crescent andthe sky was perfectly clear. The stars shone with such fierce,contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the night dark. The sea lay quietly, bathed in a shy, light-footed light, adancing play of black and silver that extended without limits allabout me. The volume of things was confounding - the volumeof air above me, the volume of water around and beneath me. I was half-moved, half-terrified. I felt like the sage Markandeya,who fell out of Vishnu's mouth while Vishnu was sleeping andso beheld the entire universe, everything that there is. Beforethe sage could die of fright, Vishnu awoke and took him backinto his mouth. For the first time I noticed - as I would noticerepeatedly during my ordeal, between one throe of agony andthe next - that my suffering was taking place in a grandsetting. I saw my suffering for what it was, finite andinsignificant, and I was still. My suffering did not fit anywhere,I realized. And I could accept this. It was all right. (It wasdaylight that brought my protest: "No! No! No! My sufferingdoes matter. I want to live! I can't help but mix my life withthat of the universe. Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry ontoa vastness - how can I not dwell on this brief, cramped viewI have of things? This peephole is all I've got!") I mumbledwords of Muslim prayer and went back to sleep. Chapter 61 The next morning I was not too wet and I was feelingstrong. I thought this was remarkable considering the strain Iwas under and how little I had eaten in the last several days. It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, forthe first time in my life. After a breakfast of three biscuits andone can of water, I read what the survival manual had to sayon the subject. The first problem arose: bait. I thought aboutit. There were the dead animals, but stealing food from undera tiger's nose was a proposition I was not up to. He wouldnot realize that it was an investment that would bring him anexcellent return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had onlyone left. The other I had lost when the ship sank. I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the lockerone of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to lifewhen I was at the bow but his head did not lift. I let the raftout. I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. Iadded some lead weights. I picked three that had an intriguingtorpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. Itwas hard work; the leather was tough. I carefully worked thehook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, sothat the point of the hook was hidden. I let the line downdeep. There had been so many fish the previous evening that Iexpected easy success. I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slighttug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy freeloading fishby happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I wasleft with only the rubber sole and the shoelace. When theshoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheerexasperation I tried the sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. Ifelt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedlylight. All I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle. This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There wereother hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit, besides awhole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I hadplenty of food in store. Still, a part of my mind - the one that says what we don'twant to hear - rebuked me. "Stupidity has a price. You shouldshow more care and wisdom next time."Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came rightup to the raft. It could have reached up and bit my bottom ifit had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper,but as soon as I touched it I recoiled in horror. The turtleswam away. The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over myfishing fiasco scolded me again. "What exactly do you intend tofeed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'lllast on three dead animals? Do I need to remind you thattigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's on his lastlegs he probably won't lift his nose at much. But don't youthink that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebrahe'll try the fresh, juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? Andhow are we doing with the water situation? You know howtigers get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his breathrecently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps you'rehoping that he'll lap up the Pacific and in quenching his thirstallow you to walk to America? Quite amazing, this limitedcapacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a tidal mangrove forest, I suppose. But itis a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too muchsaline water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak ofthe devil. There he is. He's yawning. My, my, what anenormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites andstalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to visit."Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubberhot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. He swallowed. I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayedaway from the lifeboat. Despite my own dire predictions,Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still hadwater from the rainfall and he didn't seem too concerned withhunger. But he did make various tiger noises - growls andmoans and the like - that did nothing to put me at ease. Theriddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I needed bait, but I wouldhave bait only once I had fish. What was I supposed to do? Use one of my toes? Cut off one of my ears? A solution appeared in the late afternoon in a mostunexpected way. I had pulled myself up to the lifeboat. Morethan that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging throughthe locker, feverishly looking for an idea that would save mylife. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from theboat. I fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot Icould save myself from Richard Parker. Desperation hadpushed me to take such a risk. Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up - onlyto discover that I was dead centre in the focus of his stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra usedto be, turned my way and sitting up, looking as if he'd beenpatiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn'theard him stir? What delusion was I under that I thought Icould outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard across the face. Icried out and closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leaptacross the lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my faceclawed off - this was the gruesome way I was to die. Thepain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock. Blessed bethat part of us that protects us from too much pain andsorrow. At the heart of life is a fuse box. I whimpered, "Goahead, Richard Parker, finish me off. But please, what youmust do, do it quickly. A blown fuse should not be overtested."He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the locker and its riches. Ifearfully opened an eye. It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was floppingabout like a fish out of water. It was about fifteen inches longand it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, withdry, featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. Itwas this flying fish that had struck me across the face, notRichard Parker. He was still fifteen feet away, no doubtwondering what I was going on about. But he had seen thefish. I could read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemedabout ready to investigate. I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him! Where a rat had gone, a flyingfish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air,just ahead of Richard Parker's open mouth, the fish swervedand dropped into the water. It happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowlsflapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He lookedastonished and displeased. He turned to me again. "Where'smy treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and sadnessgripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandonedhope that I could jump onto the raft before he could jumponto me. At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air andwe were struck by a school of flying fish. They came like aswarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there wasalso something insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound oftheir wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of them at atime, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards throughthe air. Many dived into the water just before the boat. Anumber sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side,sounding like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones returnedto the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. Others, lessfortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racketof flapping and flailing and splashing. And still others flew rightinto us. Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living themartyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was likean arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at a blanket to protectmyself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I receivedcuts and bruises all over my body. The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the water in hot pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but theywere faster swimmers and their short lunges were verypowerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were justbehind them and lunging from the water at the same time andin the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leaptout of the water, not so cleanly but with devastatingconsequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't lastlong, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumpedand jaws worked hard. Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of thesefish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and went aboutblocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many wereeaten live and whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. Itwas a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was notso much the speed that was impressive as the pure animalconfidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix ofease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would bethe envy of the highest yogis. When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body forme, was six flying fish in the locker and a much greaternumber in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket,gathered a hatchet and made for the raft. I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tacklethat morning had had a sobering effect on me. I couldn't allowmyself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keepinga hand pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try tojump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing,the more afraid and disgusted I became. Its head came intosight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop ofloathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills openingand closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings againstmy hand. I turned the bucket over and brought its headagainst the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in theair. Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but Icouldn't complete the action. Such sentimen-talism may seemridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days,but those were the deeds of others, of predatory animals. Isuppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'donly thrown it; it was Richard Parker who had killed it. Alifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and thewillful beheading of a fish. I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned thehatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air. The ideaof beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply toomuch. I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sightunseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, themore the fish struggled. I imagined what it would feel like if Iwere wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to breakmy neck. I was appalled. I gave up a number of times. Yet Iknew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longerthe fish's suffering would go on. Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until Iheard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life fighting inmy hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flyingfish was dead. It was split open and bloody on one side of itshead, at the level of the gills. I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was thefirst sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer. I wasnow as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy,bookish and religious, and now I had blood on my hands. It'sa terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I neverforget to include this fish in my prayers. After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fishlooked like fish I had seen in the markets of Pondicherry. Itwas something else, something outside the essential scheme ofcreation. I chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and putit in the bucket. In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first Ihad no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But successseemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour. Their interest was evident. I realized that these were small fish,too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let itsink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish thatconcentrated around the raft and lifeboat. It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and withonly one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in quickly,making the head skim over the surface of the water, that Ifinally had my first strike. A dorado surged forth and lungedfor the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it hadproperly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line sohard I thought it was going to pull me off the raft. I bracedmyself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it wouldnot break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with allits might, jumping and diving and splashing. The line cut intomy hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart waspounding. The fish was as strong as an ox. I was not sure Iwould be able to pull it in. I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around theraft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought likea devil. My arms were aching. Every time I got it close to theraft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed intoletting out some line. At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feetlong. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado like ahat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using myhands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tailstuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. Itwas giving me a ride like I imagine a bucking bronco wouldgive a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. Adorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, witha bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a verylong dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat ofscales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was dealing fate aserious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. Withthis fish I was retaliating against the sea, against the wind,against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that wereworking against me. "Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" Ishouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of afish. Now you have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!"Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself thetrouble - after all, it was for Richard Parker and he wouldhave dispatched it with expert ease - but for the hook thatwas embedded in its mouth. I exulted at having a dorado atthe end of my line - I would be less keen if it were a tiger. Iwent about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in bothmy hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with thehammerhead (I still didn't have the stomach to use the sharpedge). The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: itbegan to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succession. Blue,green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-likeon its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow todeath. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for itsdeath-knell iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, andI could remove the hook. I even managed to retrieve a part ofmy bait. You may be astonished that in such a short period of time Icould go from weeping over the muffled killing of a flying fishto gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it byarguing that profiting from a pitiful flying fish's navigationalmistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement ofactively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary andself-assured. But in point of fact the explanation lies elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to anything,even to killing. It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to thelifeboat. I brought it along the side, keeping very low. I swungmy arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed witha heavy thud and provoked a gruff expression of surprise fromRichard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet mashingsound of a mouth at work. I pushed myself off, not forgettingto blow the whistle hard several times, to remind RichardParker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water. Thefive remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I pulled theirwings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in thenow-consecrated fish blanket. By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up myfishing gear, put things away and had my supper, night hadcome on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and themoon, and it was very dark. I was tired, but still excited bythe events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness wasprofoundly satisfying; I hadn't thought at all about my plight ormyself. Fishing was surely a better way of passing the timethan yarn-spinning or playing I Spy. I determined to start againthe next day as soon as there was light. I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickeringof the dying dorado. Chapter 62 I slept in fits that night. Shortly before sunrise I gave uptrying to fall asleep again and lifted myself on an elbow. I spiedwith my little eye a tiger. Richard Parker was restless. He wasmoaning and growling and pacing about the lifeboat. It wasimpressive. I assessed the situation. He couldn't be hungry. Orat least not dangerously hungry. Was he thirsty? His tonguehung from his mouth, but only on occasion, and he was notpanting. And his stomach and paws were still wet. But theywere not dripping wet. There probably wasn't much water leftin the boat. Soon he would be thirsty. I looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had vanished. Butfor a few wisps on the horizon, the sky was clear. It would beanother hot, rainless day. The sea moved in a lethargic way, asif already exhausted by the oncoming heat. I sat against the mast and thought over our problem. Thebiscuits and the fishing gear assured us of the solid part ofour diet. It was the liquid part that was the rub. It all camedown to what was so abundant around us but marred by salt. I could perhaps mix some sea water with his fresh water, but Ihad to procure more fresh water to start with. The cans wouldnot last long between the two of us - in fact, I was loath toshare even one with Richard Parker - and it would be foolishto rely on rainwater. The solar stills were the only other possible source ofdrinkable water. I looked at them doubtfully. They had beenout two days now. I noticed that one of them had lost a littleair. I pulled on the rope to tend to it. I topped off its conewith air. Without any real expectation I reached underwater forthe distillate pouch that was clipped to the round buoyancychamber. My fingers took hold of a bag that was unexpectedlyfat. A shiver of thrill went through me. I controlled myself. Aslikely as not, salt water had leaked in. I unhooked the pouchand, following the instructions, lowered it and tilted the still sothat any more water from beneath the cone might flow into it. I closed the two small taps that led to the pouch, detached itand pulled it out of the water. It was rectangular in shape andmade of thick, soft, yellow plastic, with calibration marks on oneside. I tasted the water. I tasted it again. It was salt-free. "My sweet sea cow!" I exclaimed to the solar still. "You'veproduced, and how! What a delicious milk. Mind you, a littlerubbery, but I'm not complaining. Why, look at me drink!"I finished the bag. It had a capacity of one litre and wasnearly full. After a moment of sigh-producing, shut-eyedsatisfaction, I reattached the pouch. I checked the other stills. Each one had an udder similarly heavy. I collected the freshmilk, over eight litres of it, in the fish bucket. Instantly thesetechnological contraptions became as precious to me as cattleare to a farmer. Indeed, as they floated placidly in an arc, theylooked almost like cows grazing in a field. I ministered to theirneeds, making sure that there was enough sea water insideeach and that the cones and chambers were inflated to justthe right pressure. After adding a little sea water to the bucket's contents, Iplaced it on the side bench just beyond the tarpaulin. With theend of the morning coolness, Richard Parker seemed safelysettled below. I tied the bucket in place using rope and thetarpaulin hooks on the side of the boat. I carefully peeked overthe gunnel. He was lying on his side. His den was a foul sight. The dead mammals were heaped together, a grotesque pile ofdecayed animal parts. I recognized a leg or two, variouspatches of hide, parts of a head, a great number of bones. Flying-fish wings were scattered about. I cut up a flying fish and tossed a piece onto the sidebench. After I had gathered what I needed for the day fromthe locker and was ready to go, I tossed another piece overthe tarpaulin in front of Richard Parker. It had the intendedeffect. As I drifted away I saw him come out into the open tofetch the morsel of fish. His head turned and he noticed theother morsel and the new object next to it. He lifted himself. He hung his huge head over the bucket. I was afraid hewould tip it over. He didn't. His face disappeared into it, barelyfitting, and he started to lap up the water. In very little timethe bucket started shaking and rattling emptily with each strikeof his tongue. When he looked up, I stared him aggressively inthe eyes and I blew on the whistle a few times. Hedisappeared under the tarpaulin. It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboatwas resembling a zoo enclosure more and more: RichardParker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his foodstash, his lookout and now his water hole. The temperature climbed. The heat became stifling. I spentthe rest of the day in the shade of the canopy, fishing. Itseems I had had beginner's luck with that first dorado. Icaught nothing the whole day, not even in the late afternoon,when marine life appeared in abundance. A turtle turned up, adifferent kind this time, a green sea turtle, bulkier andsmoother-shelled, but curious in the same fixed way as ahawksbill. I did nothing about it, but I started thinking that Ishould. The only good thing about the day being so hot was thesight the solar stills presented. Every cone was covered on theinside with drops and rivulets of condensation. The day ended. I calculated that the next morning wouldmake it a week since the Tsimtsum had sunk. Chapter 63 The Robertson family survived thirty-eight days at sea. Captain Bligh of the celebrated mutinous Bounty and his fellowcastaways survived forty-seven days. Steven Callahan survivedseventy-six. Owen Chase, whose account of the sinking of thewhaling ship Essex by a whale inspired Herman Melville,survived eighty-three days at sea with two mates, interruptedby a one-week stay on an inhospitable island. The Bailey familysurvived 118 days. I have heard of a Korean merchant sailornamed Poon, I believe, who survived the Pacific for 173 days inthe 1950s. I survived 227 days. That's how long my trial lasted, overseven months. I kept myself busy. That was one key to my survival. On alifeboat, even on a raft, there's always something that needsdoing. An average day for me, if such a notion can be appliedto a castaway, went like this: Sunrise to mid-morning: wake up? prayers breakfast for Richard Parker? general inspection of raft and lifeboat, with particularattention paid to all knots and ropes? tending of solar stills (wiping, inflating, topping off withwater)? breakfast and inspection of food stores? fishing and preparing of fish if any caught (gutting,cleaning, hanging of strips of flesh on lines to cure in the sun)Mid-morning to late afternoon: ? prayers? light lunch? rest and restful activities (writing in diary, examining ofscabs and sores, upkeeping of equipment, puttering aboutlocker, observation and study of Richard Parker, picking at ofturtle bones, etc.)Late afternoon to early evening: ? prayers? fishing and preparing of fish? tending of curing strips of flesh (turning over, cutting awayof putrid parts)? dinner preparations? dinner for self and Richard ParkerSunset: ? general inspection of raft and lifeboat (knots and ropesagain)? collecting and safekeeping of distillate from? solar stills? storing of all foods and equipment? arrangements for night (making of bed, safe storage onraft of flare, in case of ship, and rain catcher, in case of rain)? prayersNight: ? fitful sleeping? prayersMornings were usually better than late afternoons, when theemptiness of time tended to make itself felt. Any number of events affected this routine. Rainfall, at anytime of the day or night, stopped all other business; for aslong as it fell, I held up the rain catchers and was feverishlyoccupied storing their catch. A turtle's visit was another majordisruption. And Richard Parker, of course, was a regulardisturbance. Accommodating him was a priority I could notneglect for an instant. He didn't have much of a routinebeyond eating, drinking and sleeping, but there were timeswhen he stirred from his lethargy and rambled about histerritory, making noises and being cranky. Thankfully, everytime, the sun and the sea quickly tired him and he returned tobeneath the tarpaulin, to lying on his side again, or flat on hisstomach, his head on top of his crossed front legs. But there was more to my dealings with him than strictnecessity. I also spent hours observing him because it was adistraction. A tiger is a fascinating animal at any time, and allthe more so when it is your sole companion. At first, looking out for a ship was something I did all thetime, compulsively. But after a few weeks, five or six, I stoppeddoing it nearly entirely. And I survived because I made a point of forgetting. Mystory started on a calendar day - July 2nd, 1977 - and endedon a calendar day - February 14th, 1978 - but in betweenthere was no calendar. I did not count the days or the weeksor the months. Time is an illusion that only makes us pant. Isurvived because I forgot even the very notion of time. What I remember are events and encounters and routines,markers that emerged here and there from the ocean of timeand imprinted themselves on my memory. The smell of spenthand-flare shells, and prayers at dawn, and the killing ofturtles, and the biology of algae, for example. And many more. But I don't know if I can put them in order for you. Mymemories come in a jumble. Chapter 64 My clothes disintegrated, victims of the sun and the salt. First they became gauze-thin. Then they tore until only theseams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I livedstark naked except for the whistle that dangled from my neckby a string. Salt-water boils - red, angry, disfiguring - were a leprosyof the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked me. Where they burst, my skin was exceptionally sensitive;accidentally rubbing an open sore was so painful I would gaspand cry out. Naturally,these boils developed on the parts of my body that got themost wet and the most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days when I could hardly find a position in whichI could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the processwas slow, and new boils appeared if I didn't stay dry. Chapter 65 I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survivalmanual on navigation. Plain and simple explanations on livingoff the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge ofseafaring was assumed by the author of the manual. Thecastaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who, compass,chart and sextant in hand, knew how he found his way intotrouble, if not how he would get out of it. The result wasadvice such as "Remember, time is distance. Don't forget towind your watch," or "Latitude can be measured with thefingers, if need be." I had a watch, but it was now at thebottom of the Pacific. I lost it when the Tsimtsum sank. As forlatitude and longitude, my marine knowledge was strictly limitedto what lived in the sea and did not extend to what cruisedon top of it. Winds and currents were a mystery to me. Thestars meant nothing to me. I couldn't name a singleconstellation. My family lived by one star alone: the sun. Wewere early to bed and early to rise. I had in my life looked ata number of beautiful starry nights, where with just twocolours and the simplest of styles nature draws the grandest ofpictures, and I felt the feelings of wonder and smallness thatwe all feel, and I got a clear sense of direction from thespectacle, most definitely, but I mean that in a spiritual sense,not in a geographic one. I hadn't the faintest idea how thenight sky might serve as a road map. How could the stars,sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they keptmoving? I gave up trying to find out. Any knowledge I might gainwas useless. I had no means of controlling where I was going- no rudder, no sails, no motor, some oars but insufficientbrawn. What was the point of plotting a course if I could notact on it? And even if I could, how should I know where togo? West, back to where we came from? East, to America? North, to Asia? South, to where the shipping lanes were? Eachseemed a good and bad course in equal measure. So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Timebecame distance for me in the way it is for all mortals - Itravelled down the road of life - and I did other things withmy fingers than try to measure latitude. I found out later thatI travelled a narrow road, the Pacific equatorial counter-current. Chapter 66 I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for avariety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with large hooks andmany sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and onlyone or two sinkers. Success was slow to come, and when itdid, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out ofproportion to the reward. The hours were long, the fish weresmall, and Richard Parker was forever hungry. It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuablefishing equipment. They came in three screw-in pieces: twotubular sections that formed the shaft - one with a mouldedplastic handle at its end and a ring for securing the gaff with arope - and a head that consisted of a hook measuring abouttwo inches across its curve and ending in a needle-sharp,barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was about five feet longand felt as light and sturdy as a sword. At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to adepth of four feet or so, sometimes with a fish speared on thehook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, mybody tense till it ached. When a fish was in just the right spot,I jerked the gaff up with all the might and speed I couldmuster. It was a split-second decision. Experience taught methat it was better to strike when I felt I had a good chance ofsuccess than to strike wildly, for a fish learns from experiencetoo, and rarely falls for the same trap twice. When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on thehook, impaled, and I could confidently bring it aboard. But if Igaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often getaway with a twist and a forward spurt of speed. Injured, itwould be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had notmeant to make. So with large fish I aimed for the ventral areabeneath their gills and their lateral fins, for a fish's instinctivereaction when struck there was to swim up, away from thehook, in the very direction I was pulling. Thus it wouldhappen: sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fishwould burst out of the water in my face. I quickly lost myrevulsion at touching sea life. None of this prissy fish blanketbusiness any more. A fish jumping out of water wasconfronted by a famished boy with a hands-on, no-holds-barredapproach to capturing it. If I felt the gaff's hold was uncertain,I would let go of it - I had not forgotten to secure it with arope to the raft - and I would clutch at the fish with myhands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than ahook. The struggle would be fast and furious. Those fish wereslippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only Ihad had as many arms as the goddess Durga - two to holdthe gaffs, four to grasp the fish and two to wield the hatchets. But I had to make do with two. I stuck fingers into eyes,jammed hands into gills,crushed soft stomachs with knees, bit tails with my teeth - Idid whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I couldreach for the hatchet and chop its head off. With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grewbolder and more agile. I developed an instinct, a feel, for whatto do. My success improved greatly when I started using part ofthe cargo net. As a fishing net it was useless - too stiff andheavy and with a weave that wasn't tight enough. But it wasperfect as a lure. Trailing freely in the water, it provedirresistibly attractive to fish, and even more so when seaweedstarted growing on it. Fish that were local in their ambit madethe net their neighbourhood, and the quick ones, the ones thattended to streak by, the dorados, slowed down to visit the newdevelopment. Neither the residents nor the travellers eversuspected that a hook was hidden in the weave. There weresome days - too few unfortunately - when I could have allthe fish I cared to gaff. At such times I hunted far beyond theneeds of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simplywasn't enough space on the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, todry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers andmackerels, let alone space in my stomach to eat them. I keptwhat I could and gave the rest to Richard Parker. Duringthose days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that mybody began to glitter from all the fish scales that became stuckto it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, themarks of colour that we Hindus wear on our foreheads assymbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'msure they would have thought I was a fish god standing atophis kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were thegood days. They were rare. Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manualsaid they were. Under the "hunting and gathering" heading,,they would go under "gathering". Solid in build though theywere, like tanks, they were neither, fast nor powerful swimmers;with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it waspossible to hold on to a turtle. But the survival manual failedto mention that a turtle caught was not a turtle had. It stillneeded to be brought aboard. And hauling a struggling130-pound turtle aboard a lifeboat was anything but easy. Itwas a labour that demanded feats of strength worthy ofHanuman. I did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow ofthe boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to its neck, afront flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled until I thoughtmy arms would come apart and my head would explode. I ranthe ropes around the tarpaulin hooks on the opposite side ofthe bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gainbefore the rope slipped back. Inch by inch, a turtle was heavedout of the water. It took time. I remember one green seaturtle that hung from the side of the lifeboat for two days, thewhole whilethrashing about madly, free flippers beating in the air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it wouldoften happen that a turtle would help me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pullon them; if I pulled at the same moment, our conflicting effortssometimes came together and suddenly it would happen, easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surgeover the gunnel and slide onto the tarpaulin. I would fall back,exhausted but jubilant. Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawks-bills, and theirbelly shells were thinner. But they tended to be bigger thanhawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for theweakened castaway that I became. Lord, to think that I'm a strict vegetarian. To think thatwhen I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped opena banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of ananimal's neck. I descended to a level of savagery I neverimagined possible. Chapter 67 The underside of the raft became host to a multitude of sealife, like the net but smaller in form. It started with a softgreen algae that clung to the life jackets. Stiffer algae of adarker kind joined it. They did well and became thick. Animallife appeared. The first that I saw were tiny, translucent shrimp,hardly half an inch long. They were followed by fish no biggerthat looked like they were permanently under X-ray; theirinternal organs showed through their transparent skins. Afterthat I noticed the black worms with the white spines, the greengelatinous slugs with the primitive limbs, the inch-long,motley-coloured fish with the potbellies, and lastly the crabs, halfto three-quarters of an inch across and brown in colour. Itried everything but the worms, including the algae. Only thecrabs didn't have an unpalatably bitter or salty taste. Everytime they appeared, I popped them one after another into mymouth like candy until there were none left. I couldn't controlmyself. It was always a long wait between fresh crops of crabs. The hull of the lifeboat invited life too, in the form of smallgooseneck barnacles. I sucked their fluid. Their flesh made forgood fishing bait. I became attached to these oceanic hitchhikers, though theyweighed the raft down a little. They provided distraction, likeRichard Parker. I spent many hours doing nothing but lying onmy side, a life jacket pushed out of place a few inches, like acurtain from a window, so that I might have a clear view. What I saw was an upside-down town, small, quiet andpeaceable, whose citizens went about with the sweet civility ofangels. The sight was a welcome relief for my frayed nerves. Chapter 68 My sleep pattern changed. Though I rested all the time, Irarely slept longer than an hour or so at a stretch, even atnight. It was not the ceaseless motion of the sea that disturbedme, nor the wind; you get used to those the way you getused to lumps in a mattress. It was apprehension and anxietythat roused me. It was remarkable how little sleep I got by on. Unlike Richard Parker. He became a champion napper. Mostof the time he rested beneath the tarpaulin. But on calm dayswhen the sun was not too harsh and on calm nights, he cameout. One of his favourite positions in the open was lying on thestern bench on his side, stomach overhanging the edge of it,front and back legs extending down the side benches. It was alot of tiger to squeeze onto a fairly narrow ledge, but hemanaged it by making his back very round. When he wastruly sleeping, he laid his head on his front legs, but when hismood was slightly more active, when he might choose to openhis eyes and look about, he turned his head and lay his chinon the gunnel. Another favourite position of his was sitting with his back tome, his rear half resting on the floor of the boat and his fronthalf on the bench, his face buried into the stern, paws rightnext to his head, looking as if we were playing hide-and-seekand he were the one counting. In this position he tended to lievery still, with only the occasional twitching of his ears toindicate that he was not necessarily sleeping. Chapter 69 On many nights I was convinced I saw a light in thedistance. Each time I set off a flare. When I had used up therocket flares, I expended the hand flares. Were they ships thatfailed to see me? The light of rising or setting stars bouncingoff the ocean? Breaking waves that moonlight and forlorn hopefashioned into illusion? Whatever the case, every time it was fornothing. Never a result. Always the bitter emotion of hoperaised and dashed. In time I gave up entirely on being savedby a ship. If the horizon was two and a half miles away at analtitude of five feet, how far away was it when I was sittingagainst the mast of my raft, my eyes not even three feetabove the water? What chance was there that a ship crossingthe whole great big Pacific would cut into such a tiny circle? Not only that: that it would cut into such a tiny circle and seeme - what chance was there of that? No, humanity and itsunreliable ways could not be counted upon. It was land I hadto reach, hard, firm, certain land. I remember the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. Bysome freak of chemistry they smelled exactly like cumin. It wasintoxicating. I sniffed the plastic shells and immediatelyPondicherry came to life in my mind, a marvellous relief fromthe disappointment of calling for help and not being heard. Theexperience was very strong, nearly a hallucination. From asingle smell a whole town arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, Isee the Pacific Ocean.)Richard Parker always froze when a hand flare hissed to life. His eyes, round pupils the size of pinpricks, fixed on the lightsteadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre witha pinkish red aureole. I had to turn away. I held the flare inthe air at arm's length and waved it slowly. For about aminute heat showered down upon my forearm and everythingwas weirdly lit. Water around the raft, until a moment beforeopaquely black, showed itself to be crowded with fish. Chapter 70 Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a smallhawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the "good,nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. Mythirst was that bad. I took hold of the turtle's shell andgrappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a goodgrip, I turned it over in the water and attempted to pull itonto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would neverbe able to deal with it on the raft. Either I let it go - or Itried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot andcloudless day. Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presenceat the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside ofan oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin untilsunset. I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one handand I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the other. It wasnot easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerkedthe turtle in the air and brought it onto its back on thetarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more thangrowl once or twice. He was not up to exerting himself in suchheat. My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no timeto waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a cookbook. Itsaid to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knifeshould be "inserted into the neck" to sever the arteries andveins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was noneck. The turtle had retracted into its shell; all that showed ofits head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles ofskin. It was looking at me upside down with a sternexpression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it,poked a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. Idecided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I haddone it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the rightof the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the blade deep intothe folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated evenfurther, favouring the side where the blade was, and suddenlyshot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumpedback. All four flippers came out and the creature tried to makeits getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly andhead shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet andbrought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright redblood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about threehundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I might have got muchmore, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharpand its front flippers were long and powerful, with two clawson each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particularsmell. I took a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memoryis right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank theblood to the last drop. I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough bellyshell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed edge of theknife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clearof the flailing flippers. The leathery skin at the head end of theshell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing awayat the rim, however, where shell met shell, was very hardwork, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the timeI had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat andexhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted reluctantly, with awet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching andjerking - muscles, fat, blood, guts and bones. And still theturtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. Itmade no difference. Flippers continued to beat. With two blowsof the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did notstop. Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air andblinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest of theturtle I lifted and dropped into Richard Parker's territory. Hewas making noises and sounded as if he were about to stir. He had probably smelled the turtle's blood. I fled to the raft. I watched sullenly as he loudly appreciated my gift andmade a joyous mess of himself. I was utterly spent. The effortof butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup ofblood. I started thinking seriously about how I was going to dealwith Richard Parker. This forbearance on his part on hot,cloudless days, if that is what it was and not simple laziness,was not good enough. I couldn't always be running away fromhim. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of thetarpaulin, no matter the time of day or the weather, no matterhis mood. It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that comewith might. It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory. Chapter 71 To those who should ever find themselves in a predicamentsuch as I was in, I would recommend the following program: 1. Choose a day when the waves are small but regular. Youwant a sea that will put on a good show when your lifeboat isbroadside to it, though without capsizing your boat. 2. Stream your sea anchor full out to make your lifeboat asstable and comfortable as possible. Prepare your safe havenfrom the lifeboat in case you should need it (you most likelywill). If you can, devise some means of bodily protection. Almost anything can make a shield. Wrapping clothes orblankets around your limbs will make for a minimal form ofarmour. 3. Now comes the difficult part: you must provoke theanimal that is afflicting you. Tiger, rhinoceros, ostrich, wild boar,brown bear - no matter the beast, you must get its goat. Thebest way to do this will most likely be to go to the edge ofyour territory and noisily intrude into the neutral zone. I didjust that: I went to the edge of the tarpaulin and stampedupon the middle bench as I mildly blew into the whistle. It isimportant that you make a consistent, recognizable noise tosignal your aggression. But you must be careful. You want toprovoke your animal, but only so much. You don't want it toattack you outright. If it does, God be with you. You will betorn to pieces, trampled flat, disembowelled, very likely eaten. You don't want that. You want an animal that is piqued,peeved, vexed, bothered, irked, annoyed - but not homicidal. Under no circumstances should you step into your animal'sterritory. Contain your aggression to staring into its eyes andhurling toots and taunts. 4. When your animal has been roused, work in all bad faithto provoke a border intrusion. A good way of bringing thisabout in my experience is to back off slowly as you aremaking your noises. BE SURE NOT TO BREAK EYECONTACT! As soon as the animal has laid a paw in yourterritory, or even made a determined advance into the neutralterritory, you have achieved your goal. Don't be picky orlegalistic as to where its paw actually landed. Be quick to beaffronted. Don't wait to construe - misconstrue as fast as youcan. The point here is to make your animal understand that itsupstairs neighbour is exceptionally persnickety about territory. 5. Once your animal has trespassed upon your territory, beunflagging in your outrage. Whether you have fled to your safehaven off the lifeboat or retreated to the back of your territoryon the lifeboat, START BLOWING YOUR WHISTLE AT FULLBLAST and IMMEDIATELY TRIP THE SEA ANCHOR. Thesetwo actions are of pivotal importance. You must not delayputting them into effect. If you can help your lifeboat getbroadside to the waves by other means, with an oar forexample, apply yourself right away. The faster your lifeboatbroaches to the waves, the better. 6. Blowing a whistle continuously is exhausting for theweakened castaway, but you must not falter. Your alarmedanimal must associate its increasing nausea with the shrill criesof the whistle. You can help things move along by standing atthe end of your boat, feet on opposing gunnels, and swaying inrhythm to the motion imparted by the sea. However slight youare, however large your lifeboat, you will be amazed at thedifference this will make. I assure you, in no time you'll haveyour lifeboat rocking and rolling like Elvis Presley. Just don'tforget to be blowing your whistle all the while, and mind youdon't make your lifeboat capsize. 7. You want to keep going until the animal that is yourburden - your tiger, your rhinoceros, whatever - is properlygreen about the gills with seasickness. You want to hear itheaving and dry retching. You want to see it lying at thebottom of the lifeboat, limbs trembling, eyes rolled back, adeathly rattle coming from its gaping mouth. And all the whileyou must be shattering the animal's ears with the piercingblows of your whistle. If you become sick yourself, don't wasteyour vomit by sending it overboard. Vomit makes an excellentborder guard. Puke on the edges of your territory. 8. When your animal appears good and sick, you can stop. Seasickness comes on quickly, but it takes a long while to goaway. You don't want to overstate your case. No one dies ofnausea, but it can seriously sap the will to live. When enoughis enough, stream the sea anchor, try to give shade to youranimal if it has collapsed in direct sunlight, and make sure ithas water available when it recovers, with anti-seasicknesstablets dissolved in it, if you have any. Dehydration is a seriousdanger at this point. Otherwise, retreat to your territory andleave your animal in peace. Water, rest and relaxation, besidesa stable lifeboat, will bring it back to life. The animal should beallowed to recover fully before going through steps 1 to 8again. 9. Treatment should be repeated until the association in theanimal's mind between the sound of the whistle and the feelingof intense, incapacitating nausea is fixed and totallyunambiguous. Thereafter, the whistle alone will deal withtrespassing or any other untoward behaviour. Just one shrillblow and you will see your animal shudder with malaise andrepair at top speed to the safest, furthest part of its territory. Once this level of training is reached, use of the whistle shouldbe sparing. Chapter 72 In my case, to protect myself from Richard Parker while Itrained him, I made a shield with a turtle shell. I cut a notchon each side of the shell and connected them with a length ofrope. The shield was heavier than I would have liked, but dosoldiers ever get to choose their ordnance? The first time I tried, Richard Parker bared his teeth, rotatedhis ears full round, vomited a short guttural roar and charged. A great, full-clawed paw rose in the air and cuffed my shield. The blow sent me flying off the boat. I hit the water andinstantly let go of the shield. It sank without a trace afterhitting me in the shin. I was beside myself with terror - ofRichard Parker, but also of being in the water. In my mind ashark was at that very second shooting up for me. I swam forthe raft in frantic strokes, precisely the sort of wild thrashingthat sharks find so deliciously inviting. Luckily there were nosharks. I reached the raft, let out all the rope and sat with myarms wrapped around my knees and my head down, trying toput out the fire of fear that was blazing within me. It was along time before the trembling of my body stopped completely. I stayed on the raft for the rest of that day and the wholenight. I did not eat or drink. I was at it again next time I caught a turtle. Its shell wassmaller, lighter, and made for a better shield. Once more Iadvanced and started stamping on the middle bench with myfoot. I wonder if those who hear this story will understand thatmy behaviour was not an act of insanity or a covert suicideattempt, but a simple necessity. Either I tamed him, made himsee who was Number One and who was Number Two - or Idied the day I wanted to climb aboard the lifeboat duringrough weather and he objected. If I survived my apprenticeship as a high seas animal trainer,it was because Richard Parker did not really want to attackme. Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as ameans of settling scores. When animals fight, it is with theintent to kill and with the understanding that they may bekilled. A clash is costly. And so animals have a full system ofcautionary signals designed to avoid a showdown, and they arequick to back down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tigerattack a fellow predator without warning. Typically a head-onrush for the adversary will be made, with much snarling andgrowling. But just before it is too late, the tiger will freeze, themenace rumbling deep in its throat. It will appraise thesituation. If it decides that there is no threat, it will turn away,feeling that its point has been made. Richard Parker made his point with me four times. Fourtimes he struck at me with his right paw and sent meoverboard, and four times I lost my shield. I was terrifiedbefore, during and after each attack, and I spent a long timeshivering with fear on the raft. Eventually I learned to read thesignals he was sending me. I found that with his ears, his eyes,his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat, he spoke asimple, forcefully punctuated language that told me what hisnext move might be. I learned to back down before he liftedhis paw in the air. Then I made my point, feet on the gunnel, boat rolling, mysingle-note language blasting from the whistle, and RichardParker moaning and gasping at the bottom of the boat. My fifth shield lasted me the rest of his training. Chapter 73 My greatest wish - other than salvation - was to have abook. A long book with a never-ending story. One I could readagain and again, with new eyes and a fresh understandingeach time. Alas, there was no scripture in the lifeboat. I was adisconsolate Arjuna in a battered chariot without the benefit ofKrishna's words. The first time I came upon a Bible in thebedside table of a hotel room in Canada, I burst into tears. Isent a contribution to the Gideons the very next day, with anote urging them to spread the range of their activity to allplaces where worn and weary travellers might lay down theirheads, not just to hotel rooms, and that they should leave notonly Bibles, but other sacred writings as well. I cannot think ofa better way to spread the faith. No thundering from a pulpit,no condemnation from bad churches, no peer pressure, just abook of scripture quietly waiting to say hello, as gentle andpowerful as a little girl's kiss on your cheek. At the very least, if I had had a good novel! But there wasonly the survival manual, which I must have read ten thousandtimes over the course of my ordeal. I kept a diary. It's hard to read. I wrote as small as I could. I was afraid I would run out of paper. There's not much to it. Words scratched on a page trying to capture a reality thatoverwhelmed me. I started it a week or so after the sinking ofthe Tsimtsum. Before that I was too busy and scattered. Theentries are not dated or numbered. What strikes me now ishow time is captured. Several days, several weeks, all on onepage. I talked about what you might expect: about things thathappened and how I felt, about what I caught and what Ididn't, about seas and weather, about problems and solutions,about Richard Parker. All very practical stuff. Chapter 74 I practised religious rituals that I adapted to thecircumstances - solitary Masses without priests or consecratedCommunion hosts, darshans without murtis, and pujas withturtle meat for prasad, acts of devotion to Allah not knowingwhere Mecca was and getting my Arabic wrong. They broughtme comfort, that is certain. But it was hard, oh, it was hard. Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, afree act of love - but sometimes it was so hard to love. Sometimes my heart was sinking so fast with anger, desolationand weariness, I was afraid it would sink to the very bottom ofthe Pacific and I would not be able to lift it back up. At such moments I tried to elevate myself. I would touch theturban I had made with the remnants of my shirt and I wouldsay aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S HAT!"I would pat my pants and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'SATTIRE!"I would point to Richard Parker and say aloud, "THIS ISGOD'S CAT!"I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'SARK!"I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, "THESE AREGOD'S WIDE ACRES!"I would point at the sky and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'SEAR!"And in this way I would remind myself of creation and ofmy place in it. But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants werefalling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's ark was ajail. God's wide acres were slowly killing me. God's ear didn'tseem to be listening. Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. Itwas a hell beyond expression. I thank God it always passed. Aschool of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out tobe reknotted. Or I thought of my family, of how they werespared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir andeventually go away, and God would remain, a shining point oflight in my heart. I would go on loving. Chapter 75 On the day when I estimated it was Mother's birthday, Isang "Happy Birthday" to her out loud. Chapter 76 I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. Assoon as I became aware that he had had a bowel movement,I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudginghis feces my way with the gaff and reaching for them from thetarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does notmatter with animals in the wild since they rarely spend anytime next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationshipto them; tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animalsnormally excrete and move on. In the compact territory of azoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces inan animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection by encouraging theanimal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything thatremotely resembles food. That is why enclosures are cleaned,out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to sparethe eyes and noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family'sreputation for high standards in zookeeping was not myconcern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks RichardParker became constipated and his bowel movements came nomore than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring washardly worth it from a sanitary point of view. It was foranother reason that I did it: it was because the first timeRichard Parker relieved himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that hetried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost onme. To display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them,would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely, tohide them, or try to, was a sign of deference - of deference tome. I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, hishead cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a quiet,sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptionalalertness and deliberation, not only to preserve my life but alsoto give him the right signal. The right signal was that when Ihad his feces in my hand, I rolled them about for someseconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed themloudly, and swung my gaze his way a few times in a showymanner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as toprovoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I blew in alow, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgeringhim with my eyes (for, of course, with all animals, including us,to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle crythat had such ominous associations in his mind, I made clearto Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, tofondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it wasnot good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological bullying. And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gazealways floated in mid-air, neither on me nor off me. It wassomething I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrementin my hand: mastery in the making. The exercise always leftme utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated. Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated asRichard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little waterand too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthlyact, was hardly that. It was a long-drawn, arduous and painfulevent that left me bathing in sweat and helpless withexhaustion, a trial worse than a high fever. Chapter 77 As the cartons of survival rations diminished, I reduced myintake till I was following instructions exactly, holding myself toonly two biscuits every eight hours. I was continuously hungry. I thought about food obsessively. The less I had to eat, thelarger became the portions I dreamed of. My fantasy mealsgrew to be the size of India. A Ganges of dhal soup. Hotchapattis the size of Rajasthan. Bowls of rice as big as UttarPradesh. Sambars to flood all of Tamil Nadu. Ice cream heapedas high as the Himalayas. My dreaming became quite expert: all ingredients for my dishes were always in fresh and plentifulsupply; the oven or frying pan was always at just the righttemperature; the proportion of things was always bang on;nothing was ever burnt or undercooked, nothing too hot or toocold. Every meal was simply perfect - only just beyond thereach of my hands. By degrees the range of my appetite increased. Whereas atfirst I gutted fish and peeled their skin fastidiously, soon I nomore than rinsed off their slimy slipperiness before biting intothem, delighted to have such a treat between my teeth. I recallflying fish as being quite tasty, their flesh rosy white andtender. Dorado had a firmer texture and a stronger taste. Ibegan to pick at fish heads rather than toss them to RichardParker or use them as bait. It was a great discovery when Ifound that a fresh-tasting fluid could be sucked out not onlyfrom the eyes of larger fish but also from their vertebrae. Turtles - which previously I had roughly opened up with theknife and tossed onto the floor of the boat for Richard Parker,like a bowl of hot soup - became my favourite dish. It seems impossible to imagine that there was a time when Ilooked upon a live sea turtle as a ten-course meal of greatdelicacy, a blessed respite from fish. Yet so it was. In the veinsof turtles coursed a sweet lassi that had to be drunk as soonas it spurted from their necks, because it coagulated in lessthan a minute. The best poriyals and kootus in the land couldnot rival turtle flesh, either cured brown or fresh deep red. Nocardamom payasam I ever tasted was as sweet or as rich ascreamy turtle eggs or cured turtle fat. A chopped-up mixture ofheart, lungs, liver, flesh and cleaned-out intestines sprinkled withfish parts, the whole soaked in a yolk-and-serum gravy, madean unsurpassable, finger-licking thali. By the end of my journeyI was eating everything a turtle had to offer. In the algae thatcovered the shells of some hawks-bills I sometimes found smallcrabs and barnacles. Whatever I found in a turtle's stomachbecame my turn to eat. I whiled away many a pleasant hourgnawing at a flipper joint or splitting open bones and lickingout their marrow. And my fingers were forever picking away atbits of dry fat and dry flesh that clung to the inner sides ofshells, rummaging for food in the automatic way of monkeys. Turtle shells were very handy. I couldn't have done withoutthem. They served not only as shields, but as cutting boardsfor fish and as bowls for mixing food. And when the elementshad destroyed the blankets beyond repair, I used the shells toprotect myself from the sun by propping them against eachother and lying beneath them. It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made fora good mood. The one would follow the other measure formeasure: so much food and water,so much good mood. It was such a terribly fickle existence. I was at the mercy of turtle meat for smiles. By the time the last of the biscuits had disappeared, anythingwas good to eat, no matter the taste. I could put anything inmy mouth, chew it and swallow it - delicious, foul or plain -so long as it wasn't salty. My body developed a revulsion forsalt that I still experience to this day. I tried once to eat Richard Parker's feces. It happened earlyon, when my system hadn't learned yet to live with hungerand my imagination was still wildly searching for solutions. Ihad delivered fresh solar-still water to his bucket not longbefore. After draining it in one go, he had disappeared belowthe tarpaulin and I had returned to attending to some smallmatter in the locker. As I always did in those early days, Iglanced below the tarpaulin every so often to make sure hewasn't up to something. Well, this one time, lo, he was. Hewas crouched, his back was rounded and his rear legs werespread. His tail was raised, pushing up against the tarpaulin. The position was tell-tale. Right away I had food in mind, notanimal hygiene. I decided there was little danger. He wasturned the other way and his head was out of sight. If Irespected his peace and quiet, he might not even notice me. Igrabbed a bailing cup and stretched my arm forward. My cuparrived in the nick of time. At the second it was in position atthe base of his tail, Richard Parker's anus distended, and outof it, like a bubble-gum balloon, came a black sphere ofexcrement. It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I willbe considered to have abandoned the last vestiges ofhumanness by those who do not understand the degree of mysuffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the musicof a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's cup. A smilecracked my lips and made them bleed. I felt deep gratitudetowards Richard Parker. I pulled back the cup. I took the turdin my fingers. It was very warm, but the smell was not strong. In size it was like a big ball of gulab jamun, but with none ofthe softness. In fact, it was as hard as a rock. Load a musketwith it and you could have shot a rhino. I returned the ball to the cup and added a little water. Icovered it and set it aside. My mouth watered as I waited. When I couldn't stand the wait any longer, I popped the ballinto my mouth. I couldn't eat it. The taste was acrid, but itwasn't that. It was rather my mouth's conclusion, immediateand obvious: there's nothing to be had here. It was truly wastematter, with no nutrients in it. I spat it out and was bitter atthe loss of precious water. I took the gaff and went aboutcollecting the rest of Richard Parker's feces. They went straightto the fish. After just a few weeks my body began to deteriorate. Myfeet and ankles started to swell and I was finding it very tiringto stand. Chapter 78 There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great whiteclouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy on top. Thesky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to thesenses. The sky was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud,but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. Thesky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky wasstreaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton ballstretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The skywas a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed bywithout delivering rain. The sky was painted with a smallnumber of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. The sky was amere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlightflooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadowperfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of fallingrain. The sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick andopaque, others looking like smoke. The sky was black andspitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing butfalling water, a ceaseless deluge that wrinkled and bloated myskin and froze me stiff. There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The seawhispered in your ear like a friend telling you secrets. The seaclinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered likeavalanches. The sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea was deadsilent. And in between the two, in between the sky and the sea,were all the winds. And there were all the nights and all the moons. To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centreof a circle. However much things may appear to change - thesea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go fromfresh blue to blinding white to darkest black - the geometrynever changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumferenceis ever great. In fact, the circles multiply. To be a castaway isto be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at thecentre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles spinabout. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasivecrowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you closeyour eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon distressesyou by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open youreyes wide to escape your loneliness. When you look up, yousometimes wonder if at, the centre of a solar storm, if in themiddle of the Sea of Tranquillity, there isn't another one likeyou also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also strugglingwith fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy. Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim andexhausting opposites. When it is light, the openness of the seais blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness isclaustrophobic. When it is day, you are hot and wish to becool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night, you are cold and wish to be warm anddream of hot curries and wrap yourself in blankets. When it ishot, you are parched and wish to be wet. When it rains, youare nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food,there is too much of it and you must feast. When there isnone, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flatand motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up andthe circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, yousuffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in openspaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again. Theopposites often take place at the same moment, so that whenthe sun is scorching you till you are stricken down, you arealso aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that arehanging from your lines and that it is a blessing for your solarstills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing yourfresh-water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affectyour cured provisions and that some will probably go bad,turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and itbecomes clear that you have survived the sky's attack and thesea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that somuch fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by theworry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will dieof thirst before the next drops fall. The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to theother. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper ofwind. The hours last forever. You are so bored you sink into astate of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes roughand your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. Yet even thesetwo opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom thereare elements of terror: you break down into tears; you arefilled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself. And in the grip of terror - the worst storm - you yet feelboredom, a deep weariness with it all. Only death consistently excites your emotions, whethercontemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing it whenlife is threatened and precious. Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end gamein chess, a game with few pieces. The elements couldn't bemore simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it isextraordinarily arduous, and morally it is killing. You must makeadjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your happiness where you can. You reach a pointwhere you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your armscrossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're theluckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet you havea tiny dead fish. Chapter 79 There were sharks every day, mainly makos and bluesharks, but also oceanic whitetips, and once a tiger sharkstraight from the blackest of nightmares. Dawn and dusk weretheir favourite times. They never seriously troubled us. Onoccasion one knocked the hull of the lifeboat with its tail. Idon't think it was accidental (other marine life did it too, turtlesand even dorados). I believe it was part of a shark's way ofdetermining the nature of the lifeboat. A good whack on theoffender's nose with a hatchet sent it vanishing post-haste intothe deep. The main nuisance of sharks was that they madebeing in the water risky, like trespassing on a property wherethere's a sign saying Beware of Dog. Otherwise, I grew quitefond of sharks. They were like curmudgeonly old friends whowould never admit that they liked me yet came round to seeme all the time. The blue sharks were smaller, usually no morethan four or five feet long, and the most attractive, sleek andslender, with small mouths and discreet gill slits. Their backswere a rich ultramarine and their stomachs snow white, coloursthat vanished to grey or black when they were at any depth,but which close to the surface sparkled with surprisingbrilliance. The makos were larger and had mouths burstingwith frightening teeth, but they too were nicely coloured, anindigo blue that shimmered beautifully in the sun. The oceanicwhitetips were often shorter than the makos - some of whichstretched to twelve feet - but they were much stockier andhad enormous dorsal fins that they sailed high above thesurface of the water, like a war banner, a rapidly moving sightthat was always nerve-racking to behold. Besides, they were adull colour, a sort of greyish brown, and the mottled white tipsof their fins held no special attraction. I caught a number of small sharks, blue sharks for the mostpart, but some makos too. Each time it was just after sunset,in the dying light of the day, and I caught them with my barehands as they came close to the lifeboat. The first one was my largest, a mako over four feet long. Ithad come and gone near the bow several times. As it waspassing by yet again, I impulsively dropped my hand into thewater and grabbed it just ahead of the tail, where its bodywas thinnest. Its harsh skin afforded such a marvellously goodgrip that without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled. AsI pulled, it jumped, giving my arm a terrific shake. To myhorror and delight the thing vaulted in the air in an explosionof water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second Ididn't know what to do next. The thing was smaller than I -but wasn't I being a foolhardy Goliath here? Shouldn't I let go? I turned and swung, and falling on the tarpaulin, I threw themako towards the stern. The fish fell from the sky into RichardParker's territory. It landed with a crash and started thwackingabout with such thunder that I was afraid it would demolishthe boat. Richard Parker was startled. He attacked immediately. An epic battle began. Of interest to zoologists I can reportthe following: a tiger will not at first attack a shark out ofwater with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker started clubbing the shark. I shuddered atevery blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered to ahuman would break every bone, would turn any piece offurniture into splinters, would reduce an entire house into a pileof rubble. That the mako was not enjoying the treatment wasevident from the way it was twisting and turning and beatingits tail and reaching with its mouth. Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar withsharks, had never encountered a predatory fish - whatever thecase, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when Iwas reminded that Richard Parker was not perfect, that despitehis honed instincts he too could bumble. He put his left pawinto the mako's mouth. The mako closed its jaws. ImmediatelyRichard Parker reared onto his back legs. The shark wasjerked up, but it wouldn't let go. Richard Parker fell backdown, opened his mouth wide and full-out roared. I felt a blastof hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heatcoming off a road on a hot day. I can well imagine thatsomewhere far off, 150 miles away, a ship's watch looked up,startled, and later reported the oddest thing, that he thought heheard a cat's meow coming from three o'clock. Days later thatroar was still ringing in my guts. But a shark is deaf,conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn't think ofpinching a tiger's paw, let alone of trying to swallow one,received a volcanic roar full in the face and quaked andtrembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the sharkperceived only a dull vibration. Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark's headwith his free front paw and biting it with his jaws, while hisrear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The sharkheld on to his paw, its only line of defence and attack, andthrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about. With great effort I managed to gain enough control of mybody to get onto the raft and release it. The lifeboat driftedaway. I saw flashes of orange and deep blue, of fur and skin,as the lifeboat rocked from side to side. Richard Parker'ssnarling was simply terrifying. At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutesRichard Parker sat up, licking his left paw. In the following days he spent much time tending his fourpaws. A shark's skin is covered with minute tubercles thatmake it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himselfwhile repeatedly raking the shark. His left paw was injured, butthe damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws weremissing. As for the mako, except for the tips of the tail andthe mouth area, incongruously untouched, it was a half-eaten,butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps ofinternal organs were strewn about. I managed to gaff some of the shark's remains, but to mydisappointment the vertebrae of sharks do not hold fluid. Atleast the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness ofcartilage was a welcome respite from so much soft food. Subsequently I went for smaller sharks, pups really, and Ikilled them myself. I found that stabbing them through the eyeswith the knife was a faster, less tiresome way of killing themthan hacking at the tops of their heads with the hatchet. Chapter 80 Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a specialdorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and we were inthe midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was activelyswatting at them. I was huddled behind a turtle shell, shieldingmyself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of nethanging from it extended into the open. I was hoping to catchfish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fishwhizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of thewater. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying fish gotaway, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like acannonball. The thud it made shook the whole boat. A spurt ofblood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I droppedbeneath the hail of flying fish and reached for the dorado justahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearlythere, and turning all kinds of colours. What a catch! What acatch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. Thefish was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good fortypounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine wouldirrigate a desert. Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. Isensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish were stillcoming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was thefish in my hands that was now the focus of his attention. Hewas eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wingdangling from it. His back became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he wasmaking to attack me. It was too late to get away, too late evento blow my whistle. My time had come. But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was sohungry. There are only so many days you can go withouteating. And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger -because I was more set on eating than I was on staying alive- without any means of defence, naked in every sense of theterm, I looked Richard Parker dead in the eyes. Suddenly hisbrute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothingcompared to the strength in my mind. I stared into his eyes,wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tellyou that a tiger, indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of adirect stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild oxhas turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are twovery different things (and it's a useless bit of knowledge ifyou're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you holdone lion in the thrall of your gaze, another will come up toyou from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrificbattle of minds for status and authority was waged between aboy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest oflunges to be on top of me. But I held my stare. Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away. He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped withdisbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried awayto the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to Richard Parker afair chunk of the fish. From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer inquestion, and I began to spend progressively more time on thelifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on themore comfortable tarpaulin. I was still scared of Richard Parker,but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longerstrained me. You can get used to anything - haven't I alreadysaid that? Isn't that what all survivors say? Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against itsrolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little - since the ends ofthe lifeboat were higher than its middle - and so I could keepan eye on Richard Parker. Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting justabove the middle bench, my back to Richard Parker and histerritory. In this position I was further away from the edges ofthe boat and less exposed to wind and spray. Chapter 81 I know my survival is hard to believe. When I think back, Ican hardly believe it myself. My crude exploitation of Richard Parker's weak sea legs isnot the only explanation. There is another: I was the source offood and water. Richard Parker had been a zoo animal as longas he could remember, and he was used to sustenance comingto him without his lifting a paw. True, when it rained and thewhole boat became a rain catcher, he understood where thewater came from. And when we were hit by a school of flyingfish, there too my role was not apparent. But these events didnot change the reality of things, which was that when helooked beyond the gunnel, he saw no jungle that he couldhunt in and no river from which he could drink freely. Yet Ibrought him food and I brought him fresh water. My agencywas pure and miraculous. It conferred power upon me. Proof: I remained alive day after day, week after week. Proof: he didnot attack me, even when I was asleep on the tarpaulin. Proof: I am here to tell you this story. Chapter 82 I kept rainwater and the water I collected from the solarstills in the locker, out of Richard Parker's sight, in the three50-litre plastic bags. I sealed them with string. Those plasticbags wouldn't have been more precious to me had theycontained gold, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. I worriedincessantly about them. My worst nightmare was that I wouldopen the locker one morning and find that all three had spilledor, worse still, had split. To forestall such a tragedy, I wrappedthem in blankets to keep them from rubbing against the metalhull of the lifeboat, and I moved them as little as possible toreduce wear and tear. But I fretted over the necks of thebags. Would the string not wear them thin? How would I sealthe bags if their necks were torn? When the going was good, when the rain was torrential,when the bags had as much water as I thought they couldtake, I filled the bailing cups, the two plastic buckets, the twomulti-purpose plastic containers, the three beakers and theempty cans of water (which I now preciously kept). Next Ifilled all the plastic vomit bags, sealing them by twisting themshut and making a knot. After that, if the rain was still comingdown, I used myself as a container. I stuck the end of therain-catcher tube in my mouth and I drank and I drank and Idrank. I always added a little sea water to Richard Parker's freshwater, in a greater proportion in the days following a rainfall, ina lesser during periods of drought. On occasion, in the earlydays, he dipped his head overboard, sniffed the sea and took afew sips, but quickly he stopped doing it. Still, we barely got by. The scarcity of fresh water was thesingle most constant source of anxiety and suffering throughoutour journey. Of whatever food I caught, Richard Parker took the lion'sshare, so to speak. I had little choice in the matter. He wasimmediately aware when I landed a turtle or a dorado or ashark, and I had to give quickly and generously. I think I setworld records for sawing open the belly shells of turtles. As forfish, they were hewn to pieces practically while they were stillflopping about. If I got to be so indiscriminate about what Iate, it was not simply because of appalling hunger; it was alsoplain rush. Sometimes I just didn't have the time to considerwhat was before me. It either went into my mouth that instantor was lost to Richard Parker, who was pawing and stampingthe ground and huffing impatiently on the edge of his territory. It came as an unmistakable indication to me of how low I hadsunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I atelike an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-downof mine was exactly the way Richard Parker ate. Chapter 83 The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds lookedas if they were stumbling along before the wind, frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a mannerthat made my heart sink. I took in the solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen uptill now were mere hillocks of water. These swells were trulymountains. The valleys we found ourselves in were so deepthey were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat startedsliding down them, nearly surfing. The raft was gettingexceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the water anddragged along bouncing every which way. I deployed both seaanchors fully, at different lengths so that they would notinterfere with each other. Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchorslike a mountain climber to a rope. We would rush up until wereached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and atipping forward of the lifeboat. The view would be clear formiles around. But the mountain would shift, and the groundbeneath us would start sinking in a most stomach-sickeningway. In no time we would be sitting once again at the bottomof a dark valley, different from the last but the same, withthousands of tons of water hovering above us and with onlyour flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move oncemore, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness, and theroller coaster would start again. The sea anchors did their job well - in fact, nearly too well. Every swell at its crest wanted to take us for a tumble, but theanchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled usthrough, but at the expense of pulling the front of the boatdown. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at thebow. I was soaked through and through each time. Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on takingus along. This time the bow vanished underwater. I wasshocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed tohold on. The boat was swamped. I heard Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me wasdeath by water or death by animal. I chose death by animal. While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped ontothe tarpaulin and unrolled it towards the stern, closing inRichard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Fasterthan a sewing machine working a piece of cloth, I hookeddown the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We wereclimbing again. The boat was lurching upwards steadily. It washard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now covered andthe tarpaulin battened down, except at my end. I squeezed inbetween the side bench and the tarpaulin and pulled theremaining tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and theside benches were only one and a half feet wide. But I wasnot so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to move ontothe floor of the boat. There were four hooks left to catch. Islipped a hand through the opening and worked the rope. With each hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. Imanaged two. Two hooks left. The boat was rushing upwardsin a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirtydegrees. I could feel myself being pulled down towards thestern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching onemore hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This wasnot a job meant to be done from the inside of the lifeboat butfrom the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something madeeasier by the fact that holding on to it was preventing mefrom sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftlypassed a forty-five-degree incline. We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when wereached the summit of the swell and broke through its crestonto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell's supplyof water crashed down on us. I felt as if I were beingpummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forwardand everything was reversed: I was now at the lower end ofthe lifeboat, and the water that had swamped it, with a tigersoaking in it, came my way. I did not feel the tiger - I hadno precise idea of where Richard Parker was; it waspitch-black beneath the tarpaulin - but before we reached thenext valley I was half-drowned. For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up anddown, up and down, up and down, until terror becamemonotonous and was replaced by numbness and a completegiving-up. I held on to the tarpaulin rope with one hand andthe edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body layflat against the side bench. In this position - water pouring in,water pouring out - the tarpaulin beat me to a pulp, I wassoaked and chilled, and I was bruised and cut by bones andturtle shells. The noise of the storm was constant, as wasRichard Parker's snarling. Sometime during the night my mind noted that the stormwas over. We were bobbing on the sea in a normal way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starryand cloudless. I undid the tarpaulin and lay on top of it. I noticed the loss of the raft at dawn. All that was left of itwere two tied oars and the life jacket between them. They hadthe same effect on me as the last standing beam of aburnt-down house would have on a householder. I turned andscrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My littlemarine town had vanished. That the sea anchors, miraculously,were not lost - they continued to tug at the lifeboat faithfully -was a consolation that had no effect. The loss of the raft wasperhaps not fatal to my body, but it felt fatal to my spirits. The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn inseveral places, some tears evidently the work of RichardParker's claws. Much of our food was gone, either lostoverboard or destroyed by the water that had come in. I wassore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound wasswollen and white. I was nearly too afraid to check thecontents of the locker. Thank God none of the water bags hadsplit. The net and the solar stills, which I had not entirelydeflated, had filled the empty space and prevented the bagsfrom moving too much. I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin atthe stern. Richard Parker was so silent I wondered whether hehad drowned. He hadn't. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to themiddle bench and daylight came to him, he stirred andgrowled. He climbed out of the water and set himself on thestern bench. I took out needle and thread and went aboutmending the tears in the tarpaulin. Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed theboat. Richard Parker watched me distractedly. He seemed tofind nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and Iproceeded slowly. One haul brought me something I had lost. Iconsidered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand was all thatremained between me and death: the last of the orangewhistles. Chapter 84 I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping anddreaming and awakening and daydreaming and generallypassing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time totime spray was blown off the crest of a wave and wet theboat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. Heliked neither getting wet nor the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea wasregular in its motion. I awoke because there was a blast. Iopened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed downon me. I looked up again. Cloudless blue sky. There wasanother blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. RichardParker growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It hadan unpleasant smell. I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I sawwas a large black object floating in the water. It took me a fewseconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle aroundits edge was my clue. It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye,the size of my head, was looking directly at me. Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. Hehissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the whaleseye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed forthirty seconds or so before gently sinking under. I worried thatit might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down andvanished in the dark blue. Its tail was a huge, fading, roundbracket. I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must havedecided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I alreadyseemed to have a mate. We saw a number of whales but none so close up as thatfirst one. I would be alerted to their presence by their spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three orfour of them, a short-lived archipelago of volcanic islands. Thesegentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced thatthey understood my condition, that at the sight of me one ofthem exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy catBamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he hasenough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and Tomphoo andStimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around Icould alert. His mother would be very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." Andso, through the grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew ofme, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn'tsought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crewharpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the handsof a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime. Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed withus a whole day and night. They were very gay. Their plungingand turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to haveno purpose other than sporting fun. I tried to catch one. Butnone came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they weretoo fast and too big. I gave up and just watched them. I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angelannouncing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds thatcould span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. Iwatched them with awe and envy and self-pity. Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the airwithout taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible. Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson'spetrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water. They, too, tookno notice of us, and left me similarly amazed. We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It kicked out itslegs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating aslightly as a cork It eyed me with curiosity. I quickly baited ahook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I putno weights on the line and had difficulty getting it close to thebird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking baitand plunged its head underwater to get at it. My heartpounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for someseconds. When I did, the bird merely squawked andregurgitated what it had just swallowed. Before I could tryagain, it unfolded its wings and pulled itself up into the air. Within two, three beatings of its wings it was on its way. I had better luck with a masked booby. It appeared out ofnowhere, gliding towards us, wings spanning over three feet. Itlanded on the gunnel within hand's reach of me. Its roundeyes took me in, the expression puzzled and serious. It was alarge bird with a pure snowy white body and wings that werejet-black at their tips and rear edges. Its big, bulbous head hada very pointed orange-yellow beak and the red eyes behind theblack mask made it look like a thief who had had a very longnight. Only the oversized, brown webbed feet left something tobe desired in their design. The bird was fearless. It spentseveral minutes tweaking its feathers with its beak, exposing softdown. When it was finished, it looked up and everything fellinto place, and it showed itself for what it was: a smooth,beautiful, aerodynamic airship. When I offered it a bit ofdorado, it pecked it out of my hand, jabbing the palm. I broke its neck by leveraging its head backwards, one handpushing up the beak, the other holding the neck. The featherswere so well attached that when I started pulling them out,skin came off - I was not plucking the bird; I was tearing itapart. It was light enough as it was, a volume with no weight. I took the knife and skinned it instead. For its size there wasa disappointing amount of flesh, only a little on its chest. Ithad a more chewy texture than dorado flesh, but I didn't findthere was much of a difference in taste. In its stomach, besidesthe morsel of dorado I had just given it, I found three smallfish. After rinsing them of digestive juices, I ate them. I ate thebird's heart, liver and lungs. I swallowed its eyes and tonguewith a gulp of water. I crushed its head and picked out itssmall brain. I ate the webbings ‘of its feet. The rest of the birdwas skin, bone and feathers. I dropped it beyond the edge ofthe tarpaulin for Richard Parker, who hadn't seen the birdarrive. An orange paw reached out. Days later feathers and down were still floating up from hisden and being blown out to sea. Those that landed in thewater were swallowed by fish. None of the birds ever announced land. Chapter 85 Once there was lightning. The sky was so black, day lookedlike night. The downpour was heavy. I heard thunder far away. I thought it would stay at that. But a wind came up, throwingthe rain this way and that. Right after, a white splinter camecrashing down from the sky, puncturing the water. It wassome distance from the lifeboat, but the effect was perfectlyvisible. The water was shot through with what looked like whiteroots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean. I hadnever imagined such a thing possible, lightning striking the sea. The clap of thunder was tremendous. The flash of light wasincredibly vivid. I turned to Richard Parker and said, "Look, Richard Parker,a bolt of lightning." I saw how he felt about it. He was flat onthe floor of the boat, limbs splayed and visibly trembling. The effect on me was completely the opposite. It wassomething to pull me out of my limited mortal ways and thrustme into a state of exalted wonder. Suddenly a bolt struck much closer. Perhaps it was meantfor us: we had just fallen off the crest of a swell and weresinking down its back when its top was hit. There was anexplosion of hot air and hot water. For two, perhaps threeseconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a brokencosmic window danced in the sky, insubstantial yetoverwhelmingly powerful. Ten thousand trumpets and twentythousand drums could not have made as much noise as thatbolt of lightning; it was positively deafening. The sea turnedwhite and all colour disappeared. Everything was either purewhite light or pure black shadow. The light did not seem toilluminate so much as to penetrate. As quickly as it hadappeared, the bolt vanished - the spray of hot water had notfinished landing upon us and already it was gone. Thepunished swell returned to black and rolled on indifferently. I was dazed, thunderstruck - nearly in the true sense of theword. But not afraid. "Praise be to Allah, Lord of All Worlds, the Compassionate,the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment Day!" I muttered. To RichardParker I shouted, "Stop your trembling! This is miracle. This isan outbreak of divinity. This is… this is…" I could not find whatit was, this thing so vast and fantastic. I was breathless andwordless. I lay back on the tarpaulin, arms and legs spreadwide. The rain chilled me to the bone. But I was smiling. Iremember that close encounter with electrocution andthird-degree burns as one of the few times during my ordealwhen I felt genuine happiness. At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, toentertain thoughts that span the universe, that capture boththunder and tinkle, thick and thin, the near and the far. Chapter 86 "Richard Parker, a ship!"I had the pleasure of shouting that once. I was overwhelmedwith happiness. All hurt and frustration fell away and Ipositively blazed with joy. "We've made it! We're saved! Do you understand,Richard Parker? WE'RE SAVED! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"I tried to control my excitement. What if the ship passed toofar away to see us? Should I launch a rocket flare? Nonsense! "It's coming right towards us, Richard Parker! Oh, I thankyou, Lord Ganesha! Blessed be you in all your manifestations,Allah-Brahman!"It couldn't miss us. Can there be any happiness greater thanthe happiness of salvation? The answer - believe me - is No. I got to my feet, the first time in a long time I had madesuch an effort. "Can you believe it, Richard Parker? People, food, a bed. Lifeis ours once again. Oh, what bliss!"The ship came closer still. It looked like an oil tanker. Theshape of its bow was becoming distinct. Salvation wore a robeof black metal with white trim. "And what if…?"I did not dare say the words. But might there not be achance that Father and Mother and Ravi were still alive? TheTsimtsum had had a number of lifeboats. Perhaps they hadreached Canada weeks ago and were anxiously waiting fornews from me. Perhaps I was the only person from the wreckunaccounted for. "My God, oil tankers are big!"It was a mountain creeping up on us. "Perhaps they're already in Winnipeg. I wonder what ourhouse looks like. Do you suppose, Richard Parker, thatCanadian houses have inner courtyards in the traditional Tamilstyle? Probably not. I suppose they would fill up with snow inwinter. Pity. There's no peace like the peace of an innercourtyard on a sunny day. I wonder what spices grow inManitoba?"The ship was very close. The crew better be stopping shortor turning sharply soon. "Yes, what spices…? Oh my God!"I realized with horror that the tanker was not simply comingour way - it was in fact bearing down on us. The bow was avast wall of metal that was getting wider every second. A hugewave girdling it was advancing towards us relentlessly. RichardParker finally sensed the looming juggernaut. He turned andwent "Woof! Woof!" but not doglike - it was tiger-like: powerful, scary and utterly suited to the situation. "Richard Parker, it's going to run us over! What are wegoing to do? Quick, quick, a flare! No! Must row. Oar inoarlock… there! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUM-"The bow wave pushed us up. Richard Parker crouched, andthe hairs on him stood up. The lifeboat slid off the bow waveand missed the tanker by less than two feet. The ship slid by for what seemed like a mile, a mile of high,black canyon wall, a mile of castle fortification with not a singlesentinel to notice us languishing in the moat. I fired off arocket flare, but I aimed it poorly. Instead of surging over thebulwarks and exploding in the captain's face, it ricocheted offthe ship's side and went straight into the Pacific, where it diedwith a hiss. I blew on my whistle with all my might. I shoutedat the top of my lungs. All to no avail. Its engines rumbling loudly and its propellers choppingexplosively underwater, the ship churned past us and left usbouncing and bobbing in its frothy wake. After so many weeksof natural sounds, these mechanical noises were strange andawesome and stunned me into silence. In less than twenty minutes a ship of three hundredthousand tons became a speck on the horizon. When I turnedaway, Richard Parker was still looking in its direction. After afew seconds he turned away too and our gazes briefly met. My eyes expressed longing, hurt, anguish, loneliness. All he wasaware of was that something stressful and momentous hadhappened, something beyond the outer limits of hisunderstanding. He did not see that it was salvation barelymissed. He only saw that the alpha here, this odd,unpredictable tiger, had been very excited. He settled down toanother nap. His sole comment on the event was a crankymeow. "I love you!" The words burst out pure and unfettered,infinite. The feeling flooded my chest. "Truly I do. I love you,Richard Parker. If I didn't have you now, I don't know what Iwould do. I don't think I would make it. No, I wouldn't. Iwould die of hopelessness. Don't give up, Richard Parker, don'tgive up. I'll get you to land, I promise, I promise!" Chapter 87 One of my favourite methods of escape was what amountsto gentle asphyxiation. I used a piece of cloth that I cut fromthe remnants of a blanket. I called it my dream rag. I wet itwith sea water so that it was soaked but not dripping. I laycomfortably on the tarpaulin and I placed the dream rag onmy face, fitting it to my features. I would fall into a daze, notdifficult for someone in such an advanced state of lethargy tobegin with. But the dream rag gave a special quality to mydaze. It must have been the way it restricted my air intake. Iwould be visited by the most extraordinary dreams, trances,visions, thoughts, sensations, remembrances. And time would begobbled up. When a twitch or a gasp disturbed me and therag fell away, I'd come to full consciousness, delighted to findthat time had slipped by. The dryness of the rag was partproof. But more than that was the feeling that things weredifferent, that the present moment was different from theprevious present moment. Chapter 88 One day we came upon trash. First the water glistened withpatches of oil. Coming up soon after was the domestic andindustrial waste: mainly plastic refuse in a variety of forms andcolours, but also pieces of lumber, beer cans, wine bottles,tatters of cloth, bits of rope and, surrounding it all, yellowfoam. We advanced into it. I looked to see if there wasanything that might be of use to us. I picked out an emptycorked wine bottle. The lifeboat bumped into a refrigerator thathad lost its motor. It floated with its door to the sky. I reachedout, grabbed the handle and lifted the door open. A smell leaptout so pungent and disgusting that it seemed to colour the air. Hand to my mouth, I looked in. There were stains, dark juices,a quantity of completely rotten vegetables, milk so curdled andinfected it was a greenish jelly, and the quartered remains of adead animal in such an advanced state of black putrefactionthat I couldn't identify it. Judging by its size I think that it waslamb. In the closed, humid confines of the refrigerator, thesmell had had the time to develop, to ferment, to grow bitterand angry. It assaulted my senses with a pent-up rage thatmade my head reel, my stomach churn and my legs wobble. Luckily, the sea quickly filled the horrid hole and the thingsank beneath the surface. The space left vacant by thedeparted refrigerator was filled by other trash. We left the trash behind. For a long time, when the windcame from that direction, I could still smell it. It took the sea aday to wash off the oily smears from the sides of the lifeboat. I put a message in the bottle: "Japanese-owned cargo shipTsimtsum, flying Panamanian flag, sank July 2nd, 1977, inPacific, four days out of Manila. Am in lifeboat. Pi Patel myname. Have some food, some water, but Bengal tiger a seriousproblem. Please advise family in Winnipeg, Canada. Any helpvery much appreciated. Thank you." I corked the bottle andcovered the cork with a piece of plastic. I tied the plastic tothe neck of the bottle with nylon string, knotting it tightly. Ilaunched the bottle into the water. Chapter 89 Everything suffered. Everything became sun-bleached andweather-beaten. The lifeboat, the raft until it was lost, thetarpaulin, the stills, the rain catchers, the plastic bags, the lines,the blankets, the net - all became worn, stretched, slack,cracked, dried, rotted, torn, discoloured. What was orangebecame whitish orange. What was smooth became rough. Whatwas rough became smooth. What was sharp became blunt. What was whole became tattered. Rubbing fish skins and turtlefat on things, as I did, greasing them a little, made nodifference. The salt went on eating everything with its millionhungry mouths. As for the sun, it roasted everything. It keptRichard Parker in partial subjugation. It picked skeletons cleanand fired them to a gleaming white. It burned off my clothesand would have burned off my skin, dark though it was, had Inot protected it beneath blankets and propped-up turtle shells. When the heat was unbearable I took a bucket and pouredsea water on myself; sometimes the water was so warm it feltlike syrup. The sun also took care of all smells. I don'tremember any smells. Or only the smell of the spent hand-flareshells. They smelled like cumin, did I mention that? I don'teven remember what Richard Parker smelled like. We perished away. It happened slowly, so that I didn't noticeit all the time. But I noticed it regularly. We were twoemaciated mammals, parched and starving. Richard Parker's furlost its lustre, and some of it even fell away from his shouldersand haunches. He lost a lot of weight, became a skeleton in anoversized bag of faded fur. I, too, withered away, themoist-ness sucked out of me, my bones showing plainlythrough my thin flesh. I began to imitate Richard Parker in sleeping an incrediblenumber of hours. It wasn't proper sleep, but a state ofsemi-consciousness in which daydreams and reality were nearlyindistinguishable. I made much use of my dream rag. These are the last pages of my diary: Today saw a shark bigger than any I've seen till now. Aprimeval monster twenty feet long. Striped. A tiger shark -very dangerous. Circled us. Feared it would attack. Havesurvived one tiger; thought I would die at the hands ofanother. Did not attack. Floated away. Cloudy weather, butnothing. No rain. Only morning greyness. Dolphins. Tried to gaffone. Found I could not stand. R. P. weak and ill-tempered. Am so weak, if he attacks I won't be able to defend myself. Simply do not have the energy to blow whistle. Calm and burning hot day. Sun beating without mercy. Feel my brains are boiling inside my head. Feel horrid. Prostrate body and soul. Will die soon. R.P. breathing butnot moving. Will die too. Will not kill me. Salvation. An hour of heavy, delicious, beautiful rain. Filled mouth, filled bags and cans, filled body till it couldnot take another drop. Let myself be soaked to rinse offsalt. Crawled over to see R. P. Not reacting. Body curled,tail flat. Coat clumpy with wetness. Smaller when wet. Bony. Touched him for first time ever. To see if dead. Not. Body still warm. Amazing to touch him. Even in thiscondition, firm, muscular, alive. Touched him and furshuddered as if I were a gnat. At length, head half inwater stirred. Better to drink than to drown. Better signstill: tail jumped. Threw piece of turtle meat in front ofnose. Nothing. At last half rose - to drink. Drank anddrank. Ate. Did not rise fully. Spent a good hour lickinghimself all over. Slept. It's no use. Today I die. I will die today. I die. This was my last entry. I went on from there, endured, butwithout noting it. Do you see these invisible spirals on themargins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. Itwas the pens that ran out. Chapter 90 I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you goneblind?" as I waved my hand in his face. For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes andmeowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches andpains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. Icaught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in three days. Aturtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I hadbeen too weak to pull it aboard. I cut the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. Iexpected him to catch it in his mouth smartly. It crashed intohis blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, hefound the fish and began eating it. We were slow eaters now. I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from anyother day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge in theinner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not asdramatic as his overall appearance. The ordeal had reduced usto skin and bones. I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. Iwas staring into his eyes as if I were an eye doctor, while hewas looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail toreact to such a stare. I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching. The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. Irubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The veryopposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyesstarted to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink as I might. Atfirst it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre ofeverything. It spread into a blotch that reached to the edges ofmy vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crackof light at the top of my left eye, like a small window too highup. By noon, everything was pitch-black. I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. Ihad so little strength I could no longer stand. My lips werehard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated witha glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it was to smell. My skinwas burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especiallymy feet, were swollen and a constant source of pain. I washungry and once again there was no food. As for water,Richard Parker was taking so much that I was down to fivespoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothingcompared to the moral torture I was about to endure. I wouldrate the day I went blind as the day my extreme sufferingbegan. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey ithappened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant. It musthave been sometime between the hundredth and thetwo-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last another one. By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and Iresolved to die. I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer takecare of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I wasmore affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as I was, I could dono more for him. Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weaknesscreeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. Tomake my going more comfortable I decided to put off a littlethe intolerable thirst I had been living with for so long. Igulped down as much water as I could take. If only I couldhave had a last bite to eat. But it seemed that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in themiddle of the boat. I closed my eyes and waited for my breathto leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'msorry for having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. DearFather, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son andbrother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by thatI haven't thought of you. The moment I see you will be thehappiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands ofGod, who is love and whom I love." I heard the words, "Issomeone there?" It's astonishing what you hear when you'realone in the blackness of your dying mind. A sound withoutshape or colour sounds strange. To be blind is to hearotherwise. The words came again, "Is someone there?" I concluded thatI had gone mad. Sad but true. Misery loves company, andmadness calls it forth. "Is someone there?" came the voiceagain, insistent. The clarity of my insanity was astonishing. Thevoice had its very own timbre, with a heavy, weary rasp. Idecided to play along. "Of course someone's there," I replied. "There's always someone there. Who would be asking the question otherwise?""I was hoping there would be someone else." "What do youmean, someone e/se? Do you realize where you are? If you'renot happy with this figment of your fancy, pick another one. There are plenty of fancies to pick from."Hmmm. Figment. Fig-ment. Wouldn't a fig be good? "So there's no one, is there?""Shush… I'm dreaming of figs.""Figs! Do you have a fig? Please can I have a piece? I begyou. Only a little piece. I'm starving.""I don't have just one fig. I have a whole figment.""A whole figment of figs! Oh please, can I have some? I…"The voice, or whatever effect of wind and waves it was,faded. "They're plump and heavy and fragrant," I continued. "Thebranches of the tree are bent over, they are so weighed downwith figs. There must be over three hundred figs in that tree."Silence. The voice came back again. "Let's talk about food…""What a good idea.""What would you have to eat if you could have anythingyou wanted?""Excellent question. I would have a magnificent buffet. Iwould start with rice and sambar. There would be black gramdhal rice and curd rice and - ""I would have - ""I'm not finished. And with my rice I would have spicytamarind sambar and small onion sambar and - ""Anything else?""I'm getting there. I'd also have mixed vegetable sagu andvegetable korma and potato masala and cabbage vadai andmasala dosai and spicy lentil rasam and - ""I see.""Wait. And stuffed eggplant poriyal and coconut yam kootuand rice idli and curd vadai and vegetable bajji and - ""It sounds very - ""Have I mentioned the chutneys yet? Coconut chutney andmint chutney and green chilli pickle and gooseberry pickle, allserved with the usual nans, popadoms, parathas and puris, ofcourse.""Sounds - ""The salads! Mango curd salad and okra curd salad andplain fresh cucumber salad. And for dessert, almond payasamand milk payasam and jaggery pancake and peanut toffee andcoconut burfi and vanilla ice cream with hot, thick chocolatesauce.""Is that it?""I'd finish this snack with a ten-litre glass of fresh, clean,cool, chilled water and a coffee.""It sounds very good.""It does.""Tell me, what is coconut yam kootu?""Nothing short of heaven, that's what. To make it you needyams, grated coconut, green plantains, chilli powder, groundblack pepper, ground turmeric, cumin seeds, brown mustardseeds and some coconut oil. You sauté the coconut until it'sgolden brown - ""May I make a suggestion?""What?""Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tonguewith a mustard sauce?""That sounds non-veg.""It is. And then tripe.""Tripe? You've eaten the poor animal's tongue and now youwant to eat its stomach?""Yes! I dream of tripes à la mode de Caen - warm - withsweetbread.""Sweetbread? That sounds better. What is sweetbread?""Sweetbread is made from the pancreas of a calf.""The pancreas!""Braised and with a mushroom sauce, it's simply delicious."Where were these disgusting, sacrilegious recipes comingfrom? Was I so far gone that I was contemplating setting upona cow and her young? What horrible crosswind was I caughtin? Had the lifeboat drifted back into that floating trash? "What will be the next affront?""Calf's brains in a brown butter sauce!""Back to the head, are we?""Brain souffle!""I'm feeling sick. Is there anything you won't eat?""What I would give for oxtail soup. For roast suckling pigstuffed with rice, sausages, apricots and raisins. For veal kidneyin a butter, mustard and parsley sauce. For a marinated rabbitstewed in red wine. For chicken liver sausages. For pork andliver pate with veal. For frogs. Ah, give me frogs, give mefrogs!""I'm barely holding on."The voice faded. I was trembling with nausea. Madness inthe mind was one thing, but it was not fair that it should goto the stomach. Understanding suddenly dawned on me. "Would you eat bleeding raw beef?" I asked. "Of course! I love tartar steak.""Would you eat the congealed blood of a dead pig?""Every day, with apple sauce!""Would you eat anything from an animal, the last remains?""Scrapple and sausage! I'd have a heaping plate!""How about a carrot? Would you eat a plain, raw carrot?"There was no answer. "Did you not hear me? Would you eat a carrot?""I heard you. To be honest, if I had the choice, I wouldn't. I don't have much of a stomach for that kind of food. I find itquite distasteful."I laughed. I knew it. I wasn't hearing voices. I hadn't gonemad. It was Richard Parker who was speaking to me! Thecarnivorous rascal. All this time together and he had chosen anhour before we were to die to pipe up. I was elated to be onspeaking terms with a tiger. Immediately I was filled with avulgar curiosity, the sort that movie stars suffer from at thehands of their fans. "I'm curious, tell me - have you ever killed a man? I doubted it. Man-eaters among animals are as rare asmurderers among men, and Richard Parker was caught whilestill a cub. But who's to say that his mother, before she wasnabbed by Thirsty, hadn't caught a human being? "What a question," replied Richard Parker. "Seems reasonable.""It does?""Yes.""Why?""You have the reputation that you have.""I do?""Of course. Are you blind to that fact?""I am.""Well, let me make clear what you evidently can't see: youhave that reputation. So, have you ever killed a man?"Silence. "Well? Answer me.""Yes.""Oh! It sends shivers down my spine. How many?""Two.""You've killed two men?""No. A man and a woman.""At the same time?""No. The man first, the woman second.""You monster! I bet you thought it was great fun. You musthave found their cries and their struggles quite entertaining.""Not really.""Were they good?""Were they good? "Yes. Don't be so obtuse. Did they taste good?""No, they didn't taste good.""I thought so. I've heard it's an acquired taste in animals. Sowhy did you kill them?""Need.""The need of a monster. Any regrets?""It was them or me.""That is need expressed in all its amoral simplicity. But anyregrets now?""It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance.""Instinct, it's called instinct. Still, answer the question, anyregrets now?""I don't think about it.""The very definition of an animal. That's all you are.""And what are you?""A human being, I'll have you know.""What boastful pride.""It's the plain truth.""So, you would throw the first stone, would you?""Have you ever had oothappam?""No, I haven't. But tell me about it. What is oothappam?""It is so good.""Sounds delicious. Tell me more.""Oothappam is often made with leftover batter, but rarelyhas a culinary afterthought been so memorable.""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 warmmarbles in your mouth. You have an Indian accent.""You speak as if your tongue were a saw and Englishwords were made of wood. You have a French accent."It was utterly incongruous. Richard Parker was born inBangladesh and raised in Tamil Nadu, so why should he havea French accent? Granted, Pondicherry was once a Frenchcolony, but no one would have me believe that some of thezoo animals had frequented the Alliance Fran?aise on rueDumas. It was very perplexing. I fell into a fog again. I woke up with a gasp. Someone was there! This voicecoming to my ears was neither a wind with an accent nor ananimal speaking up. It was someone else! My heart beatfiercely, making one last go at pushing some blood through myworn-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 aname? "Do you hear me? I am Piscine Molitor Patel, known toall 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 indays. I must have something. I'll be grateful for whatever youcan spare. I beg you.""But I have no food either," I answered, dismayed. "Ihaven't eaten anything in days myself. I was hoping you wouldhave 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 blinkfor nothing. These last two days, if my skin can be trusted tomeasure 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 nofood 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 anotherblind 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 poorhygiene on a starving body at the end .of its tether."We both broke down. He wailed and I sobbed. It was toomuch, 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. Ireached for one of the oars I had salvaged from the wreckedraft. It was so heavy. I felt with my hands and found theclosest 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 grewuntil it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to theground 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 itand 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 withoutthe 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 inthe middle of the Pacific.""So?""So, the chance of meeting someone in the middle of thePacific with whom to trade my cigarettes did not strike me asan obvious prospect.""You have to plan ahead, you stupid boy! Now you havenothing to trade.""But even if I had something to trade, what would I trade itfor? 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 themiddle of the Pacific? Do you think I go for hikes in my sparetime?""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 aHindu and we Hindus consider cows sacred, eating a leatherboot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot mightexude 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 sightunseen?""We're both blind, may I remind you.""Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitifulsalesman 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 aninner 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 grewuntil it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it fell to theground and someone came upon it and ate it and afterwardsthat person felt better.""I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all I've said and done. I'm aworthless person," he burst out. "What do you mean? You are the most precious, wonderfulperson on earth. Come, my brother, let us be together andfeast on each other's company.""Yes!"The Pacific is no place for rowers, especially when they areweak and blind, when their lifeboats are large and unwieldy,and when the wind is not cooperating. He was close by; hewas far away. He was to my left; he was to my right. He wasahead of me; he was behind me. But at last we managed it. Our boats touched with a bump even sweeter-sounding than aturtle's. He threw me a rope and I tethered his boat to mine. I opened my arms to embrace him and to be embraced byhim. My eyes were brimming with tears and I was smiling. Hewas directly in front of me, a presence glowing through myblindness. "My sweet brother," I whispered. "I am here," he replied. I heard a faint growl. "Brother, there's something I forgot to mention."He landed upon me heavily. We fell half onto the tarpaulin,half onto the middle bench. His hands reached for my throat. "Brother," I gasped through his overeager embrace, "myheart is with you, but I must urgently suggest we repair toanother part of my humble ship.""You're damn right your heart is with me!" he said. "Andyour liver and your flesh!"I could feel him moving off the tarpaulin onto the middlebench and, fatally, bringing a foot down to the floor of theboat. "No, no, my brother! Don't! We're not - " I tried to holdhim back. Alas, it was too late. Before I could say the wordalone, I was alone again. I heard the merest clicking of clawsagainst the bottom of the boat, no more than the sound of apair of spectacles falling to the floor, and the next moment mydear brother shrieked in my face like I've never heard a manshriek before. He let go of me. This was the terrible cost of Richard Parker. He gave me alife, my own, but at the expense of taking one. He ripped theflesh off the man's frame and cracked his bones. The smell ofblood filled my nose. Something in me died then that hasnever come back to life. Chapter 91 I climbed aboard my brother's boat. With my hands Iexplored it. I found he had lied to me. He had a little turtlemeat, a dorado head, and even - a supreme treat - somebiscuit crumbs. And he had water. It all went into my mouth. Ireturned to my boat and released his. Crying as I had done did my eyes some good. The smallwindow at the top left of my vision opened a crack. I rinsedmy eyes with sea water. With every rinsing, the window openedfurther. My vision came back within two days. I saw such a vision that I nearly wished I had remainedblind. His butchered, dismembered body lay on the floor of theboat. Richard Parker had amply supped on him, including onhis face, so that I never saw who my brother was. Hiseviscerated torso, with its broken ribs curving up like the frameof a ship, looked like a miniature version of the lifeboat, suchwas its blood-drenched and horrifying state. I will confess that I caught one of his arms with the gaffand used his flesh as bait. I will further confess that, driven bythe extremity of my need and the madness to which it pushedme, I ate some of his flesh. I mean small pieces, little stripsthat I meant for the gaff's hook that, when dried by the sun,looked like ordinary animal flesh. They slipped into my mouthnearly unnoticed. You must understand, my suffering wasunremitting and he was already dead. I stopped as soon as Icaught a fish. I pray for his soul every day. Chapter 92 I made an exceptional botanical discovery. But there will bemany who disbelieve the following episode. Still, I give it to younow because it's part of the story and it happened to me. I was on my side. It was an hour or two past noon on aday of quiet sunshine and gentle breeze. I had slept a shortwhile, a diluted sleep that had brought no rest and no dreams. I turned over to my other side, expending as little energy aspossible in doing so. I opened my eyes. In the near distance I saw trees. I did not react. I wascertain it was an illusion that a few blinks would makedisappear. The trees remained. In fact, they grew to be a forest. Theywere part of a low-lying island. I pushed myself up. I continuedto disbelieve my eyes. But it was a thrill to be deluded in sucha high-quality way. The trees were beautiful. They were likenone I had ever seen before. They had a pale bark, andequally distributed branches that carried an amazing profusionof leaves. These leaves were brilliantly green, a green so brightand emerald that, next to it, vegetation during the monsoonswas drab olive. I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act likelumberjacks. But the trees would not fall. I looked down. I was both satisfied and disappointed withwhat I saw. The island had no soil. Not that the trees stood inwater. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a densemass of vegetation, as sparkling green as the leaves. Who hadever heard of land with no soil? With trees growing out ofpure vegetation? I felt satisfaction because such a geologyconfirmed that I was right, that this island was a chimera, aplay of the mind. By the same token I felt disappointmentbecause an island, any island, however strange, would havebeen very good to come upon. Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. Totake in green, after so much blue, was like music to my eyes. Green is a lovely colour. It is the colour of Islam. It is myfavourite colour. The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a beach, there being neither sandnor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, sincethe waves that fell upon the island simply vanished into itsporosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards inland, theisland sloped to the sea and, forty or so yards into it, fell offprecipitously, disappearing from sight into the depths of thePacific, surely the smallest continental shelf on record. I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last Irefrained from putting a strain on it; when the lifeboat nudgedthe island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabricof the island seemed to be an intricate, tightly webbed mass oftube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker than twofingers. What a fanciful island, I thought. After some minutes I crept up to the side of the boat. "Look for green," said the survival manual. Well, this wasgreen. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshinefood colouring and flashing neon lights. A green to get drunkon. "Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land," pursuedthe manual. The island was within reach of a foot. To judge -and be disappointed - or not to judge, that was the question. I decided to judge. I looked about to see if there weresharks. There were none. I turned on my stomach, andholding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. Myfoot entered the sea. It was pleasingly cool. The island lay justa little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. Iexpected the bubble of illusion to burst at any second. It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met therubbery resistance of something flexible but solid. I put moreweight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weighton my foot. Still I did not sink. Still I did not believe. Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It cameto my olfactory sense, full and fresh, overwhelming: the smell ofvegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing butsalt-water-bleached smells, this reek of vegetable organic matterwas intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only thingthat sank was my mind; my thought process becamedisjointed. My leg began to shake. "My God! My God!" I whimpered. I fell overboard. The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave methe strength to pull myself forward onto the island. I babbledincoherent thanks to God and collapsed. But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted toget to my feet. Blood rushed away from my head. The groundshook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought Iwould faint. I steadied myself. All I seemed able to do waspant. I managed to sit up. "Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!" I shouted. The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for thegreenness, it was so fresh and soothing that strength andcomfort seemed to be physically pouring into my systemthrough my eyes. What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricatelyentangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of marinealgae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feelof it in the hand was wet and as of something crunchy. Ipulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. Incross-section it consisted of two concentric walls: the wet,slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wallmidway between the outer wall and the core of the algae. Thedivision in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: thecentre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surroundedit was decreas-ingly green as it approached the inner wall. Ibrought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeablefragrance of the vegetable, it had a neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water. I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tubewas bitterly salty - but the outer was not only edible, it wasdelicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a fingerflipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgottenword. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearingit: sweet. Not as in good, but as in sugary. Turtles and fishare many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algaehad a light sweetness that outdid in delight even the sap ofour maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest Ican compare it to is water chestnuts. Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of mymouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the algaearound me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly andeasily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into my mouth. I wentat it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it towork harder and faster than it had in a very long time. I atetill there was a regular moat around me. A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It wasthe only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed a verylong way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrectimpression of how steep the rise from the shore was. Theisland was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to aheight of perhaps fifty or sixty feet. But in the state I was in,that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of shade. I tried to stand again. I managedto get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise,my head spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if Ihadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them. Butmy will was strong. I was determined to move forward. Icrawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to the tree. I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experiencedwhen I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade andheard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. Thetree was not as large or as tall as the ones inland, and forbeing on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to theelements, it was a little scraggly and not so uniformly developedas its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly goodthing to behold when you've been lost at sea for a long, longtime. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slowbeauty. Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground butwith my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept. As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take ininformation about Allah's works. The tree did indeed grow rightout of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There wasnot the least trace of soil. Either there was soil deeper down,or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of acommensal or a parasite. The trunk was about the width of aman's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin andsmooth, and soft enough that I could mark it with myfingernail. The cordate leaves were large and broad, and endedin a single point. The head of the tree had the lovely fullroundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thoughtit smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever seen. All Iknow was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves. I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing mefrom the lifeboat. He was looking at the island, too. He seemedto want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after muchsnarling and pacing, he leapt from the boat. I brought theorange whistle to my mouth. But he didn't have aggression onhis mind. Simple balance was enough of a challenge; he was aswobbly on his feet as I was. When he advanced, he crawledclose to the ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborncub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge anddisappeared into the interior of the island. I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, ina general way, bathing in bliss. I felt nauseous when I exertedmyself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground wasshifting beneath me and that I was going to fall over, evenwhen I was sitting still. I started worrying about Richard Parker in the lateafternoon. Now that the setting, the territory, had changed, Iwasn't sure how he would take to me if he came upon me. Reluctantly, strictly for safety's sake, I crawled back to thelifeboat. However Richard Parker took possession of the island,the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searchedfor something to moor the lifeboat to. Evidently the algaecovered the shore thickly, for it was all I could find. Finally, Iresolved the problem by driving an oar, handle first, deep intothe algae and tethering the boat to it. I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body wasspent from taking in so much food, and there was the nervoustension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the dayended, I hazily remember hearing Richard Parker roaring in thedistance, but sleep overcame me. I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling inmy lower belly. I thought it was a cramp, that perhaps I hadpoisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker was aboard. He had returned while I wassleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet. Ifound his return puzzling but thought no further about it - thecramp was quickly getting worse. I was doubled over with pain,shaking with it, when a process, normal for most but longforgotten by me, set itself into motion: defecation. It was verypainful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most refreshingsleep I had had since the night before the Tsimtsum sank. When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. Icrawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous way. My eyes feastedonce more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I hadsuch a plentiful breakfast that I dug a big hole. Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours beforejumping off the boat. When he did, mid-morning, as soon ashe landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in thewater and seemed very tense. He hissed and clawed the airwith a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His anxiety passed, and noticeably surer-footed than theprevious day, he disappeared another time over the ridge. That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy Theonly way I could make the ground stop moving was to closemy eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. Ifell instantly. The ground rushed up to me before I couldmove a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with suchtightly woven, rubbery vegetation, was an ideal place to relearnhow to walk. I could fall any which way, it was impossible tohurt myself. The next day, after another restful night on the ‘ boat - towhich, once again, Richard Parker had returned - I was ableto walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach thetree. I could feel my strength increasing by the hour. With thegaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. Iplucked off some leaves. They were soft and unwaxed, but theytasted bitter. Richard Parker was attached to his den on thelifeboat - that was my explanation for why he had returnedanother night. I saw him coming back that evening, as the sun was setting. I had retethered the lifeboat to the buried oar. I was at thebow, checking that the rope was properly secured to the stem. He appeared all of a sudden. At first I didn't recognize him. This magnificent animal bursting over the ridge at full gallopcouldn't possibly be the same listless, bedraggled tiger who wasmy companion in misfortune? But it was. It was RichardParker and he was coming my way at high speed. He lookedpurposeful. His powerful neck rose above his lowered head. Hiscoat and his muscles shook at every step. I could hear thedrumming of his heavy body against the ground. I have read that there are two fears that cannot be trainedout of us: the startle reaction upon hearing an unexpectednoise, and vertigo. I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapidand direct approach of a known killer. I fumbled for the whistle. When he was twenty-five feet fromthe lifeboat I blew into the whistle with all my might. A piercingcry split the air. It had the desired effect. Richard Parker braked. But heclearly wanted to move forward again. I blew a second time. He started turning and hopping on the spot in a most peculiar,deer-like way, snarling fiercely. I blew a third time. Every hairon him was raised. His claws were full out. He was in a stateof extreme agitation. I feared that the defensive wall of mywhistle blows was about to crumble and that he would attackme. Instead, Richard Parker did the most unexpected thing: hejumped into the sea. I was astounded. The very thing Ithought he would never do, he did, and with might andresolve. He energetically paddled his way to the stern of thelifeboat. I thought of blowing again, but instead opened thelocker lid and sat down, retreating to the inner sanctum of myterritory. He surged onto the stern, quantities of water pouring offhim, making my end of the boat pitch up. He balanced on thegunnel and the stern bench for a moment, assessing me. Myheart grew faint. I did not think I would be able to blow intothe whistle again. I looked at him blankly. He flowed down tothe floor of the lifeboat and disappeared under the tarpaulin. Icould see parts of him from the edges of the locker lid. Ithrew myself upon the tarpaulin, out of his sight - but directlyabove him. I felt an overwhelming urge to sprout wings and flyoff. I calmed down. I reminded myself forcefully that this hadbeen my situation for the last long while, to be living with alive tiger hot beneath me. As my breathing slowed down, sleep came to me. Sometime during the night I awoke and, my fear forgotten,looked over. He was dreaming: he was shaking and growlingin his sleep. He was loud enough about it to have woken meup. In the morning, as usual, he went over the ridge. I decided that as soon as I was strong enough I would goexploring the island. It seemed quite large,if the shoreline was any indication; left and right it stretchedon with only a slight curve, showing the island to have a fairgirth. I spent the day walking - and falling - from the shoreto the tree and back, in an attempt to restore my legs tohealth. At every fall I had a full meal of algae. When Richard Parker returned as the day was ending, alittle earlier than the previous day, I was expecting him. I sattight and did not blow the whistle. He came to the water'sedge and in one mighty leap reached the side of the lifeboat. He entered his territory without intruding into mine, onlycausing the boat to lurch to one side. His return to form wasquite terrifying. The next morning, after giving Richard Parker plenty ofadvance, I set off to explore the island. I walked up to theridge. I reached it easily, proudly moving one foot ahead of theother in a gait that was spirited if still a little awkward. Hadmy legs been weaker, they would have given way beneath mewhen I saw what I saw beyond the ridge. To start with details, I saw that the whole island wascovered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great greenplateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around thisforest hundreds of evenly scattered, identically sized ponds withtrees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, thewhole arrangement giving the unmistakable impression offollowing a design. But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves mostindelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I wouldconservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousands ofmeerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when Iappeared, it seemed that all of them turned to me, astonished,like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up. We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had readabout them. They were in the books and in the literature. Ameerkat is a small South African mammal related to themongoose; in other words, a carnivorous burrower, a foot longand weighing two pounds when mature, slender and weasel-likein build, with a pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the frontof its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brownto grey in colour with black or brown bands on its back, whilethe tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles aroundits eyes are black. It is an agile and keen-sighted creature,diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range -the Kalahari Desert of southern Africa - on, among otherthings, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When it is on the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity ofstanding perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancingitself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will takethe stance collectively, standing in a huddle and gazing in thesame direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. Theearnest expression on their faces, and the way their front pawshang before them, make them look either like childrenself-consciously posing for a photographer or patients in adoctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to covertheir genitals. That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousandsof meerkats - more, a million - turning to me and standing atattention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkatreaches up eighteen inches at most, so it was not the height ofthese creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimitedmultitude. I stood rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set amillion meerkats fleeing in terror, the chaos would beindescribable. But their interest in me was short-lived. After afew seconds, they went back to doing what they had beendoing before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algaeor staring into the ponds. To see so many beings bendingdown at the same time reminded me of prayer time in amosque. The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved downfrom the ridge, none shied away or showed the least tension atmy presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one,even picked one up. I did nothing of the sort. I simply walkedinto what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in theworld, one of the strangest, most wonderful experiences of mylife. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was theirsqueaking, chirping, twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of theirexcitement that the noise came and went like a flock of birds,at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying offas the closest meerkats fell silent while others, further off,started up. Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid ofthem? The question crossed my mind. But the answer - thatthey were harmless - was immediately apparent. To get closeto a pond, around which they were densely packed, I had tonudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one. They took to my barging without any offence, making room forme like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies againstmy ankles as I looked into a pond. All the ponds had the same round shape and were aboutthe same size - roughly forty feet in diameter. I expectedshallowness. I saw nothing but deep, clear water. The pondsseemed bottomless, in fact. And as far down as I could see,their sides consisted of green algae. Evidently the layer atop theisland was very substantial. I could see nothing that accounted for the meerkats' fixedcuriosity, and I might have given up on solving the mysteryhad squeaking and barking not erupted at a pond nearby. Meerkats were jumping up and down in a state of greatferment. Suddenly, by the hundreds, they began diving into thepond. There was much pushing and shoving as the meerkatsbehind vied to reach the pond's edge. The frenzy wascollective; even tiny meerkittens were making for the water,barely being held back by mothers and guardians. I stared indisbelief. These were not standard Kalahari Desert meerkats. Standard Kalahari Desert meerkats do not behave like frogs. These meerkats were most definitely a subspecies that hadspecialized in a fascinating and surprising way. I made for the pond, bringing my feet down gingerly, intime to see meerkats swimming - actually swimming - andbringing to shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were dorados that would have been unqualified feasts onthe lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It wasincomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such fish. It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of thepond, displaying real feats of teamwork, that I noticedsomething curious: every fish, without exception, was alreadydead. Freshly dead. The meerkats were bringing ashore deadfish they had not killed. I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wetmeerkats. I touched the water. It was cooler than I'd expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water frombelow. I cupped a little water in my hand and brought it tomy mouth. I took a sip. It was fresh water. This explained how the fish had died -for, of course, place a saltwater fish in fresh water and it willquickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fishdoing in a freshwater pond? How had they got there? I went to another pond, making my way through themeerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the same. And againwith a fourth pond. They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantitiesof fresh water come from, I asked myself. The answer wasobvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuouslydesalinated sea water, which was why its core was salty whileits outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was oozing thefresh water out. I did not ask myself why the algae did this, orhow, or where the salt went. My mind stopped asking suchquestions. I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found ithard to stay at the surface of the water; I was still very weak,and I had little fat on me to help me float. I held on to theedge of the pond. The effect of bathing in pure, clean, salt-freewater was more than I can put into words. After such a longtime at sea, my skin was like a hide and my hair was long,malted and as silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soulhad been corroded by salt. So, under the gaze of a thousandmeerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every saltcrystal that had tainted me. The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all ofthem turning in the same direction at exactly the same time. Ipulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed what I had suspected, that these meerkats hadgone for so many generations without predators that anynotion of flight distance, of flight, of plain fear, had beengenetically weeded out of them. He was moving through them,blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkatafter another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheekto jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot,as if crying, "My turn! My turn! My turn!" I would see thisscene time and again. Nothing distracted the meerkats fromtheir little lives of pond staring and algae nibbling. WhetherRichard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion beforelanding upon them in a thunder of roaring, or slouched byindifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to beruffled. Meekness ruled. He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he didnot eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from the urgeto eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to haveso many - his pent-up hunting instinct was lashing out with avengeance. He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least forthe moment. The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the accumulation ofhuman and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fishand turtle remains, looked like. The whole foul, disgusting messwent overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boatfor fear of leaving a tangible trace of my presence to RichardParker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from thetarpaulin or from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff - the smells and thesmears - I rinsed with buckets of water. That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats, which he ateduring the night. I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathingand observing the meerkats and walking and running andresting and growing stronger. My running became smooth andunselfconscious, a source of euphoria. My skin healed. Mypains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life. I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in diameter,which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What Isaw seemed to indicate that the shore was unvarying in itsfeatures. The same blinding greenness throughout, the sameridge, the same incline from ridge to water, the same break inthe monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring theshore revealed one extraordinary thing: the algae, and thereforethe island itself, varied in height and density depending on theweather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight anddense, and the island increased in height; the climb to theridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quickprocess. Only a hot spell lasting several days triggered it. But itwas unmistakable. I believe it had to do with waterconservation, with exposing less of the algae's surface to thesun's rays. The converse phenomenon - the loosening of the island -was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf,so to speak, stretched out, and the algae along the shorebecame so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. Thisloosening was brought on by overcast weather and, faster still,by heavy seas. I lived through a major storm while on the island, and afterthe experience, I would have trusted staying on it during theworst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in atree and see giant waves charging the island, seeminglypreparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos- only to see each one melt away as if it had come uponquicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resistedby not resisting. Every wave vanished into the island without aclash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shakingthe ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds werethe only indications that some great force was passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerablydiminished, waves emerged and went on their way. It was thestrangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. Thestorm, and the resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb themeerkats in the least. They went about their business as if theelements did not exist. Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. Inever saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air of the placecarried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind.. The trees sheltered no birds. The plains hid no rodents, nogrubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave rise tono other trees, no shrubs, no grasses, no flowers. The pondsharboured no freshwater fish. The seashore teemed with noweeds, no crabs, no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the single, notable exception of the meerkats, there wasnot the least foreign matter on the island, organic or inorganic. It was nothing but shining green algae and shining green trees. The trees were not parasites. I discovered this one daywhen I ate so much algae at the base of a small tree that Iexposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their ownindependent way into the algae, but rather joined it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbioticrelationship with the algae, in a giving-and-taking that was totheir mutual advantage, or, simpler still, were an integral part ofthe algae. I would guess that the latter was the case becausethe trees did not seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that anindependent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it hasentered upon, would give up on so essential a part of life asreproduction. The leaves' appetite for the sun, as testified bytheir abundance, their breadth and their super-chlorophyllgreenness, made me suspect that the trees had primarily anenergy-gathering function. But this is conjecture. There is one last observation I would like to make. It isbased on intuition rather than hard evidence. It is this: that theisland was not an island in the conventional sense of the term- that is, a small landmass rooted to the floor of the ocean -but was rather a free-floating organism, a ball of algae ofleviathan proportions. And it is my hunch that the pondsreached down to the sides of this huge, buoyant mass andopened onto the ocean, which explained the otherwiseinexplicable presence in them of dorados and other fish of theopen seas. It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lostthe algae that I took away. Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint ofstuffing himself with meerkats, his weight went up, his furbegan to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look ofold. He kept up his habit of returning to the lifeboat at theend of every day. I always made sure I was there before him,copiously marking my territory with urine so that he didn'tforget who was who and what was whose. But he left at firstlight and roamed further afield than I did; the island being thesame all over, I generally stayed within one area. I saw verylittle of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw howhe raked the trees with his forepaws - great deep gouges inthe trunks, they were. And I began to hear his hoarse roaring,that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chillingas the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female was not in itself whattroubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enoughon the island to be thinking about producing young. I worriedthat in this new condition he might not tolerate another malein his territory, his night territory in particular, especially if hisinsistent cries went unanswered, as surely they would. One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walkingvigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I passed a tree -and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us werestartled. He hissed and reared up on his hind legs, toweringover me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stoodfrozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and shock. He droppedback on all fours and moved away. When he had gone three,four paces, he turned and reared up again, growling this time. I continued to stand like a statue. He went another few pacesand repeated the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not amenace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breathand stopped trembling, I brought the whistle to my mouth andstarted running after him. He had already gone a gooddistance, but he was still within sight. My running waspowerful. He turned, saw me, crouched - and then bolted. Iblew into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its soundwould travel as far and wide as the cry of a lonely tiger. That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I cameto the conclusion that I had to step into the circus ring again. The major difficulty in training animals is that they operateeither by instinct or by rote. The shortcut of intelligence tomake new associations that are not instinctive is minimallyavailable. Therefore, imprinting in an animal's mind the artificialconnection that if it does a certain action, say, roll over, it willget a treat can be achieved only by mind-numbing repetition. Itis a slow process that depends as much on luck as on hardwork, all the more so when the animal is an adult. I blew intothe whistle till my lungs hurt. I pounded my chest till it wascovered with bruises. I shouted "Hep! Hep! Hep!" - mytiger-language command to say "Do!" - thousands of times. Itossed hundreds of meerkat morsels at him that I would gladlyhave eaten myself. The training of tigers is no easy feat. Theyare considerably less flexible in their mental make-up than otheranimals that are commonly trained in circuses and zoos - sealions and chimpanzees, for example. But I don't want to taketoo much credit for what I managed to do with RichardParker. My good fortune, the fortune that saved my life, wasthat he was not only a young adult but a pliable young adult,an omega animal. I was afraid that conditions on the islandmight play against me, that with such an abundance of foodand water and so much space he might become relaxed andconfident, less open to my influence. But he remained tense. Iknew him well enough to sense it. At night in the lifeboat hewas unsettled and noisy. I assigned this tension to the newenvironment of the island; any change, even positive, will makean animal tense. Whatever the cause, the strain he was undermeant that he continued to show a readiness to oblige; more,that he felt a need to oblige. I trained him to jump through a hoop I made with thinbranches. It was a simple routine of four jumps. Each oneearned him part of a meerkat. As he lumbered towards me, Ifirst held the hoop at the end of my left arm, some three feetoff the ground. When he had leapt through it, and as hefinished his run, I took hold of the hoop with my right handand, my back to him, commanded him to return and leapthrough it again. For the third jump I knelt on the groundand held the hoop over my head. It was a nerve-rackingexperience to see him come my way. I never lost the fear thathe would not jump but attack me. Thankfully, he jumped everytime. After which I got up and tossed the hoop so that itrolled like a wheel. Richard Parker was supposed to follow itand go through it one last time before it fell over. He wasnever very good at this last part of the act, either because Ifailed to throw the hoop properly or because he clumsily raninto it. But at least he followed it, which meant he got awayfrom me. He was always filled with amazement when the hoopfell over. He would look at it intently, as if it were some greatfellow animal he had been running with that had collapsedunexpectedly. He would stay next to it, sniffing it. I wouldthrow him his last treat and move away. Eventually I quit the boat. It seemed absurd to spend mynights in such cramped quarters with an animal who wasbecoming roomy in his needs, when I could have an entireisland. I decided the safe thing to do would be to sleep in atree. Richard Parker's nocturnal practice of sleeping in thelifeboat was never a law in my mind. It would not be a goodidea for me to be outside my territory, sleeping and defencelesson the ground, the one time he decided to go for a midnightstroll. So one day I left the boat with the net, a rope and someblankets. I sought out a handsome tree on the edge of theforest and threw the rope over the lowest branch. My fitnesswas such that I had no problem pulling myself up by my armsand climbing the tree. I found two solid branches that werelevel and close together, and I tied the net to them. I returnedat the end of the day. I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattresswhen I detected a commotion among the meerkats. I looked. Ipushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every directionand as far as the horizon. It was unmistakable. The meerkatswere abandoning the ponds - indeed, the whole plain - andrapidly making for the forest. An entire nation of meerkats wason the move, their backs arched and their feet a blur. I waswondering what further surprise these animals held in store forme when I noticed with consternation that the ones from thepond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were climbingup the trunk. The trunk was disappearing under a wave ofdetermined meerkats. I thought they were coming to attack me,that here was the reason why Richard Parker slept in thelifeboat: during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless,but at night, under their collective weight, they crushed theirenemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To survivefor so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only todie up a tree at the hands of two-pound meerkats struck meas a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear. They meant me no harm. They climbed up to me, over me,about me - and past me. They settled upon every branch inthe tree. It became laden with them. They even took over mybed. And the same as far as the eye could see. They wereclimbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turningbrown, an autumn that came in a few minutes. Collectively, asthey scampered by in droves to claim empty trees deeper intothe forest, they made more noise than a stampeding herd ofelephants. The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated. From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitorywith meerkats - will I be believed when I say that life cantake the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so thatI could have a place in my own bed. They snuggled up to me. Not a square inch of space was left free. They settled down and stopped squeaking and chirping. Silence came to the tree. We fell asleep. I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living farblanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the warmer parts ofmy body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck- and it must have been their mother who had settled herselfso contentedly on the side of my head - while others hadwedged themselves in my groin area. They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as theyhad invaded it. It was the same with every tree around. Theplain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their daystarted filling the air. The tree looked empty. And I felt empty,a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with themeerkats. I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied thelifeboat of useful items and made myself a nice treetopbedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I receivedfrom meerkats climbing over me. My only complaint would bethat animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me. One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chatteringand shaking. I sat up and looked in the direction they werelooking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The landwas robbed of its colour. Everything glowed strangely in shadesof black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver shapes weremoving in it, emerging from below and breaking the blacksurface of the water. Fish. Dead fish. They were floating up from deep down. Thepond - remember, forty feet across - was filling up with allkinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black butsilver. And from the way the surface kept on being disturbed,it was evident that more dead fish were coming up. By the time a dead shark quietly appeared, the meerkatswere in a fury of excitement, shrieking like tropical birds. Thehysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. Iwondered whether I was about to see the sight of fish beinghauled up trees. Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None evenmade the first motions of going down. They did no more thanloudly express their frustration. I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbingabout all those dead fish. I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over themeerkats' racket. At first light I was stirred from my slumberby the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawningand stretching, I looked down at the pond that had been thesource of such fire and fluster the previous night. It was empty. Or nearly. But it wasn't the work of themeerkats. They were just now diving in to get what was left. The fish had disappeared. I was confounded. Was I lookingat the wrong pond? No, for sure it was that one. Was Icertain it was not the meerkats that had emptied it? Absolutely. I could hardly see them heaving an entire shark out of water,let alone carrying it on their backs and disappearing with it. Could it be Richard Parker? Possibly in part, but not an entirepond in one night. It was a complete mystery. No amount of staring into thepond and at its deep green walls could explain to me whathad happened to the fish. The next night I looked, but no newfish came into the pond. The answer to the mystery came sometime later, from deepwithin the forest. The trees were larger in the centre of the forest and closelyset. It remained clear below, there being no underbrush of anykind, but overhead the canopy was so dense that the sky wasquite blocked off, or, another way of putting it, the sky wassolidly green. The trees were so near one another that theirbranches grew into each other's spaces; they touched andtwisted around each other so that it was hard to tell whereone tree ended and the next began. I noted that they hadclean, smooth trunks, with none of the countless tiny marks ontheir bark made by climbing meerkats. I easily guessed thereason why: the meerkats could travel from one tree toanother without the need to climb up and down. I found, asproof of this, many trees on. the perimeter of the heart of theforest whose bark had been practically shredded. These treeswere without a doubt the gates into a meerkat arboreal citywith more bustle in it than Calcutta. It was here that I found the tree. It wasn't the largest inthe forest, or in its dead centre, or remarkable in any otherway. It had good level branches, that's all. It would have madean excellent spot from which to see the sky or take in themeerkats' nightlife. I can tell you exactly what day I came upon the tree: it wasthe day before I left the island. I noticed the tree because it seemed to have fruit. Whereaselsewhere the forest canopy was uniformly green, these fruitstood out black against green. The branches holding them weretwisted in odd ways. I looked intently. An entire island coveredin barren trees - but for one. And not even all of one. Thefruit grew from only one small part of the tree. I thought thatperhaps I had come upon the forest equivalent of a queenbee, and I wondered whether this algae would ever cease toamaze me with its botanical strangeness. I wanted to try the fruit, but the tree was too high. So Ireturned with a rope. If the algae was delicious, what would itsfruit be like? I looped the rope around the lowest limb of the tree and,bough by bough, branch by branch, made my way to thesmall, precious orchard. Up close the fruit were dull green. They were about the sizeand shape of oranges. Each was at the centre of a number oftwigs that were tightly curled around it - to protect it, Isupposed. As I got closer, I could see another purpose to thesecurled twigs: support. The fruit had not one stem, but dozens. Their surfaces were studded with stems that connected them tothe surrounding twigs. These fruit must surely be heavy andjuicy, I thought. I got close. I reached with a hand and took hold of one. I wasdisappointed at how light it felt. It weighed hardly anything. Ipulled at it, plucking it from all its stems. I made myself comfortable on a sturdy branch, my back tothe trunk of the tree. Above me stood a shifting roof of greenleaves that let in shafts of sunlight. All round, for as far as Icould see, hanging in the air, were the twisting and turningroads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran throughthe trees. I was keenly curious. I examined the fruit. Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it Imight have lived for years - why, for the rest of my life - onthat island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to returnto the lifeboat and to the suffering and deprivation I hadendured on it - nothing! What reason could I have to leavethe island? Were my physical needs not met here? Was therenot more fresh water than I could drink in all my lifetime? More algae than I could eat? And when I yearned for variety,more meerkats and fish than I could ever desire? If the islandfloated and moved, might it not move in the right direction? Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that brought meto land? In the meantime, did I not have these delightfulmeerkats to keep me company? And wasn't Richard Parker stillin need of improving his fourth jump? The thought of leavingthe island had not crossed my mind once since I had arrived. It had been many weeks now - I couldn't say how manyexactly - and they would stretch on. I was certain about that. How wrong I was. If that fruit had a seed, it was the seed of my departure. The fruit was not a fruit. It was a dense accumulation ofleaves glued together in a ball. The dozens of stems weredozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf topeel off. After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stemsand were flatly glued to the ball. I used my fingernails to catchtheir edges and pull them off. Sheath after sheath of leaf lifted,like the skins off an onion. I could simply have ripped the"fruit" apart - I still call it that for lack of a better word - butI chose to satisfy my curiosity in a measured way. It shrunk from the size of an orange to that of a mandarin. My lap and the branches below were covered with thin, softleaf peelings. It was now the size of a rambutan. I still get shivers in my spine when I think of it. The size of a cherry. And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heartof a green oyster. A human tooth. A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finelypierced with holes. The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at theother fruit. Each contained a tooth. One a canine. Another a premolar. Here an incisor. There another molar. Thirty-two teeth. A complete human set. Not one toothmissing. Understanding dawned upon me. I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. Isimply shuddered and left the tree. I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They wereall bad. That night, in bed in my usual tree, I tested my conclusion. I took hold of a meerkat and dropped it from the branch. It squeaked as it fell through the air. When it touched theground, it instantly made for the tree. With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next tome. There it began to lick its paws vigorously. It seemed muchdiscomforted. It panted heavily. I could have left it at that. But I wanted to know for myself. I climbed down and took hold of the rope. I had made knotsin it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom ofthe tree, I brought my feet to within an inch of the ground. Ihesitated. I let go. At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot upthrough my feet. I shrieked. I thought I would fall over. Imanaged to take hold of the rope and pull myself off theground. I frantically rubbed the soles of my feet against thetree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to mybranch. I soaked my feet in the bucket of water next to mybed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and killedtwo meerkats and tried to soothe the pain with their blood andinnards. Still my feet burned. They burned all night. I couldn'tsleep for it, and from the anxiety. The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearanceof the fish in the pond. The island attracted saltwater fish intoits subterranean tunnels - how, I don't know; perhaps fish atethe algae as gluttonously as I did. They became trapped. Didthey lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea close off? Did the water change salinity so subtly that it was too late bythe time the fish realized it? Whatever the case, they foundthemselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up tothe surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the meerkats. Atnight, by some chemical process unknown to me but obviouslyinhibited by sunlight, the predatory algae turned highly acidicand the ponds became vats of acid that digested the fish. Thiswas why Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. Thiswas why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I hadnever seen anything but algae on the island. And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul hadarrived on these terrible shores before me. How much timehad he - or was it she? - spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city with onlymeerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy lifedashed? How much hope come to nothing? How muchstored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much lonelinessendured? How much hopelessness taken on? And after all that,what of it? What to show for it? Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket. Theperson must have died in the tree. Was it illness? Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill abody that has food, water and shelter? The trees werecarnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safeenough to stay in for the night while the rest of the islandseethed. But once the person had died and stopped moving,the tree must have slowly wrapped itself around the body anddigested it, the very bones leached of nutrients until theyvanished. In time, even the teeth would have disappeared. I looked around at the algae. Bitterness welled up in me. The radiant promise it offered during the day was replaced inmy heart by all the treachery it delivered at night. I muttered, "Nothing but teeth left! TEETH!"By the time morning came, my grim decision was taken. Ipreferred to set off and perish in search of my own kind thanto live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual deathon this murderous island. I filled my stores with fresh waterand I drank like a camel. I ate algae throughout the day untilmy stomach could take no more. I killed and skinned as manymeerkats as would fit in the locker and on the floor of thelifeboat. I reaped dead fish from the ponds. With the hatchet Ihacked off a large mass of algae and worked a rope throughit, which I tied to the boat. I could not abandon Richard Parker. To leave him wouldmean to kill him. He would not survive the first night. Alone inmy lifeboat at sunset I would know that he was burning alive. Or that he had thrown himself in the sea, where he woulddrown. I waited for his return. I knew he would not be late. When he was aboard, I pushed us off. For a few hours thecurrents kept us near the island. The noises of the seabothered me. And I was no longer used to the rockingmotions of the boat. The night went by slowly. In the morning the island was gone, as was the mass ofalgae we had been towing. As soon as night had fallen, thealgae had dissolved the rope with its acid. The sea was heavy, the sky grey. Chapter 93 I grew weary of my situation, as pointless as the weather. But life would not leave me. The rest of this story is nothingbut grief, ache and endurance. High calls low and low calls high. I tell you, if you were insuch dire straits as I was, you too would elevate your thoughts. The lower you are, the higher your mind will want to soar. Itwas natural that, bereft and desperate as I was, in the throesof unremitting suffering, I should turn to God. Chapter 94 When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weakI barely had the strength to be happy about it. We had greatdifficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. Istreamed the sea anchors - what was left of them - full opento keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them assoon as we began riding a crest. In this way, streaming andtripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It was dangerous. But we caught one wave at just the right point and it carriedus a great distance, past the high, collapsing walls of water. Itripped the anchors a last time and we were pushed in therest of the way. The boat hissed to a halt against the sand. I let myself down the side. I was afraid to let go, afraid thatso close to deliverance, in two feet of water, I would drown. Ilooked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave meone of my last images of Richard Parker, for at that precisemoment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurablyvital, stretched in the air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, andfrom there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went tothe left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his mindand spun around. He passed directly in front of me on hisway to the right. He didn't look at me. He ran a hundredyards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait wasclumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several times. At the edge ofthe jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his ears. He wouldgrowl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the sort. He only looked fixedly into thejungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful,fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappearedforever from my life. I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family, but now ofRichard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, Iwasn't. This beach, so soft, firm and vast, was like the cheekof God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasureand a mouth was smiling at having me there. After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their nosesand mouths. I wondered what was wrong with them. Theyspoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat ontothe sand. They carried me away. The one piece of turtle meatI had brought from the boat they wrenched from my handand threw away. I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome athaving survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it thepresence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was verymoving. I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me sounceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. Forexample - I wonder - could you tell my jumbled story inexactly one hundred chapters, not one more, not one less? I'lltell you, that's one thing I hate about my nickname, the waythat number runs on forever. It's important in life to concludethings properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you areleft with words you should have said but never did, and yourheart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts meto this day. I wish so much that I'd had one last look at himin the lifeboat, that I'd provoked him a little, so that I was onhis mind. I wish I had said to him then - yes, I know, to atiger, but still - I wish I had said, "Richard Parker, it's over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you moregratitude than I can express. I couldn't have done it withoutyou. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life. And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of yourlife; now you will know the free confinement of a jungle. I wishyou all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not yourfriend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I willnever forget you, that is certain. You will always be with me, inmy heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker, farewell. God be with you."The people who found me took me to their village, andthere some women gave me a bath and scrubbed me so hardthat I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinnedand not a very dirty white boy. I tried to explain. They noddedand smiled and kept on scrubbing me as if I were the deck ofa ship. I thought they were going to skin me alive. But they gaveme food. Delicious food. Once I started eating, I couldn't stop. Ithought I would never stop being hungry. The next day a police car came and brought me to ahospital, and there my story ends. I was overwhelmed by the generosity of those who rescuedme. Poor people gave me clothes and food. Doctors andnurses cared for me as if I were a premature baby. Mexicanand Canadian officials opened all doors for me so that fromthe beach in Mexico to the home of my foster mother to theclassrooms of the University of Toronto, there was only onelong, easy corridor I had to walk down. To all these people Iwould like to extend my heartfelt thanks. Chapter 95 Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Maritime Department inthe Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired, told methat he and his junior colleague at the time, Mr. AtsuroChiba, were in Long Beach, California - the Americanwestern seaboard's main container port, near L.A. - onunrelated business when they were advised that a lonesurvivor of the Japanese ship Tsimtsum, which had vanishedwithout a trace in Pacific international waters severalmonths before, was reported to have landed near the smalltown of Tomatlán, on the coast of Mexico. They wereinstructed by their department to go down to contact thesurvivor and see if any light could be shed on the fate ofthe ship. They bought a map of Mexico and looked to seewhere Tomatlán was. Unfortunately for them, a fold of themap crossed Baja California over a small coastal townnamed Tomatlán, printed in small letters. Mr. Okamoto wasconvinced he read Tomaflan. Since it was less thanhalfway down Baja California, he decided the fastest way toget there would be to drive. They set off in their rented car. When they got toTomatlán, eight hundred kilometres south of Long Beach,and saw that it was not Tomatlán, Mr. Okamoto decidedthat they would continue to Santa Rosalia, two hundredkilometres further south, and catch the ferry across the Gulfof California to Guaymas. The ferry was late and slow. Andfrom Guaymas it was another thirteen hundred kilometresto Tomatlán. The roads were bad. They had a flat tire. Their car broke down and the mechanic who fixed itsurreptitiously cannibalized the motor of parts, putting inused parts instead, for the replacement of which they hadto pay the rental company and which resulted in the carbreaking down a second time, on their way back. Thesecond mechanic overcharged them. Mr. Okamoto admittedto me that they were very tired when they arrived at theBenito Juarez Infirmary in Tomatlán, which is not at all inBaja California but a hundred kilometres south of PuertoVallarta, in the state of Jalisco, nearly level with MexicoCity. They had been travelling non-stop for forty-one hours. "We work hard," Mr. Okamoto wrote. He and Mr. Chiba spoke with Piscine Molitor Pate/, inEnglish, for close to three hours, taping the conversation. What follows are excerpts from the verbatim transcript. Iam grateful to Mr. Okamoto for having made available tome a copy of the tape and of his final report. For the sakeof clarity I have indicated who is speaking when it is notimmediately apparent. Portions printed in a different fontwere spoken in Japanese, which I had translated. Chapter 96 "Hello, Mr. Patel. My name is Tomohiro Okamoto. I amfrom the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry ofTransport. This is my assistant, Atsuro Chiba. We have cometo see you about the sinking of the ship Tsimtsum , of whichyou were a passenger. Would it be possible to talk to younow?""Yes, of course.""Thank you. It is very kind of you. [translation] Now,Atsuro-kun, you're new at this, so payattention and see to learn." "Yes, Okamoto-san." "Is the taperecorder on?" "Yes it is." "Good. Oh I'm so tired! For therecord, today is February 19th, 1978. Case file number250663, concerning the disappearance of the cargo shipTsimtsum. [/translation] Are youcomfortable, Mr. Patel?" "Yes, I am. Thank you. And you?""We are very comfortable." "You've come all the way fromTokyo?" "We were in Long Beach, California. We drove down.""Did you have a good trip?" "We had a wonderful trip. It wasa beautiful drive." "I had a terrible trip." "Yes, we spoke to thepolice before coming here and we saw the lifeboat." "I'm a littlehungry." "Would you like a cookie?" "Oh, yes!" "Here you go.""Thank you!""You're welcome. It's only a cookie. Now, Mr. Patel, we werewondering if you could tell us what happened to you, with asmuch detail as possible.""Yes. I'd be happy to." Chapter 97 The story. Chapter 98 Mr. Okamoto: "Very interesting."Mr. Chiba: "What a story."[translation] "He thinks we're fools.[/translation] Mr. Patel, we'll take a little break and then we'll come back, yes?""That's fine. I'd like another cookie.""Yes, of course."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "He's already had plenty and mosthe hasn't even eaten. They're right there beneath his bedsheet.""Just give him another one. We have to humour him. [/translation] We'll be back in a few minutes." Chapter 99 Mr. Okamoto: "Mr. Patel, we don't believe your story.""Sorry - these cookies are good but they tend to crumble. I'm amazed. Why not?""It doesn't hold up.""What do you mean?""Bananas don't float.""I'm sorry?""You said the orang-utan came floating on an island ofbananas.""That's right.""Bananas don't float.""Yes, they do.""They're too heavy.""No, they're not. Here, try for yourself. I have two bananasright here."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "Where did those come from? What else does he have under his bedsheet?"Mr. Okamoto: "Damn it. [/translation] No, that's all right.""There's a sink over there.""That's fine.""I insist. Fill that sink with water, drop these bananas in,and we'll see who's right.""We'd like to move on.""I absolutely insist."[Silence] Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What do we do?"Mr. Okamoto: "I feel this is going to be another very longday." [/translation] [Sound of a chair being pushed back. Distant soundof water gushing out of a tap] Pi Patel: "What's happening? I can't see from here."Mr. Okamoto [Distantly] : "I'm filling the sink.""Have you put the bananas in yet?"[Distantly] "No.""And now?"[Distantly] "They're in.""And?"[Silence] Mr. Chiba: [translation] "Are they floating?"[Distantly] "They're floating." [/translation] "So, are they floating?"[Distantly] "They're floating.""What did I tell you?"Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, yes. But it would take a lot of bananasto hold up an orang-utan.""It did. There was close to a ton. It still makes me sickwhen I think of all those bananas floating away and going towaste when they were mine for the picking.""It's a pity. Now, about - ""Could I have my bananas back, please?"Mr. Chiba: [translation] "I'll get them."[Sound of a chair being pushed back] [Distantly] "Look at that. They really do float."[/translation] Mr. Okamoto: "What about this algae island you say youcame upon?"Mr. Chiba: "Here are your bananas."Pi Patel: "Thank you. Yes?""I'm sorry to say it so bluntly, we don't mean to hurt yourfeelings, but you don't really expect us to believe you, do you? Carnivorous trees? A fish-eating algae that produces freshwater? Tree-dwelling aquatic rodents? These things don't exist.""Only because you've never seen them.""That's right. We believe what we see.""So did Columbus. What do you do when you're in thedark?""Your island is botanically impossible.""Said the fly just before landing in the Venus flytrap.""Why has no one else come upon it?""It's a big ocean crossed by busy ships. I went slowly,observing much.""No scientist would believe you.""These would be the same who dismissed Copernicus andDarwin. Have scientists finished coming upon new plants? Inthe Amazon basin, for example?""Not plants that contradict the laws of nature.""Which you know through and through?""Well enough to know the possible from the impossible."Mr. Chiba: "I have an uncle who knows a lot about botany. He lives in the country near Hita-Gun. He's a bonsai master."Pi Patel: "A what?""A bonsai master. You know, bonsai are little trees.""You mean shrubs.""No, I mean trees. Bonsai are little trees. They are less thantwo feet tall. You can carry them in your arms. They can bevery old. My uncle has one that is over three hundred yearsold.""Three-hundred-year-old trees that are two feet tall that youcan carry in your arms?""Yes. They're very delicate. They need a lot of attention.""Whoever heard of such trees? They're botanicallyimpossible.""But I assure you they exist, Mr. Patel. My uncle - ""I believe what I see."Mr. Okamoto: "Just a moment, please. [translation] Atsuro,with all due respect for your uncle who lives in the countrynear Hita-Gun, we're not here to talk idly about botany.""I'm just trying to help.""Do your uncle's bonsai eat meat?""I don't think so.""Have you ever been bitten by one of his bonsai?""No.""In that case, your uncle's bonsai are not helping us. [/translation] Where were we?"Pi Patel: "With the tall, full-sized trees firmly rooted to theground I was telling you about.""Let us put them aside for now.""It might be hard. I never tried pulling them out andcarrying them.""You're a funny man, Mr. Patel. Ha! Ha! Ha!"Pi Patel: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha! [translation] It wasn't thatfunny."Mr. Okamoto: "Just keep laughing.[/translation] Ha! Ha! Ha!"Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"Mr. Okamoto: "Now about the tiger, we're not sure about iteither.""What do you mean?""We have difficulty believing it.""It's an incredible story.""Precisely.""I don't know how I survived.""Clearly it was a strain.""I'll have another cookie.""There are none left.""What's in that bag?""Nothing.""Can I see?"Mr. Chiba: [translation] "There goes our lunch."[/translation] Mr. Okamoto: "Getting back to the tiger…"Pi Patel: "Terrible business. Delicious sandwiches."Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, they look good."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "I'm hungry." [/translation] "Not a trace of it has been found. That's a bit hard tobelieve, isn't it? There are no tigers in the Americas. If therewere a wild tiger out there, don't you think the police wouldhave heard about it by now?""I should tell you about the black panther that escaped fromthe Zurich Zoo in the middle of winter.""Mr. Patel, a tiger is an incredibly dangerous wild animal. How could you survive in a lifeboat with one? It's - ""What you don't realize is that we are a strange andforbidding species to wild animals. We fill them with fear. Theyavoid us as much as possible. It took centuries to still the fearin some pliable animals - domestication it's called - but mostcannot get over their fear, and I doubt they ever will. Whenwild animals fight us, it is out of sheer desperation. They fightwhen they feel they have no other way out. It's a very lastresort.""In a lifeboat? Come on, Mr. Patel, it's just too hard tobelieve!""Hard to believe? What do you know about hard to believe? You want hard to believe? I'll give you hard to believe. It's aclosely held secret among Indian zookeepers that in 1971 Barathe polar bear escaped from the Calcutta Zoo. She was neverheard from again, not by police or hunters or poachers oranyone else. We suspect she's living freely on the banks of theHugli River. Beware if you go to Calcutta, my good sirs: if youhave sushi on the breath you may pay a high price! If youtook the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shookit, you'd be amazed at all the animals that would fall out: badgers, wolves, boa constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles,ostriches, baboons, capybaras, wild boars, leopards, manatees,ruminants in untold numbers. There is no doubt in my mindthat feral giraffes and feral hippos have been living in Tokyofor generations without being seen by a soul. You shouldcompare one day the things that stick to the soles of yourshoes as you walk down the street with what you see lying atthe bottom of the cages in the Tokyo Zoo - then look up! And you expect to find a tiger in a Mexican jungle! It'slaughable, just plain laughable. Ha! Ha! Ha!""There may very well be feral giraffes and feral hippos livingin Tokyo and a polar bear living freely in Calcutta. We justdon't believe there was a tiger living in your lifeboat.""The arrogance of big-city folk! You grant your metropolisesall the animals of Eden, but you deny my hamlet the merestBengal tiger!""Mr. Patel, please calm down.""If you stumble at mere believability, what are you living for? Isn't love hard to believe?""Mr. Patel - ""Don't you bully me with your politeness! Love is hard tobelieve, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problemwith hard to believe?""We're just being reasonable.""So am I! I applied my reason at every moment. Reason isexcellent for getting food, clothing and shelter. Reason is thevery best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out theuniverse with the bathwater.""Calm down, Mr. Patel, calm down."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "The bathwater? Why is he talkingabout bathwater?" [/translation] "How can I be calm? You should have seen RichardParker!""Yes, yes.""Huge. Teeth like this! Claws like scimitars!"Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What are scimitars?"Mr. Okamoto: "Chiba-san,, instead of asking stupidvocabulary questions, why don't you make yourself useful? Thisboy is a tough nut to crack. Do something!" [/translation] Mr. Chiba: "Look! A chocolate bar!"Pi Patel: "Wonderful!"[Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: [translation] "Like he hasn't already stolenour whole lunch. Soon he'll be demanding tempura."[/translation] [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We are losing sight of the point of thisinvestigation. We are here because of the sinking of a cargoship. You are the sole survivor. And you were only apassenger. You bear no responsibility for what happened. We -""Chocolate is so good!""We are not seeking to lay criminal charges. You are aninnocent victim of a tragedy at sea. We are only trying todetermine why and how the Tsimtsum sank. We thought youmight help us, Mr. Patel."[Silence] "Mr. Patel?"[Silence] Pi Patel: "Tigers exist, lifeboats exist, oceans exist. Becausethe three have never come together in your narrow, limitedexperience, you refuse to believe that they might. Yet the plainfact is that the Tsimtsum brought them together and thensank."[Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "What about this Frenchman?""What about him?""Two blind people in two separate lifeboats meeting up in thePacific - the coincidence seems a little far-fetched, no?""It certainly does.""We find it very unlikely.""So is winning the lottery, yet someone always wins.""We find it extremely hard to believe.""So did I."[translation] "I knew we should have taken the day off. [/translation] You talked about food?""We did.""He knew a lot about food.""If you can call it food.""The cook on the Tsimtsum was a Frenchman.""There are Frenchmen all over the world.""Maybe the Frenchman you met was the cook.""Maybe. How should I know? I never saw him. I was blind. Then Richard Parker ate him alive.""How convenient.""Not at all. It was horrific and it stank. By the way, how doyou explain the meerkat bones in the lifeboat?""Yes, the bones of a small animal were - ""More than one!"" - of some small animals were found in the lifeboat. Theymust have come from the ship.""We had no meerkats at the zoo.""We have no proof they were meerkat bones."Mr. Chiba: "Maybe they were banana bones! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"[translation] "Atsuro, shut up!""I'm very sorry, Okamoto-san. It's the fatigue.""You're bringing our service into disrepute!""Very sorry, Okamoto-san." [/translation] Mr. Okamoto: "They could be bones from another smallanimal.""They were meerkats.""They could be mongooses.""The mongooses at the zoo didn't sell. They stayed in India.""They could be shipboard pests, like rats. Mongooses arecommon in India.""Mongooses as shipboard pests?""Why not?""Who swam in the stormy Pacific, several of them, to thelifeboat? That's a little hard to believe, wouldn't you say?""Less hard to believe than some of the things we've heardin the last two hours. Perhaps the mongooses were alreadyaboard the lifeboat, like the rat you mentioned.""Simply amazing the number of animals in that lifeboat.""Simply amazing.""A real jungle.""Yes.""Those bones are meerkat bones. Have them checked by anexpert.""There weren't that many left. And there were no heads.""I used them as bait.""It's doubtful an expert could tell whether they were meerkatbones or mongoose bones.""Find yourself a forensic zoologist.""All right, Mr. Patel! You win. We cannot explain thepresence of meerkat bones, if that is what they are, in thelifeboat. But that is not our concern here. We are herebecause a Japanese cargo ship owned by Oika ShippingCompany, flying the Panamanian flag, sank in the Pacific.""Something I never forget, not for a minute. I lost my wholefamily.""We're sorry about that.""Not as much as I am."[Long silence] Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What do we do now?"Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know." [/translation] [Long silence] Pi Patel: "Would you like a cookie?"Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."Mr. Chiba: "Thank you."[Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "It's a nice day."Pi Patel: "Yes. Sunny."[Long silence] Pi Patel: "Is this your first visit to Mexico?"Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, it is.""Mine too."[Long silence] Pi Patel: "So, you didn't like my story?"Mr. Okamoto: "No, we liked it very much. Didn't we,Atsuro? We will remember it for a long, long time."Mr. Chiba: "We will."[Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "But for the purposes of our investigation, wewould like to know what really happened.""What really happened?""Yes.""So you want another story?""Uhh…no. We would like to know what really happened.""Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?""Uhh…perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would havean element of invention in it. We don't want any invention. We want the ‘straight facts', as you say in English.""Isn't telling about something - using words, English orJapanese - already something of an invention? Isn't justlooking upon this world already something of an invention?""Uhh…""The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understandit, no? And in understanding something, we bring something toit, no? Doesn't that make life a story?""Ha! Ha! Ha! You are very intelligent, Mr. Patel."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What is he talking about?""I have no idea." [/translation] Pi Patel: "You want words that reflect reality?""Yes.""Words that do not contradict reality?""Exactly.""But tigers don't contradict reality.""Oh please, no more tigers.""I know what you want. You want a story that won'tsurprise you. That will confirm what you already know. Thatwon't make you see higher or further or differently. You wanta flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastlessfactuality.""Uhh…""You want a story without animals.""Yes!""Without tigers or orang-utans.""That's right.""Without hyenas or zebras.""Without them.""Without meerkats or mongooses.""We don't want them.""Without giraffes or hippopotamuses.""We will plug our ears with our fingers!""So I'm right. You want a story without animals.""We want a story without animals that will explain thesinking of the Tsimtsum .""Give me a minute, please.""Of course. [translation] I think we're finally gettingsomewhere. Let's hope he speaks somesense." [/translation] [Long silence] "Here's another story.""Good.""The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallicburp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. I foundmyself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for thelifeboat. It was the hardest swim of my life. I didn't seem tobe moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I wasrapidly losing strength. I wouldn't have made it if the cookhadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbedaboard and collapsed. "Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas andmade it to the lifeboat. The cook was already aboard, as wasthe sailor. "He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in thelifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us forweeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reasonto believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon. Yet there he was,swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy terror of hunger. He was callingus idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We wereoffended and disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were verypolite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mothersmiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. Hewas a disgusting man. His mouth had the discrimination of agarbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it inthe sun. I - I'll be honest - I had a small piece, very small,behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute,that cook, ill-tempered and hypocritical. "The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me,probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg jumpingfrom the ship and his suffering made him a child. He wasbeautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a clear, shiningcomplexion. His features - the broad face, the flattened nose,the narrow, pleated eyes - looked so elegant. I thought helooked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. Hespoke no English, not a single word, not yes or no, hello orthank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand aword he said. He must have felt very lonely. When he wept,Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It wasvery, very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything aboutit. "His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuckout of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set his leg as bestwe could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. Buthis leg became infected. Though we drained it of pus everyday, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated. "It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and that hewould survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bonewas broken at the thigh, it would involve no more than cuttingthrough flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evilwhisper. He would do the job to save the sailor's life, he said,but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the onlyanaesthetic. We fell upon him. Mother and I held his armswhile the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed andscreamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knifequickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother and I let go andmoved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, sowould his struggling. We thought he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for beingunintelligible. He screamed and we stared, transfixed. There wasblood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between thefrantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of hisleg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at the limb, asif imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried intoaction. The cook folded some skin over the bone. We wrappedthe stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above thewound to stop the bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as wecould on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. Ithought it was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human beingcould survive so much pain, so much butchery. Throughout theevening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harshand uneven. He had fits of agitated delirium. I expected him todie during the night. "He clung to life. At dawn he was still alive. He went in andout of consciousness. Mother gave him water. I caught sight ofthe amputated leg. It cut my breath short. In the commotion ithad been shoved aside and forgotten in the dark. It hadseeped a liquid and looked thinner. I took a life jacket andused it as a glove. I picked the leg up. "‘What are you doing?' asked the cook. "I'm going to throw it overboard,‘ I replied. " ‘Don't be an idiot. We'll use it as bait. That was the wholepoint.' "He seemed to regret his last words even as they werecoming out, for his voice faded quickly. He turned away. "‘The whole point? Mother asked. 'What do you mean bythat?‘"He pretended to be busy. "Mother's voice rose. ‘Are you telling us that we cut thispoor boy's leg off not to save his life but to get fishing bait? "Silence from the brute. "‘Answer me!' shouted Mother. "Like a cornered beast he lifted his eyes and glared at her. ‘Our supplies are running out,' he snarled. ‘We need morefood or we'll die.' "Mother returned his glare. ‘Our supplies are not runningout! We have plenty of food and water. We have packageupon package of biscuits to tide us over till our rescue.' Shetook hold of the plastic container in which we put the openrations of biscuits. It was unexpectedly light in her hands. Thefew crumbs in it rattled. ‘What!' She opened it. ‘Where are thebiscuits? The container was full last night!' "The cook looked away. As did I. "‘You selfish monster!' screamed Mother. ‘The only reasonwe're running out of food is because you're gorging yourself onit!' "‘He had some too,' he said, nodding my way. "Mother's eyes turned to me. My heart sank. "‘Piscine, is that true?' "‘It was night, Mother. I was half asleep and I was sohungry. He gave me a biscuit. I ate it without thinking…' "‘Only one, was it?' sneered the cook. "It was Mother's turn to look away. The anger seemed togo out of her. Without saying another word she went back tonursing the sailor. "I wished for her anger. I wished for her to punish me. Only not this silence. I made to arrange some life jackets forthe sailor's comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered,‘I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry.' My eyes were brimming withtears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were too. Butshe didn't look at me. Her eyes were gazing upon somememory in mid-air. "‘We're all alone, Piscine, all alone,' she said, in a tone thatbroke every hope in my body. I never felt so lonely in all mylife as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat twoweeks already and it was taking its toll on us. It was gettingharder to believe that Father and Ravi had survived. "When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg bythe ankle over the water to drain it. Mother brought her handover the sailor's eyes. "He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquidfrom his leg. The cook promptly butchered him. The leg hadmade for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to holdon to the fishing hook; it simply dissolved in the water. Nothingwent to waste with this monster. He cut up everything,including the sailor's skin and every inch of his intestines. Heeven prepared his genitals. When he had finished with historso, he moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother shrieked atthe cook, ‘How can you do this, you monster? Where is yourhumanity? Have you no decency? What did the poor boy doto you? You monster! You monster!' The cook replied withunbelievable vulgarity. "‘At least cover his face, for God's sake!' cried my mother. Itwas unbearable to have that beautiful face, so noble andserene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threwhimself upon the sailor's head and before our very eyesscalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited. "When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcassoverboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh and pieces of organswere lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled inhorror. We tried not to look at them. The smell would not goaway. "The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped himin the face, a full hard slap that punctuated the air with asharp crack. It was something shocking coming from mymother. And it was heroic. It was an act of outrage and pityand grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poorsailor. It was to salvage his dignity. "I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without movingor saying a word as Mother looked him straight in the face. Inoticed how he did not meet her eyes. "We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. Iwas filled with a mix of rapt admiration and abject fear. "Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw himdo it. He tried to be discreet, but she saw him bring his handto his mouth. She shouted, ‘I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait! I knew it. You monster! You animal! How could you? He's human! He's your own kind!' If shehad expected him to be mortified, to spit it out and breakdown and apologize, she was wrong. He kept chewing. In fact,he lifted his head up and quite openly put the rest of the stripin his mouth. Tastes like pork,‘ he muttered. Mother expressedher indignation and disgust by violently turning away. He ateanother strip. 'I feel stronger already,‘ he muttered. Heconcentrated on his fishing. "We each had our end of the lifeboat. It's amazing howwillpower can build walls. Whole days went by as if he weren'tthere. "But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but apractical brute. He was good with his hands and he knew thesea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thoughtof building a raft to help with the fishing. If we survived anytime at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very short-tempered, always shouting at me andinsulting me. "Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not thesmallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us, but we didstart to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, alifelong vegetarian, brought herself to eat raw fish and rawturtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over herrevulsion. It came easier to me. I found hunger improved thetaste of everything. "When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossiblenot to feel some warmth for the one to whom you owe thatreprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard aturtle or caught a great big dorado. It made us smile broadlyand there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in a civil way, even joked. Duringsome spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. Atsuch times I looked at him with - yes - with tenderness. Withlove. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarseman even when he was in a good mood, but we pretendednot to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we wouldcome upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhaustedour eyes scanning the horizon for an island that never came. That's when he stole food and water. "The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall aroundus. I never thought we would get around it. "He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We werestarving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle. Because ofme we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, ‘Go!' pushing me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landedin the water. I scrambled aboard the raft. They were fighting. Idid nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist andtwisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The knifeappeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it wasup - it was red. It went up and down repeatedly. I couldn'tsee her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his head and looked at me. He hurledsomething my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held mymother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud ofblood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towardsit until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its path and itvanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at thebottom of the boat. He appeared when he threw my mother'sbody overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled withfish. "I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft,looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have cutthe raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a badconscience. "In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the ropeand boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said nothing. Ikept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. Hebutchered it and laid its best parts for me on the middlebench. I ate. "Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression onhis face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of fear nor ofpain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still astruggle. He knew he had gone too far, even by his bestialstandards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to goon living any more. But he never said ‘I'm sorry.' Why do wecling to our evil ways? "The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. Weboth knew it. He could have had it in his hands from thestart. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up, Istabbed him in the stomach. He grimaced but remainedstanding. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Bloodwas pouring out. Still he didn't fall over. Looking me in theeyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he meansomething by this? I took it that he did. I stabbed him in thethroat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say anything. He had no last words. Heonly coughed up blood. A knife has a horrible dynamic power;once in motion, it's hard to stop. I stabbed him repeatedly. Hisblood soothed my chapped hands. His heart was a struggle -all those tubes that connected it. I managed to get it out. Ittasted delicious, far better than turtle. I ate his liver. I cut offgreat pieces of his flesh. "He was such an evil man. Worse still, he met evil in me -selfishness, anger, ruthlessness. I must live with that. "Solitude began. I turned to God. I survived."[Long silence] "Is that better? Are there any parts you find hard tobelieve? Anything you'd like me to change?"Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What a horrible story."[Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Both the zebra and the Taiwanese sailorbroke a leg, did you notice that""No, I didn't.""And the hyena bit off the zebra leg just as the cook cut offthe sailor's.""Ohhh, Okamoto-san, you see a lot.""The blind Frenchman they met in the other lifeboat - didn'the admit to killing a man and a woman?""Yes, he did.""The cook killed the sailor and his mother."‘Very impressive.""His stories match.""So the Taiwanese sailor is the zebra, his mother is theorang-utan, the cook is … the hyena - which means he's thetiger!""Yes. The tiger killed the hyena - and the blind Frenchman- just as he killed the cook." [/translation] Pi Patel: "Do you have another chocolate bar?"Mr. Chiba: "Right away!""Thank you."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "But what does it mean,Okamoto-san?""I have no idea.""And what about the island? Who are the meerkats?""I don't know.""And those teeth? Whose teeth were those in the tree?""I don't know I'm not inside the boy's head." [/translation] [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Please excuse me for asking, but did thecook say anything about the sinking of the Tsimtsum? "In this other story?""Yes.""He didn't.""He made no mention of anything leading up to the earlymorning of July 2nd that might explain what happened?""No.""Nothing of a nature mechanical or structural?""No.""Nothing about other ships or objects at sea?""No.""He could not explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum at all?""No.""Could he say why it didn't send out a distress signal?""And if it had? In my experience, when a dingy, third-raterustbucket sinks, unless it has the luck of carrying oil, lots of it,enough to kill entire ecosystems, no one cares and no onehears about it. You're on your own.""When Oika realized that something was wrong, it was toolate. You were too far out for air rescue. Ships in the areawere told to be on the lookout. They reported seeing nothing.""And while we're on the subject, the ship wasn't the onlything that was third-rate. The crew were a sullen, unfriendly lot,hard at work when officers were around but ‘doing nothingwhen they weren't. They didn't speak a word of English andthey were of no help to us. Some of them stank of alcohol bymid-afternoon. Who's to say what those idiots did? The officers- ""What do you mean by that?""By what?""‘Who's to say what those idiots did?'""I mean that maybe in a fit of drunken insanity some ofthem released the animals."Mr. Chiba: "Who had the keys to the cages?""Father did."Mr. Chiba: "So how could the crew open the cages if theydidn't have the keys?""I don't know. They probably used crowbars."Mr. Chiba: "Why would they do that? Why would anyonewant to release a dangerous wild animal from its cage?""I don't know. Can anyone fathom the workings of adrunken man's mind? All I can tell you is what happened. Theanimals were out of their cages."Mr. Okamoto: "Excuse me. You have doubts about thefitness of the crew?""Grave doubts.""Did you witness any of the officers being under theinfluence of alcohol?""No.""But you saw some of the crew being under the influence ofalcohol?""Yes.""Did the officers act in what seemed to you a competentand professional manner?""They had little to do with us. They never came close to theanimals.""I mean in terms of running the ship.""How should I know? Do you think we had tea with themevery day? They spoke English, but they were no better thanthe crew. They made us feel unwelcome in the common roomand hardly said a word to us during meals. They went on inJapanese, as if we weren't there. We were just a lowly Indianfamily with a bothersome cargo. We ended up eating on ourown in Father and Mother's cabin. ‘Adventure beckons!' saidRavi. That's what made it tolerable, our sense of adventure. Wespent most of our time shovelling excrement and rinsing cagesand giving feed while Father played the vet. So long as theanimals were all right, we were all right. I don't know if theofficers were competent.""You said the ship was listing to port?""Yes.""And that there was an incline from bow to stern?""Yes.""So the ship sank stern first?""Yes.""Not bow first?" . "No.""You are sure? There was a slope from the front of theship to the back?""Yes.""Did the ship hit another ship?""I didn't see another ship.""Did it hit any other object?""Not that I saw.""Did it run aground?""No, it sank out of sight.""You were not aware of mechanical problems after leavingManila?""No.""Did it appear to you that the ship was properly loaded?""It was my first time on a ship. I don't know what aproperly loaded ship should look like.""You believe you heard an explosion?""Yes.""Any other noises?""A thousand.""I mean that might explain the sinking.""No.""You said the ship sank quickly.""Yes.""Can you estimate how long it took?""It's hard to say. Very quickly. I would think less thantwenty minutes.""And there was a lot of debris?""Yes.""Was the ship struck by a freak wave?""I don't think so.""But there was a storm?""The sea looked rough to me. There was wind and rain.""How high were the waves?""High. Twenty-five, thirty feet.""That's quite modest, actually.""Not when you're in a lifeboat.""Yes, of course. But for a cargo ship.""Maybe they were higher. I don't know. The weather wasbad enough to scare me witless, that's all I know for sure.""You said the weather improved quickly. The ship sank andright after it was a beautiful day, isn't that what you said?""Yes.""Sounds like no more than a passing squall.""It sank the ship.""That's what we're wondering.""My whole family died.""We're sorry about that.""Not as much as I am.""So what happened, Mr. Patel? We're puzzled. Everythingwas normal and then…?""Then normal sank.""Why?""I don't know. You should be telling me. You're the experts. Apply your science.""We don't understand."[Long silence] Mr. Chiba: [translation] "Now what?"Mr. Okamoto: "We give up. The explanation for tke sinkingof the tsimtsum is at the bottom of the Pacific."[Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that's it. Let's go. [/translation] Well,Mr. Patel, I think we have all we need. We thank you verymuch for your cooperation. You've been very, very helpful.""You're welcome. But before you go, I'd like to ask yousomething.""Yes?""The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977.""Yes.""And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole humansurvivor of the Tsimtsum, on February 14th, 1978.""That's right.""I told you two stories that account for the 227 days inbetween.""Yes, you did.""Neither explains the sinking of the Tsimtsum.""That's right.""Neither makes a factual difference to you.""That's true.""You can't prove which story is true and which is not. Youmust take my word for it.""I guess so.""In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and Isuffer.""Yes, that's true.""So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you andyou can't prove the question either way, which story do youprefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or thestory without animals?"Mr. Okamoto: "That's an interesting question…"Mr. Chiba: "The story with animals."Mr. Okamoto: [translation] "Yes. [/translation] The storywith animals is the better story."Pi Patel: "Thank you. And so it goes with God."[Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "You're welcome."Mr. Chiba: [translation] "What did he just say?"Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know."Mr. Chiba: "Ok look - he's crying." [/translation] [Long silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We'll be careful when we drive away. Wedon't want to run into Richard Parker."Pi Patel: "Don't worry, you won't. He's hiding somewhereyou'll never find him."Mr. Okamoto: "Thank you for taking the time to talk to us,Mr. Patel. We're grateful. And we're really very sorry aboutwhat happened to you.""Thank you.""What will you be doing now?""I guess I'll go to Canada.""Not back to India?""No. There's nothing there for me now. Only sad memories.""Of course, you know you will be getting insurance money.""Oh.""Yes. Oika will be in touch with you."[Silence] Mr. Okamoto: "We should be going. We wish you all thebest, Mr. Patel."Mr. Chiba: "Yes, all the best.""Thank you."Mr. Okamoto: "Goodbye."Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye."Pi Patel: "Would you like some cookies for the road?"Mr. Okamoto: "That would be nice.""Here, have three each.""Thank you."Mr. Chiba: "Thank you.""You're welcome. Goodbye. God be with you, my brothers.""Thank you. And with you too, Mr. Patel."Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye."Mr. Okamoto: [translation] "I'm starving. Let's go eat. Youcan turn that off." [/translation] Chapter 100 Mr. Okamoto, in his letter to me, recalled theinterrogation as having been "difficult and memorable. "Heremembered Piscine Molitor Patel as being "very thin, verytough, very bright."His report, in its essential part, ran as follows: Sole survivor could shed no light on reasons for sinkingof Tsimtsum. Ship appears to have sunk very quickly, whichwould indicate a major hull breach. Important quantity ofdebris would support this theory. But precise reason ofbreach impossible to determine. No major weatherdisturbance reported that day in quadrant. Survivor'sassessment of weather impressionistic and unreliable. Atmost, weather a contributing factor. Cause was perhapsinternal to ship. Survivor believes he heard an explosion,hinting at a major engine problem, possibly the explosion ofa boiler, but this is speculation. Ship twenty-nine years old(Erlandson and Shank Shipyards, Malm?, 1948), refitted in1970. Stress of weather combined with structural fatigue apossibility, but conjecture. No other ship mishap reported inarea on that day, so ship-ship collision unlikely. Collisionwith debris a possibility, but unverifiable. Collision with afloating mine might explain explosion, but seems fanciful,besides highly unlikely as sinking started at stern, which inall likelihood would mean that hull breach was at stern too. Survivor cast doubts on fitness of crew but had nothing tosay about officers. Oika Shipping Company claims all cargoabsolutely licit and not aware of any officer or crewproblems. Cause of sinking impossible to determine from availableevidence. Standard insurance claim procedure for Oika. Nofurther action required. Recommend that case be closed. As an aside, story of sole survivor, Mr. Piscine MolitorPatel, Indian citizen, is an astounding story of courage andendurance in the face of extraordinarily difficult and tragiccircumstances. In the experience of this investigator, hisstory is unparalleled in the history of shipwrecks. Very fewcastaways can claim to have survived so long at sea asMr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengaltiger. The End