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        <h6>Novel by</h6>
        <h1>Yann Martel</h1>
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        <p id="paragraph">My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me back to life. I
have kept up what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high
school, I attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor’s degree. My majors
were religious studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain
aspects of the cosmogony theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My
zoology thesis was a functional analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth
because its demeanour—calm, quiet and introspective—did something to soothe 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 the great luck one
summer of studying the three-toed sloth in situ in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly
intriguing creature. Its only real habit is indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day.
Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early
evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic dishes filled with water. We found them still in
place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at
sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves along the bough of a tree in its
characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour. On the ground, it
crawls to its next 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 outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2
represents unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloth’s senses of taste,
touch, sight and hearing a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping
three-toed sloth in the wild, two or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily
in every direction but yours. Why it should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a
Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe
reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths elicited little reaction. And the sloth’s
slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said to be able to sniff and avoid
decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground clinging to decayed
branches “often”.
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm’s way, away from
the notice of jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth’s hairs shelter an algae that is
brown during the dry season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the
surrounding moss and foliage and looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all
but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. “A
good-natured smile is forever on its lips,” reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own
eyes. I am not one given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during
that month in Brazil, looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis
deep in meditation or hermits deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were
beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students—

muddled agnostics who didn’t know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool’s
gold for the bright—reminded me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful
example of the miracle of life, reminded me of God.

I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-
working, beer-drinking lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are

not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael’s College four years
in a row. I got every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the
Department of Religious Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department
(the rewards of religious study are not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the
Governor General’s Academic Medal, the University of Toronto’s highest undergraduate award, of
which no small number of illustrious Canadians have been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating
pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you’ve suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is
both unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is
always a grinning skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I
look at it and I say, “You’ve got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don’t believe in
death. Move on!” The skull snickers and moves ever closer, but that doesn’t surprise me. The reason
death sticks so closely to life isn’t biological necessity—it’s envy. Life is so beautiful that death has
fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion
lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is but the passing shadow of a cloud.
The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I love him and I hope his time
at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours me bountifully,
Oxford is fifth on the list of cities 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 a noose, and inverted though it is, it
will hang a man nonetheless if he’s not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on
the silver screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches,
but I love Canada. It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate,
intelligent people with bad hairdos. Anyway, I have nothing to go home to 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 my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such
is the strangeness of the human heart. I still cannot understand 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 were incredibly kind to me. And the patients,
too. Victims of cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to
see me, they and their families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They
smiled at me, shook my hand, patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They
moved me to uncontrollable fits of laughing and crying.
Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nausea, dizziness and
general weakness. Blood tests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodium was very high
and my potassium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I
had been grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was a deep, dark yellow going on to brown.

After a week or so, I could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn’t lace them up.
My skin healed, though I still have scars on my shoulders and back.
The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I
became incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted in the arms of a nurse.
The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waiter looked at
me critically and said, “Fresh off the boat, are you?” I blanched. My fingers, which a second before
had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They
froze like criminals caught in the act. I didn’t dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He
had no idea how deeply those words wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I
picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar
lost its taste.

CHAPTER 2

He lives in Scarborough. He’s a small, slim man—no more than five foot five. Dark hair, dark
eyes. Hair greying at the temples. Can’t be older than forty. Pleasing cof ee-coloured complexion.
Mild fall weather, yet puts on a big winter parka with fur-lined hood for the walk to the diner.
Expressive face. Speaks quickly, hands flitting about. No small talk. He launches forth.

CHAPTER 3

I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One
of my father’s earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the
family. I called him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India
to indicate respect and affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a
champion competitive swimmer, the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life.
My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn’t want to give up on breathing
water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head
round and round.
“It did the trick!” said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand above his head. “He coughed out water
and started breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That’s why his chest
is so thick and his legs are so skinny.”
I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first time he called Mamaji “Mr. Fish” to my
face I left a banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of
counter-obstetric gravity had begun to nudge his flesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every
morning at the pool of the Aurobindo Ashram.
He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their
knees at the beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising
the breaststroke, made them look as if they were walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass
ahead of them, or, if it was the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms
so as not to fall. Ravi was just as unenthusiastic.
Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of
swimming age, which, to Mother’s distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought me down to the
beach, spread his arms seaward and said, “This is my gift to you.”
“And then he nearly drowned you,” claimed Mother.
I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my
legs and scratched away at the sand with my hands, turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must
have looked like a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the
surface, I tried my best to swim. It was much more difficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and
encouraging.
When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the
shouting, the running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the
proper rectangularity and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming
pool.
I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday,
Friday early morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivid
memories of this dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging
as he neatly disposed of each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight
turning away and a magnificent pair of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was
ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming instruction, which in time became swimming practice,
was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over
and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten lead to liquid light.
It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to the sea, beckoned by the mighty waves that

crashed down and reached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos that caught their willing
Indian boy.
My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteen or so, was two full lengths of credible
butterfly. I finished so spent I could hardly wave to him.
Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. It was the talk that Father loved. The
more vigorously he resisted actually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was his vacation
talk from the workaday talk of running a zoo. Water without a hippopotamus was so much more
manageable than water with one.
Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of
his life. This was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic
as the British were trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don’t recall exactly what Mamaji
studied. Something commercial, I suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or
the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafés of the Champs-Elysées. All his stories had to do with
swimming pools and swimming competitions. For example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city’s
oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored to the Quai d’Orsay and the venue for the
swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were recognized by the International
Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in the pool came straight
from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. “It was cold and dirty,” said Mamaji. “The water, having
crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting.” In
conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had
very low standards of personal hygiene. “Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the
Seine, was worse. At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish.” Nevertheless, an Olympic pool
is an Olympic pool, touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny
with a fond smile.
One was better off at the Piscines Château-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They
were indoor pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the
condensation from steam engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these
pools were still a bit dingy and tended to be crowded. “There was so much gob and spit floating in
the water, I thought I was swimming through jellyfish,” chuckled Mamaji.
The Piscines Hébert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools
fed by artesian wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was
the Piscine des Tourelles, of course, the city’s other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the
second Paris games, of 1924. And there were still others, many of them.
But no swimming pool in Mamaji’s eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the
crowning aquatic glory of Paris, 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. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small
oceans. The indoor pool always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The
water was so clean and clear you could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing
cabins, blue and white, surrounded the pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone
and everything. The porters who marked your cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied
were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever
ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a steam room and an exercise room.
The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a cafeteria, a large sunning deck,
even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood gleamed. It was—it was

...”
It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, his memory making too many lengths to
mention.
Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed.
That is how I got my name when I entered this world, a last, 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 republic when it became bigger by a small
territory. Pondicherry entered the Union of India on November 1, 1954. One civic achievement called

for another. A portion of the grounds of the Pondicherry Botanical Garden was made available rent-
free for an exciting business opportunity and—lo and behold—India had a brand new zoo, designed

and run according to the most modern, biologically sound principles.
It was a huge zoo, spread over numberless 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 hot and humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. The riot of flowers is
incessant. There are trees, shrubs and climbing plants in profusion—peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of
the forest, red silk cottons, jacarandas, mangoes, jackfruits and many others that would remain
unknown to you if they didn’t have neat labels at their feet. There are benches. On these benches you
see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting, young couples, who steal glances at each other
shyly and whose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch. Suddenly, amidst the tall and slim trees
up ahead, you notice two giraffes quietly observing you. The sight is not the last of your surprises.
The next moment you are startled by a furious outburst coming from a great troupe of monkeys, only
outdone in volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to a turnstile. You distractedly pay a
small sum of money. You move on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond a low wall?
Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indian rhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when
you turn your head you see the elephant that was there all along, so big you didn’t notice it. And in the
pond you realize those are hippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, the more you
see. You are in Zootown!
Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel in Madras. An abiding interest in animals
led him to the zoo business. A natural transition, you might think, from hotelkeeping to zookeeping.
Not so. In many ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper’s worst nightmare. Consider: the guests never
leave their rooms; they expect not only lodging but full board; they receive a constant flow of visitors,
some of whom are noisy and unruly. One has to wait until they saunter to their balconies, so to speak,
before one can clean their rooms, and then one has to wait until they tire of the view and return to
their rooms before one can clean their balconies; and there is much cleaning to do, for the guests are
as unhygienic as alcoholics. Each guest is very particular about his or her diet, constantly complains
about the slowness of the service, and never, ever tips. To speak frankly, many are sexual deviants,
either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenzied lasciviousness or openly depraved, in
either case regularly affronting management with gross outrages of free sex and incest. Are these the
sorts of guests you would want to welcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source of some

pleasure and many headaches for Mr. Santosh Patel, founder, owner, director, head of a staff of fifty-
three, and my father.

To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but the fondest memories of growing up in a zoo.
I lived the life of a prince. What maharaja’s son had such vast, luxuriant grounds to play about? What
palace had such a menagerie? My alarm clock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were
no Swiss clocks, but the lions could be counted upon to roar their heads off between five-thirty and
six every morning. Breakfast was punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys, hill mynahs
and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school under the benevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of
bright-eyed otters and burly American bison and stretching and yawning orang-utans. I looked up as I

ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered
the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early hour was the bats’ discordant
concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria to look at some shiny
frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it might be
birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or
something smaller, silver diamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds, Nanday
conures, orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that the elephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears
would be up and doing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, the gibbons, the deer, the
tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes, the mongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was out the
main gate I had one last impression that was both ordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the
iridescent snout of a mandrill; the stately silence of a giraffe; the obese, yellow open mouth of a
hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of a macaw parrot up a wire fence; the greeting claps of a
shoebill’s bill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all these riches were had quickly, as
I hurried to school. It was after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it’s like to have an
elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick through
your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is. I wish I
could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to
point or a lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your
head if you want to feel it.
In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals
come to life. They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water’s edge. They show their
raiments. They sing their songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the
watching eye and the listening ear is great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the
highly mannered, manifold expressions of life that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud,
weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.

I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as I have about God and religion. Well-
meaning but misinformed people think animals in the wild are “happy” because they are “free”. These

people usually have a large, handsome predator in mind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an
aardvark is rarely exalted). They imagine this wild animal roaming about the savannah on digestive
walks after eating a prey that accepted its lot piously, or going for callisthenic runs to stay slim after
overindulging. They imagine this animal overseeing its offspring proudly and tenderly, the whole
family watching the setting of the sun from the limbs of trees with sighs of pleasure. The life of the
wild animal is simple, noble and meaningful, they imagine. Then it is captured by wicked men and
thrown into tiny jails. Its “happiness” is dashed. It yearns mightily for “freedom” and does all it can
to escape. Being denied its “freedom” for too long, the animal becomes a shadow 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 necessity within an unforgiving social
hierarchy in an environment where the supply of fear is high and the supply of food low and where
territory must constantly be defended and parasites forever endured. What is the meaning of freedom
in such a context? Animals in the wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their
personal relations. In theory—that is, as a simple physical possibility—an animal could pick up and
go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries proper to its species. But such an event is less
likely to happen than for a member of our own species, say a shopkeeper with all the usual ties—to
family, to friends, to society—to drop everything and walk away from his life with only the spare

change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most intelligent of creatures,
won’t wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an animal, which is
by temperament far more conservative? For that is what animals are, conservative, one might even
say reactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They want things to be just so, day after day,
month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in their spatial relations.
An animal inhabits its space, whether in a zoo or in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move
about a chessboard—significantly. There is no more happenstance, no more “freedom”, involved in
the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. 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 normal place in its regular posture at
the usual hour, it means something. It may be the reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the
environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has made a menacing impression. A puddle has
formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But it could mean something more. At
its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a herald of trouble to
come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All this because a
stork is not standing where it usually stands!
But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.
If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into
the street and said, “Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!”—do you think they would shout and
dance for joy? They wouldn’t. Birds are not free. The people you’ve just evicted would sputter,
“With what right do you throw us out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years.
We’re calling the police, you scoundrel.”
Don’t we say, “There’s no place like home”? That’s certainly what animals feel. Animals are
territorial. That is the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two
relentless imperatives of the wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A
biologically sound zoo enclosure—whether cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or
aquarium—is just another territory, peculiar only in its size and in its proximity to human territory.
That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to reason. Territories in the wild are
large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals what we have done for
ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread out. Whereas
before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the lookout
next to it, the berries somewhere else—all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and
poison ivy—now the river flows through taps at hand’s reach and we can wash next to where we
sleep, we can eat where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and
keep it clean and warm. A house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled
close by and safely. A sound zoo enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy
absence of a fireplace or the like, present in every human habitation). Finding within it all the places
it needs—a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.—and
finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six days a week, an animal will take
possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space in the wild, exploring
it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps. Once this
moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even less
like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure
as it would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such
an enclosure is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so

long as it fulfills the animal’s needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a
given, like the spots on a leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with
intelligence, it would opt for living in a zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is
the absence of parasites and enemies and the abundance of food in the first, and their respective
abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz
with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be homeless without a soul to care for
you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of their nature, they make do
with 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 urine or other secretion, we say to it, “Stay in!” with our barriers. Under such
conditions of diplomatic peace, all animals are content and we can relax and have a look at each
other.
In the literature can be found legions of examples of animals that could escape but did not, or did
and returned. There is the case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlocked and had swung
open. Increasingly anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly—with a
deafening clang each time—until the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the
situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo stepped out of their corral when the gate was left
open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby forest, which had its own herd of wild
roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly returned to their corral. In
another zoo a worker was walking to his work site at an early hour, carrying planks of wood, when,
to his horror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, heading straight for him at a confident pace. The
man dropped the planks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately started searching for the
escaped bear. They found it back in its enclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it had
climbed out, by way of a tree that had fallen over. It was thought that the noise of the planks of wood
falling to the ground had frightened it.
But I don’t insist. I don’t mean to defend zoos. Close them all down if you want (and let us hope
that what wildlife remains can survive in what is left of the natural world). I know zoos are no longer
in people’s good graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague
them both.
The Pondicherry Zoo doesn’t exist any more. Its pits are filled in, the cages torn down. I explore
it now in the only place left for it, my memory.

CHAPTER 5

My name isn’t the end of the story about my name. When your 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, and they wondered why I wasn’t wearing a
turban.
In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one
night. I couldn’t bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on
the phone asked, “Can I ’ave your name?” I said, “I am who I am.” Half an hour later two pizzas
arrived for “Ian Hoolihan”.
It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same
afterwards, even unto our names. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also known as 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 morning when I was twelve. I had just arrived.
He saw me and a flash of evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointed at me and
shouted, “It’s Pissing Patel!”
In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filed into the class. I walked in last,
wearing my crown of thorns.
The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. The words would waft across the yard to my
ears, unprovoked, uncalled for: “Where’s Pissing? I’ve got to go.” Or: “You’re facing the wall. Are
you Pissing?” Or something of the sort. I would freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretending
not to have heard. The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long
after it has evaporated.
Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the day wore on, the geography lesson, which in
the morning had been as compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the Thar Desert; the history
lesson, so alive when the day was young, became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so
precise at first, became muddled. In their afternoon fatigue, as they wiped their foreheads and the
backs of their necks with their handkerchiefs, without meaning to offend or get a laugh, even teachers
forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name and distorted it in a shameful way. By nearly
imperceptible modulations I could hear the change. It was as if their tongues were charioteers driving
wild horses. They could manage well enough the first syllable, the Pea, but eventually the heat was
too much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steeds and could no longer rein them in for the
climb to the second syllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing, and next time round,
all was lost. My hand would be up to give an answer, and I would be acknowledged with a “Yes,
Pissing.” Often the teacher wouldn’t realize what he had just called me. He would look at me wearily
after a moment, wondering why I wasn’t coming out with the answer. And sometimes the class, as
beaten down by the heat as he was, wouldn’t react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I always heard
the slur.
I spent my last year at St. Joseph’s School feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in
Mecca, peace be upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira that would mark the
beginning of Muslim time, I planned my escape and the beginning of a new time for me.
After St. Joseph’s, I went to Petit Séminaire, the best private English-medium secondary school
in Pondicherry. Ravi was already there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer from following

in the footsteps of a popular older sibling. He was the athlete of his generation at Petit Séminaire, a
fearsome bowler and a powerful batter, the captain of the town’s best cricket team, our very own
Kapil Dev. That I was a swimmer made no waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that those
who live by the sea are suspicious of swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are
suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in someone’s shadow wasn’t my escape, though I
would have taken any name over “Pissing”, even “Ravi’s brother”. I had a better plan than that.
I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in the very first class. Around me were other
alumni of St. Joseph’s. The class started the way all new classes start, with the stating of names. We
called them out from our desks in the order in which 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 mnemonic stare 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 of me.
It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come.
I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I
picked up a piece of chalk 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 Patel

For good measure I added

π= 3.14

and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with a diameter, to evoke that basic lesson of
geometry.
There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. I was 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 is important in the training not only of animals
but also of humans. Between one commonly named boy and the next, I rushed forward and
emblazoned, sometimes with a terrible screech, the details of my rebirth. It got to be that after a few
times 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 would have been the
delight of any choirmaster. A few boys followed up with a whispered, urgent “Three! Point! One!
Four!” as I wrote as fast as I could, and I ended the concert by slicing the circle with such vigour that
bits of chalk went flying.
When I put my hand up that day, which I did every chance I had, teachers granted me the right to
speak with a single syllable that was music to my ears. Students followed suit. Even the St. Joseph’s
devils. In fact, the name caught on. Truly we are a nation of aspiring engineers: shortly after, there
was a boy named Omprakash who was calling himself Omega, and another who was passing himself
off as Upsilon, and for a while there was a Gamma, a Lambda and a Delta. But I was the first and the
most enduring of the Greeks at Petit Séminaire. 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 was to 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 what he 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 bit red in the face.”
But he held his peace.
And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with a corrugated tin roof, in that elusive,
irrational number with which scientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge.

CHAPTER 6

He’s an excellent cook. His overheated house is always smelling of something delicious. His spice
rack looks like an apothecary’s shop. When he opens his refrigerator or his cupboards, there are
many brand names I don’t recognize; in fact, I can’t even tell what language they’re in. We are in
India. But he handles Western dishes equally well. He makes me the most zesty yet subtle macaroni
and cheese I’ve ever had. And his vegetarian tacos would be the envy of all Mexico.
I notice something else: his cupboards are jam-packed. Behind every door, on every shelf,
stand mountains of neatly stacked cans and packages. A reserve of food to last the siege of
Leningrad.

CHAPTER 7

It was my luck to have a few good teachers in my youth, men and women who came into my dark head
and lit a match. One of these was Mr. Satish Kumar, my biology teacher at Petit Séminaire and an
active Communist who was always hoping Tamil Nadu would stop electing movie stars and go the
way of Kerala. He had a most peculiar appearance. The top of his head was bald and pointy, yet he
had the most impressive jowls I have ever seen, and his narrow shoulders gave way to a massive
stomach that looked like the base of a mountain, except that the mountain stood in thin air, for it
stopped abruptly and disappeared horizontally into his pants. It’s a mystery to me how his stick-like
legs supported the weight above them, but they did, though they moved in surprising ways at times, as
if his knees could bend in any direction. His construction was geometric: he looked like two
triangles, a small one and a larger one, balanced on two parallel lines. But organic, quite warty
actually, and with sprigs of black hair sticking out of his ears. And friendly. His smile seemed to take
up the whole base of his triangular head.
Mr. Kumar was the first avowed atheist I ever met. I discovered this not in the classroom but at
the zoo. He was a regular visitor who read the labels and descriptive notices in their entirety and
approved of every animal he saw. Each to him was a triumph of logic and mechanics, and nature as a
whole was an exceptionally fine illustration of science. To his ears, when an animal felt the urge to
mate, it said “Gregor Mendel”, recalling the father of genetics, and when it was time to show its
mettle, “Charles Darwin”, the father of natural selection, and what we took to be bleating, grunting,
hissing, snorting, roaring, growling, howling, chirping and screeching were but the thick accents of
foreigners. When Mr. Kumar visited the zoo, it was to take the pulse of the universe, and his
stethoscopic mind always confirmed to him that everything was in order, that everything was order.
He left the zoo feeling scientifically refreshed.
The first time I saw his triangular form teetering and tottering about the zoo, I was shy to
approach him. As much as I liked him as a teacher, he was a figure of authority, and I, a subject. I was
a little afraid of him. I observed him at a distance. He had just come to the rhinoceros pit. The two
Indian rhinos were great attractions at the zoo because of the goats. Rhinos are social animals, and
when we got Peak, a young wild male, he was showing signs of suffering from isolation and he was
eating less and less. As a stopgap measure, while he searched for a female, Father thought of seeing if
Peak couldn’t be accustomed to living with goats. If it worked, it would save a valuable animal. If it
didn’t, it would only cost a few goats. It worked marvellously. Peak and the herd of goats became
inseparable, even when Summit arrived. Now, when the rhinos bathed, the goats stood around the
muddy pool, and when the goats ate in their corner, Peak and Summit stood next to them like guards.
The living arrangement was very popular with the public.
Mr. Kumar looked up and saw me. He smiled and, one hand holding onto the railing, the other
waving, signalled me to come 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 had politicians like these goats and rhinos we’d have fewer problems in our
country. Unfortunately we have a prime minister who has the armour plating of a rhinoceros without
any of its good sense.”
I didn’t know much about politics. Father and Mother complained regularly about Mrs. Gandhi,

but it meant little to me. She lived far away in the north, not at the zoo and not in Pondicherry. 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 in religion. Religion is darkness.”
Darkness? I was puzzled. I thought, Darkness is the last thing that religion is. Religion is light.
Was he testing me? Was he saying, “Religion is darkness,” the way he sometimes said in class things
like “Mammals lay eggs,” to see if someone would correct him? (“Only platypuses, sir.”)
“There are no grounds for going beyond a scientific explanation of reality and no sound reason
for believing anything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, close attention to detail and a little
scientific knowledge will expose religion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist.”
Did he say that? Or am I remembering the lines of later atheists? At any rate, it was something of
the sort. I had never heard such words.
“Why tolerate darkness? Everything is here and clear, if only we look carefully.”
He was pointing at Peak. Now though I had great admiration for Peak, I had never thought of a
rhinoceros as a light bulb.
He spoke again. “Some people say God died during the Partition in 1947. He may have died in
1971 during the war. Or he may have died yesterday here in Pondicherry in an orphanage. That’s
what some people say, Pi. When I was your age, I lived in bed, racked with polio. I asked myself
every day, ‘Where is God? Where is God? Where is God?’ God never came. It wasn’t God who
saved me—it was medicine. Reason is my prophet and it tells me that as a watch stops, so we die.
It’s the end. If the watch doesn’t work properly, it must be fixed here and now by us. One day we will
take hold of the means of production and there will be justice on earth.”
This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right—loving and brave—but the details seemed
bleak. I said nothing. It wasn’t for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid that in a few words
thrown out he might destroy something that I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me?
What a terrible disease that must be if it could kill God in a man.
He walked off, pitching and rolling in the wild sea that was the steady ground. “Don’t forget the
test on Tuesday. Study hard, 3.14!”
“Yes, Mr. Kumar.”
He became my favourite teacher at Petit Séminaire and the reason I studied zoology at the
University of Toronto. I felt a kinship with him. It was my first clue that atheists are my brothers and
sisters of a different faith, and every word they speak speaks of faith. Like me, they go as far as the
legs of reason will carry them—and then they leap.
I’ll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful
for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must
we. If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, “My God, my God,
why have you forsaken me?” then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To
choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.

CHAPTER 8

We commonly say in the trade that the most dangerous animal in a zoo is Man. In a general way we
mean how our species’ excessive predatoriness has made the entire planet our prey. More
specifically, we have in mind the people who feed fishhooks to the otters, razors to the bears, apples
with small nails in them to the elephants and hardware variations on the theme: 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 plastic bangles: gold wedding bands, too), drinking
straws, plastic cutlery, ping-pong balls, tennis balls and so on. The obituary of zoo animals that have
died from being fed foreign bodies would include gorillas, bison, storks, rheas, ostriches, seals, sea
lions, big cats, bears, camels, elephants, monkeys, and most every variety of deer, ruminant and
songbird. Among zookeepers, Goliath’s death is famous; he was a bull elephant seal, a great big
venerable beast of two tons, star of his European zoo, loved by all visitors. He died of internal
bleeding after someone fed him a broken beer bottle.
The cruelty is often more active and direct. The literature contains reports on the many torments
inflicted upon zoo animals: a shoebill dying of shock after having its beak smashed with a hammer; a
moose stag losing its beard, along with a strip of flesh the size of an index finger, to a visitor’s knife
(this same moose was poisoned six months later); a monkey’s arm broken after reaching out for
proffered nuts; a deer’s antlers attacked with a hacksaw; a zebra stabbed with a sword; and other
assaults on other animals, with walking sticks, umbrellas, hairpins, knitting needles, scissors and
whatnot, often with an aim to taking an eye out or to injuring sexual parts. Animals are also poisoned.
And there are indecencies even more bizarre: onanists breaking a sweat on monkeys, ponies, birds; a
religious freak who cut a snake’s head off; a deranged man who took to urinating in an elk’s mouth.
At Pondicherry we were relatively fortunate. We were spared the sadists who plied European
and American zoos. Nonetheless, our golden agouti vanished, stolen by someone who ate it, Father
suspected. Various birds—pheasants, peacocks, macaws—lost feathers to people greedy for their
beauty. We caught a man with a knife climbing into the pen for mouse deer; he said he was going to
punish evil Ravana (who in the Ramayana took the form of a deer when he kidnapped Sita, Rama’s
consort). Another man was nabbed in the process of stealing a cobra. He was a snake charmer whose
own snake had died. Both were saved: the cobra from a life of servitude and bad music, and the man
from a possible death bite. We had to deal on occasion with stone throwers, who found the animals
too placid and wanted a reaction. And we had the lady whose sari was caught by a lion. She spun like
a yo-yo, choosing mortal embarrassment over mortal end. The thing was, it wasn’t even an accident.
She had leaned over, thrust her hand in the cage and waved the end of her sari in the lion’s face, with
what intent we never figured out. She was not injured; there were many fascinated men who came to
her assistance. Her flustered explanation to Father was, “Whoever heard of a lion eating a cotton
sari? I thought lions were carnivores.” Our worst troublemakers were the visitors who gave food to
the animals. Despite our vigilance, Dr. Atal, the zoo veterinarian, could tell by the number of animals
with digestive disturbances which had been the busy days at the zoo. He called “tidbit-itis” the cases
of enteritis or gastritis due to too many carbohydrates, especially sugar. Sometimes we wished
people had stuck to sweets. People have a notion that animals can eat anything without the least
consequence to their health. Not so. One of our sloth bears became seriously ill with severe
hemorrhagic enteritis after being given fish that had gone putrid by a man who was convinced he was
doing a good deed.

Just beyond the ticket booth Father had had painted on a wall in bright red letters the question:
DO YOU KNOW WHICH IS THE MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL IN THE ZOO? An arrow
pointed to a small curtain. There were so many eager, curious hands that pulled at the curtain that we
had to replace it regularly. Behind it was a mirror.
But I learned at my expense that Father believed there was another animal even more dangerous
than us, and one that was extremely common, too, found on every continent, in every habitat: 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”, “understanding”. These animals lie in ambush in every toy store and children’s zoo.
Countless stories are told of them. They are the pendants of those “vicious”, “bloodthirsty”,
“depraved” animals that inflame the ire of the maniacs I have just mentioned, who vent their spite on
them with walking sticks and umbrellas. In both cases we look at an animal and see a mirror. The
obsession with putting ourselves at the centre of everything is the bane not only of theologians but
also of zoologists.
I learned the lesson that an animal is an animal, essentially and practically removed from us,
twice: once with Father and once with Richard Parker.
It was on a Sunday morning. I was quietly playing on my own. Father called out.
“Children, come here.”
Something was wrong. His tone of voice set off a small alarm bell in my head. I quickly
reviewed my conscience. It was clear. Ravi must be in trouble again. I wondered what he had done
this time. I walked into the living room. Mother was there. That was unusual. The disciplining of
children, like the tending of animals, was generally left to Father. Ravi walked in last, 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 face was flushed.
I swallowed. If Mother, normally so unruffled, so calm, was worried, even upset, it meant we
were in serious trouble. I exchanged glances with Ravi.
“Yes, it is,” said Father, annoyed. “It may very well save their lives.”
Save our lives! It was no longer a small alarm bell that was ringing in my head—they were big
bells now, like the ones we heard from Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, not far from 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.” He gave me the evil eye.
“Shush!” said Father, raising his hand. He was looking at Mother. “Gita, you’ve seen Piscine.
He’s at that age when boys run 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 my heart. But she only sighed and nodded, a signal that the terrible 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 their work. I noticed Sitaram,
who oversaw the orang-utans, my favourite keeper. He paused to watch us go by. We passed birds,
bears, apes, monkeys, ungulates, the terrarium house, the rhinos, 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 and down the path, and he unlocked the door to the cat house, which was at the centre
of a moated island. We entered. It was a vast and dim cement cavern, circular in shape, warm and
humid, and smelling of cat urine. All around were great big cages divided up by thick, green, iron
bars. A yellowish light filtered down from the skylights. Through the cage exits we could see the
vegetation of the surrounding island, flooded with sunlight. The cages were empty—save one:
Mahisha, our Bengal tiger patriarch, a lanky, hulking beast of 550 pounds, had been detained. As soon
as we stepped in, he loped up to the bars of his cage and set off a full-throated snarl, ears flat against
his skull and round eyes fixed on Babu. The sound was so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the
whole cat house. My knees started quaking. I got close to Mother. She was trembling, too. Even
Father seemed to pause and steady himself. Only Babu was indifferent to the outburst and to the
searing stare that bored into him like a drill. He had a tested trust in iron bars. Mahisha started pacing
to and fro against the limits of his cage.
Father turned to us. “What animal is this?” he bellowed above Mahisha’s snarling.
“It’s a tiger,” Ravi and I answered in unison, obediently pointing out the blindingly obvious.
“Are tigers dangerous?”
“Yes, Father, tigers are dangerous.”
“Tigers are very dangerous,” Father shouted. “I want you to understand that you are never—
under any circumstances—to touch a tiger, to pet a tiger, to put your hands through the bars 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 and my head fall to the floor.
I would like to say in my own defence that though I may have anthropomorphized the animals till
they spoke fluent English, the pheasants complaining in uppity British accents of their tea being cold
and the baboons planning their bank robbery getaway in the flat, menacing tones of American
gangsters, the fancy was always conscious. I quite deliberately dressed wild animals in tame
costumes of my imagination. But I never deluded myself as to the real nature of my playmates. My
poking nose had more sense than that. I don’t know where Father got the idea that his youngest son
was itching to step into a cage with a ferocious carnivore. But wherever the strange worry came from
—and Father was a worrier—he was clearly determined to rid himself of it that very morning.
“I’m going to show you how dangerous tigers are,” he continued. “I want you to remember this
lesson for the rest of your lives.”
He turned to Babu and nodded. Babu left. Mahisha’s eyes followed him and did not move from
the door he disappeared through. He returned a few seconds later carrying a goat with its legs tied.
Mother gripped me from behind. Mahisha’s snarl turned into a growl deep in the throat.
Babu unlocked, opened, entered, closed and locked a cage next to the tiger’s cage. Bars and a
trapdoor separated the two. Immediately Mahisha was up against the dividing bars, pawing them. To
his growling he now added explosive, arrested woofs. Babu placed the goat on the floor; its flanks
were heaving violently, its tongue hung from its mouth, and its eyes were spinning orbs. He untied its
legs. The goat got to its feet. Babu exited the cage in the same careful way he had entered it. The cage
had two floors, one level with us, the other at the back, higher by about three feet, that led outside to
the island. The goat scrambled to this second level. Mahisha, now unconcerned with Babu, paralleled

the move in his cage in a fluid, effortless motion. He crouched and lay still, his slowly moving tail the
only sign of tension.
Babu stepped up to the trapdoor between the cages and started pulling it open. In anticipation of
satisfaction, Mahisha fell silent. I heard two things at that moment: Father saying “Never forget this
lesson” as he looked on grimly; and the bleating of the goat. It must have been bleating all along, only
we couldn’t hear it before.
I could feel Mother’s hand pressed against my pounding heart.
The trapdoor resisted with sharp cries. Mahisha was beside himself—he looked as if he were
about to burst through the bars. He seemed to hesitate between staying where he was, at the place
where his prey was closest but most certainly out of reach, and moving to the ground level, further
away but where the trapdoor was located. He raised himself and started snarling again.
The goat started to jump. It jumped to amazing heights. I had no idea a goat could jump so high.
But the back of the cage 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 hooves against the floor.

A streak of black and orange flowed from one cage to the next.
Normally the big cats were not given food one day a week, to simulate conditions in the wild.
We found out later that Father had ordered that Mahisha not be fed for three days.
I don’t know if I saw blood before turning into Mother’s arms or if I daubed it on later, in my
memory, with a big brush. But I heard. It was enough to scare the living vegetarian daylights out of
me. Mother bundled us out. We were in hysterics. She was incensed.
“How could you, Santosh? They’re children! They’ll be scarred for the rest of their lives.”
Her voice was hot and tremulous. I could see she had tears in her eyes. I felt better.
“Gita, my bird, it’s for their sake. What if Piscine had stuck his hand through the bars of the cage
one day to touch the pretty orange fur? Better a goat than him, no?”
His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. He looked contrite. He never called her “my bird” in front
of us.
We were huddled around her. He joined us. But the lesson was 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 black belt in karate. He wanted to prove
himself against the lions. He lost. Badly. The keepers found only half his body in the morning.”
“Yes, Father.”
The Himalayan bears and the sloth bears.
“One strike of the claws from these cuddly creatures and your innards will be scooped out and
splattered all over the ground.”
“Yes, Father.”
The hippos.
“With those soft, flabby mouths of theirs they’ll crush your body to a bloody pulp. On land they
can outrun you.”
“Yes, Father.”
The hyenas.
“The strongest jaws in nature. Don’t think that they’re cowardly or that they only eat carrion.
They’re not and they don’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 they were twigs. I know some of them
were once pets and you played with them when they were small. But now they’re grown-up and wild
and unpredictable.”
“Yes, Father.”
The ostrich.
“Looks flustered and silly, doesn’t it? Listen up: it’s one of the most dangerous animals in a zoo.
Just one kick and your back 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’ll charge you and those short little antlers
will pierce you like daggers.”
“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 wings they’ll break your arms.”
“Yes, Father.”
The smaller birds.
“They’ll cut through your fingers with their beaks as if they were butter.”
“Yes, Father.”
The elephants.
“The most dangerous animal of all. More keepers and visitors are killed by elephants than by
any other animal in a zoo. A young elephant will most likely dismember you and trample your body
parts flat. That’s what happened to one poor lost soul in a European zoo who got into the elephant
house through a window. An older, more patient animal will squeeze you against a wall or sit on you.
Sounds funny—but think about it!”
“Yes, Father.”
“There are animals we haven’t stopped by. Don’t think they’re harmless. Life will defend itself
no matter how small it is. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous. It may not kill you, but it will

certainly injure you. It will scratch you and bite you, 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 besides Mahisha to have been starved at
Father’s orders, having been denied their previous evening’s meal. Father unlocked the cage. He
brought out a bag of feed from his pocket and emptied it on the floor.
“You see these guinea pigs?”
“Yes, Father.”
The creatures were trembling with weakness as they frantically nibbled their kernels of corn.
“Well ...” He leaned down and scooped one up. “They’re not dangerous.” The other guinea pigs
scattered instantly.
Father laughed. He handed me the squealing guinea pig. He meant to end on a light note.
The guinea pig rested in my arms tensely. It was a young one. I went to the cage and carefully
lowered it to the floor. It rushed to its mother’s side. The only reason these guinea pigs weren’t

dangerous—didn’t draw blood with their teeth and claws—was that they were practically
domesticated. Otherwise, to grab a wild guinea pig with your bare hands would be like taking hold of
a knife by the blade.
The lesson was over. Ravi and I sulked and gave Father the cold shoulder for a week. Mother
ignored him too. When I went by the rhinoceros pit I fancied the rhinos’ heads were hung low with
sadness over the loss of one of their dear companions.
But what can you do when you love your father? Life goes on and you don’t touch tigers. Except
that now, for having accused Ravi of an unspecified crime he hadn’t committed, I was as good as
dead. In years subsequent, when he was in the mood to terrorize me, he would whisper to me, “Just
wait till we’re alone. You’re the next goat!”

CHAPTER 9

Getting animals used to the presence of humans is at the heart of the art and science of zookeeping.
The key aim is to diminish an animal’s flight distance, which is the minimum distance at which an
animal wants to keep a perceived enemy. A flamingo in the wild won’t mind you if you stay more than
three hundred yards away. Cross that limit and it becomes tense. Get even closer and you trigger a
flight reaction from which the bird will not cease until the three-hundred-yard limit is set again, or
until heart and lungs fail. Different animals have different flight distances and they gauge them in
different ways. Cats look, deer listen, bears smell. Giraffes will allow you to come 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 crabs
scurry when you’re ten yards away; howler monkeys stir in their branches when you’re at twenty;
African buffaloes react at seventy-five.
Our tools for diminishing flight distance are the knowledge we have of an animal, the food and
shelter we provide, the protection we afford. When it works, the result is an emotionally stable,
stress-free wild animal that not only stays put, 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 of San Diego or Toronto or Berlin or Singapore, but you can’t keep a good
zookeeper down. Father was a natural. He made up for a lack of formal training with an intuitive gift
and a keen eye. He had a knack for looking at an animal and guessing what was on its mind. He was
attentive to his charges, and they, in return, multiplied, some to excess.

CHAPTER 10

Yet there will always be animals that seek to escape from zoos. Animals that are kept in unsuitable
enclosures are the most obvious example. Every animal has particular habitat needs that must be met.
If its enclosure is too sunny or too wet or too empty, if its perch is too high or too exposed, if the
ground is too sandy, if there are too few branches to make a nest, if the food trough is too low, if there
is not enough mud to wallow in—and so many other ifs—then the animal will not be at peace. It is not
so much a question of constructing an imitation of conditions in the wild as of getting to the essence of
these conditions. Everything in an enclosure must be just right—in other words, within the limits of
the animal’s capacity to adapt. A plague upon bad zoos with bad enclosures! They bring all zoos into
disrepute.
Wild animals that are captured when they are fully mature are another example of escape-prone
animals; often they are too set in their ways to reconstruct their subjective worlds and adapt to a new
environment.
But even animals that were bred in zoos and have never known the wild, that are perfectly
adapted to their enclosures and feel no tension in the presence of humans, will have moments of
excitement that push them to seek to escape. All living things contain a measure of madness that
moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; 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 to somewhere but from something. Something within their territory has
frightened them—the intrusion of an enemy, the assault of a dominant animal, a startling noise—and
set off a flight reaction. The animal flees, or tries to. I was surprised to read at the Toronto Zoo—a
very fine zoo, I might add—that leopards can jump eighteen feet straight up. Our leopard enclosure in
Pondicherry had a wall sixteen feet high at the back; I surmise that Rosie and Copycat never jumped
out not because of constitutional weakness but simply because they had no reason to. Animals that
escape go from the known into the unknown—and if there is one thing an animal hates above all else,
it is the unknown. Escaping animals usually hide in the very first place they find that gives them a
sense of security, and they are dangerous only to those who happen to get between them and their
reckoned safe spot.

CHAPTER 11

Consider the case of the female black leopard that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the winter of 1933.
She was new to the zoo and seemed to get along with the male leopard. But various paw injuries
hinted at matrimonial strife. Before any decision could be taken about what to do, she squeezed
through a break in the roof bars of her cage and vanished in the night. The discovery that a wild
carnivore was free in their midst created an uproar among the citizens of Zurich. Traps were set and
hunting dogs were let loose. They only rid the canton of its few half-wild dogs. Not a trace of the
leopard was found for ten weeks. Finally, a casual labourer came upon it under a barn twenty-five
miles away and shot it. Remains of roe-deer were found nearby. That a big, black, tropical cat
managed to survive for more than two months in a Swiss winter without being seen by anyone, let
alone attacking anyone, speaks plainly to the fact that escaped zoo animals are not dangerous
absconding criminals but simply wild creatures seeking to fit in.
And this case is just one among many. If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down
and shook it, you would be amazed at the animals that would fall out. It would pour more than cats
and dogs, I tell you. Boa constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles, piranhas, ostriches, wolves, lynx,
wallabies, manatees, porcupines, orang-utans, wild boar—that’s the sort of rainfall you could expect
on your umbrella. And they expected to find—ha! In the middle of a Mexican tropical jungle, imagine!
Ha! Ha! It’s laughable, simply laughable. What were they thinking?

CHAPTER 12

At times he gets agitated. It’s nothing I say (I say very little). It’s his own story that does it.
Memory is an ocean and 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 all these years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind.
He’s a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a South Indian vegetarian feast. I told him I
like spicy food. I don’t know why I said such a stupid thing. It’s a complete lie. I add 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, my head feels like a house on fire, and my
digestive tract starts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictor that has swallowed a lawn
mower.

CHAPTER 13

So you see, if you fall into a lion’s pit, the reason the lion will tear you to pieces is not because it’s
hungry—be assured, zoo animals are amply fed—or because it’s bloodthirsty, but because you’ve
invaded its territory.
As an aside, that is why a circus trainer must always enter the lion ring first, and in full sight of
the lions. In doing so, he establishes that the ring is his territory, not theirs, a notion that he reinforces
by shouting, by stomping about, by snapping his whip. The lions are impressed. Their disadvantage
weighs heavily on them. Notice how they come in: mighty predators though they are, “kings of
beasts”, they crawl in with their tails low and they keep to the edges of the ring, which is always
round so that they have nowhere to hide. They are in the presence of a strongly dominant male, a
super-alpha male, and they must submit to his dominance rituals. So they open their jaws wide, they
sit up, they jump through paper-covered hoops, they crawl through tubes, they walk backwards, they
roll over. “He’s a queer one,” they think dimly. “Never seen a top lion like him. But he runs a good
pride. The larder’s always full and—let’s be honest, mates—his antics keep us busy. Napping all the
time does get a bit boring. At least we’re not riding bicycles like the brown bears or catching flying
plates like the chimps.”
Only the trainer better make sure he always remains super alpha. He will pay dearly if he
unwittingly slips to beta. Much hostile and aggressive behaviour among animals is the expression of
social insecurity. The animal in front of you must know where it stands, whether above you or below
you. Social rank is central to how it leads its life. Rank determines whom it can associate with and
how; where and when it can eat; where it can rest; where it can drink; and so on. Until it knows its
rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable anarchy. It remains nervous, jumpy, dangerous.
Luckily for the circus trainer, decisions about social rank among higher animals are not always based
on brute force. Hediger (1950) says, “When two creatures meet, the one that is able to intimidate its
opponent is recognized as socially superior, so that a social decision does not always depend on a
fight; an encounter in some circumstances may be enough.” Words of a wise animal man. Mr. Hediger
was for many years a zoo director, first of the Basel Zoo and then of the Zurich Zoo. He was a man
well versed in the ways of animals.
It’s a question of brain over brawn. The nature of the circus trainer’s ascendancy is
psychological. Foreign surroundings, the trainer’s erect posture, calm demeanour, steady gaze,
fearless step forward, strange roar (for example, the snapping of a whip or the blowing of a whistle)
—these are so many factors that will fill the animal’s mind with doubt and fear, and make clear to it
where it stands, the very thing it wants to know. Satisfied, Number Two will back down and Number
One can turn to the audience and shout, “Let the show go on! And now, ladies and gentlemen, through
hoops of real fire ...”

CHAPTER 14

It is interesting to note that the lion that is the most amenable to the circus trainer’s tricks is the one
with the lowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It has the most to gain from a close
relationship with the super-alpha trainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A close relationship
will also mean protection from the other members of the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the
public no different from the others in size and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show,
while the trainer leaves the beta and gamma lions, more cantankerous subordinates, sitting on their
colourful barrels on the edge of the ring.
The same is true of other circus animals and is also seen in zoos. Socially inferior animals are
the ones that make the most strenuous, resourceful efforts to get to know their keepers. They prove to
be the ones most faithful to them, most in need of 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 fact commonly known in the trade.

CHAPTER 15

His house is a temple. In the entrance hall hangs a framed picture of Ganesha, he of the elephant
head. He sits facing out—rosy-coloured, pot-bellied, crowned and smiling—three hands holding
various objects, the fourth held palm out in blessing and in greeting. He is the lord overcomer of
obstacles, the god of good luck, the god of wisdom, the patron of learning. Simpatico in the
highest. He brings a smile 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 is a small framed picture of the Virgin
Mary of Guadalupe, flowers tumbling from her open mantle. Next to it is a framed photo of the
black-robed Kaaba, holiest sanctum of Islam, surrounded by a ten-thousandfold swirl of the
faithful. On the television set is a brass statue of Shiva as Nataraja, the cosmic lord of the dance,
who controls the motions of the universe and the flow of time. He dances on the demon of
ignorance, his four arms held out in choreographic gesture, one foot on the demon’s back, the
other lifted in the air. When Nataraja brings this foot down, they say time will stop.
There is a shrine in the kitchen. It is set in a cupboard whose door he has replaced with a
fretwork arch. The arch partly hides the yellow light bulb that in the evenings lights up the shrine.
Two pictures rest behind a small altar: to the side, Ganesha again, and in the centre, in a larger
frame, smiling and blue-skinned, Krishna playing the flute. Both have smears of red and yellow
powder on the glass over their foreheads. In a copper dish on the altar are three silver murtis,
representations. He identifies them for me with a pointed finger: Lakshmi; Shakti, the mother
goddess, in the form of Parvati; and Krishna, this time as a playful baby crawling on all fours. In
between the goddesses is a stone Shiva yoni linga, which looks like half an avocado with a phallic
stump rising from its centre, a Hindu symbol representing the male and female energies of the
universe. To one side of the dish is a small conch shell set on a pedestal; to the other, a small
silver handbell. Grains of rice lie about, as well as a flower just beginning to wilt. Many of these
items are anointed with dabs of yellow and red.
On the shelf below are various articles of devotion: a beaker full of water; a copper spoon; a
lamp with a wick coiled in oil; sticks of incense; and small bowls full of red powder, yellow
powder, grains of rice and lumps of sugar.
There is another Virgin Mary in the dining room.
Upstairs in his of ice there is a brass Ganesha sitting cross-legged next to the computer, a
wooden Christ on the Cross from Brazil on a wall, and a green prayer rug in a corner. The Christ
is expressive—He suf ers. The prayer rug lies in its own clear space. Next to it, on a low
bookstand, is a book covered by a cloth. At the centre of the cloth is a single Arabic word,
intricately woven, four letters: 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, without religion, until some figure introduces us
to God? After that meeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change, it is usually for the
lesser rather than the greater; many people seem to lose God along life’s way. That was not my case.
The figure in question for me was an older sister of Mother’s, of a more traditional mind, who
brought me to a temple when I was a small baby. Auntie Rohini was delighted to meet her newborn
nephew and she thought she would include Mother Goddess in the delight. “It will be his symbolic
first outing,” she said. “It’s a samskara!” Symbolic indeed. We were in Madurai; I was the fresh
veteran of a seven-hour train journey. No matter. Off we went on this Hindu rite of passage, Mother
carrying me, Auntie propelling her. I have no conscious memory of this first go-around in a temple,
but some smell of incense, some play of light and shadow, some flame, some burst of colour,
something of the sultriness and mystery of the place must have stayed with me. A germ of religious
exaltation, no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left to germinate. It has never stopped
growing since that day.
I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric
nuggets, because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of
bells to announce one’s arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating
of drums, because of the patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts
of sunlight, because of the fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the
darkness, because of bhajans being sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless,
because of colourful murals telling colourful stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously
signified, the same word—faith. I became loyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what
they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I feel at home in a Hindu
temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually feel presence, but something larger.
My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner sanctum of a
temple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my sweet
luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. I hunger for
prasad, that sugary offering to God that comes back to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel
the heat of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyes and forehead.
But religion is more than rite and ritual. There is what the rite and ritual stand for. Here too I am
a Hindu. The universe makes 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 decorative
elements of space and time. There is Brahman nirguna, without qualities, 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 bursts the seams. We are left speechless. But there is also Brahman saguna, with
qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva, Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can approach it
with some understanding; we can discern certain attributes—loving, merciful, frightening—and we
feel the gentle pull of relationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to our limited senses,
Brahman expressed not only in gods but in humans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everything
has a trace of the divine in it. The truth of life is that Brahman is no different from atman, the spiritual
force within us, what you might call the soul. The individual soul touches upon 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 for expression, is the same thing. The finite within the
infinite, the infinite within the finite. If you ask me how Brahman and atman relate precisely, I would
say in the same way the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thing is
clear: atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with the Absolute, and it travels in this life on a
pilgrimage where it is born and dies, and is born again and dies again, and again, and again, until it
manages to shed the sheaths that imprison it here below. The paths to liberation are numerous, but the
bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation account of each of us
is credited or debited depending on our actions.
This, in a holy nutshell, is Hinduism, and I have been a Hindu all my life. With its notions in
mind I see my place in the universe.
But we should not cling! A plague upon fundamentalists and literalists! I am reminded of a story
of Lord Krishna when he was a cowherd. Every night he invites the milkmaids to dance with him in
the forest. They come and they dance. The night is dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the
beat of the music gets ever faster—the girls dance and dance and dance with their sweet lord, who
has made himself so abundant as to be in the arms of each and every girl. But the moment the girls
become possessive, the moment each one imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes. So
it is that we should not be jealous with God.
I know a woman here in Toronto who is very dear to my heart. She was my foster mother. I call
her Auntieji and she likes that. She is Québécoise. Though she has lived in Toronto for over thirty
years, her French-speaking mind still slips on occasion 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 to her for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not
so wrong; that Hindus, in their capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in
the way they see God in everything, are bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are
hat-wearing Muslims.

CHAPTER 17

First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to
Hinduism the original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and
forests, holy mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders,
and, in doing so, define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, 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 to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old—and a well-content Hindu on a holiday—when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to
Munnar, just over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea
estates in the world. It was early May and the monsoon hadn’t come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu
were beastly hot. We made it to Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The
coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea
factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some
Nilgiri tahrs—a species of wild goat—in a national park. (“We have some in our zoo. You should
come to Pondicherry,” said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for walks in the tea
estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon Father and
Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don’t bear comparison with the tall hills—mountains,
you might call them—that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having
breakfast, that they did stand out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across
the river from the hotel, had a Hindu temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held
up a mosque; while the hill on the left was crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the
left. Despite attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church—and I wasn’t
about to dare the deed now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and
great violence. But good schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly
unrevealing of what it held inside, with thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow
windows impossible to look in through. A fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the
left of the door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to
each was a small sliding block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in
gold letters, which I could plainly see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the
bay windows, while the other was seated on a bench at a round table in the large vestibule that
evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat facing the door and the windows, a book
in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a little more, looked up again. It
was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some minutes, he closed the book
and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his expression serene,
showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest
was dressed in a white cassock—it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace.
But more than the setting, what arrested me was 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 of the conscience, he would listen with love. He was a man whose profession it
was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability.
I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.
He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but he didn’t. He retreated further into the
rectory, that’s all, leaving the door between the vestibule and the next room as open as the outside
door. I noted this, how both doors were wide open. Clearly, he and his colleague were still
available.
I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I
would meet a Christian who would shout at me, “What are you doing here? How dare you enter this
sacred place, you defiler? Get out, right now!”
There was no one. And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner sanctum.
There was a painting. Was this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had
to be appeased with blood. Dazed women staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying
about. A charismatic bird. Which one was the god? To the side of the sanctum 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 and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing
kneecaps that were fire-engine red. It was hard to connect this torture scene with the priest in the
rectory.
The next day, at around the same time, I let myself IN.
Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that comes down heavily. My experience
with Father Martin was not at all like that. He was very kind. He served me tea and biscuits in a tea
set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; he treated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story. Or
rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story.
And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it’s
God’s Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, “Piscine, a lion slipped into
the llama pen today and killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two
of them ate the camel. The week before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who’s to say for
sure who snacked on our golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be
done. I have decided that the only way the lions can atone 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 more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than
one story in its bag—religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the
stories that came before it—and there were many—were simply prologue to the Christians. Their
religion had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, 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 the account 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 be stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged
through the streets and, to top it off, crucified—and at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I’d never

heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did
mortals, by the thousands and millions—that’s what they were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But
divinity should not be blighted by death. It’s wrong. The world soul cannot die, even in one contained
part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is tantamount to letting a part
of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is God shamming a
human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son must be
real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even
resurrected. The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by
it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why
would God wish that upon Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is
beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin’s answer.
And what about this Son’s deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by
his friends of eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger.
“You shouldn’t eat dirt, you naughty boy,” she scolds him. “But I haven’t,” says the unchallenged lord
of all and everything, in sport disguised as a frightened human child. “Tut! Tut! Open your mouth,”
orders Yashoda. Krishna does as he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in
Krishna’s mouth the whole complete entire timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and
the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the earth and the life in them; she sees all the days
of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas and all emotions, all pity and all hope,
and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or galaxy is missing, including
herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. “My Lord, you can close your mouth,” she says
reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as
much land as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He
consents. Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with
the second the heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew
long-faced over the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no
slouch. No spindly cross would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his
limited human frame with strength no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save
and put down evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is
sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don’t get it
and opponents who don’t respect Him—what kind of 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 to satisfy hungry stomachs; at
best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the
order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred times better. This Son is a god who spent most
of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god—and in a hot
place, at that—with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just above the rocks along the
way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular 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? Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of
West Asia on the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey
hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete
works doodles in the dirt? Wait a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage
fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically
unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son, He must be as abundant as Krishna with the
milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
I’ll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep
your sweaty, chatty Son 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. Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as
spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions.
The answer was always the same.
He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation 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 the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, “May
you never bear fruit again,” and instantly the 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 for figs? 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 three solid days thinking about Him. The
more He bothered me, the less 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 leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It
strikes me now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world
created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that’s creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion
where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable
generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If
Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a
religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the
instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence
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 a Christian, please.”
He smiled. “You already are, Piscine—in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a
Christian. Here in Munnar 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 now my house too. I offered prayers to

Christ, who is alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right—to offer
thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my
way.

CHAPTER 18

Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteen years old and I was exploring my
hometown. The Muslim quarter wasn’t far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhood with Arabic
writing and crescent moons inscribed on the façades 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, of course. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity’s—fewer gods, greater
violence, and I had never heard anyone say good things about Muslim schools—so I wasn’t about to
step in, empty though the place was. The building, clean and white except for various edges painted
green, was an open construction unfolding around an empty central room. Long straw mats covered
the floor everywhere. Above, two slim, fluted minarets rose in the air before a background of soaring
coconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious or, for that matter, interesting about the place,
but it was pleasant and quiet.
I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series of attached single-storey dwellings with small
shaded porches. They were rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. One of the dwellings

was a small shop. I noticed a rack of dusty bottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-
full of candies. But the main ware was something else, something flat, roundish and white. I got close.

It seemed to be some sort of unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. They looked like
three-day-old nans. Who would eat these, I wondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it
would break.
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, your mind is elsewhere—so you don’t make out what is right in front of you.
Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my
hands flew up and the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow
dung.
“I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t see you!” I burst out. I was just about ready to run away.
“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “It will feed a cow. Have another one.”
He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, 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 platform and waved me into his house.
It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by an oven, was the bakery, and the other,
separated by a flimsy curtain, was his bedroom. The bottom of the oven was covered with smooth
pebbles. He was explaining to me how the bread baked on these heated pebbles when the nasal call
of the muezzin wafted through the air from the mosque. I knew it was the call to prayer, but I didn’t
know what it entailed. I imagined it beckoned the Muslim faithful to the mosque, much like bells
summoned us Christians to church. Not so. The baker interrupted himself mid-sentence and said,
“Excuse me.” He ducked into the next room for a minute and returned with a rolled-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 his eyes closed.
He stood straight. He muttered in Arabic. He brought his hands next to his ears, thumbs touching
the lobes, looking as if he were straining to hear Allah replying. He bent forward. He stood straight

again. He fell to his knees and brought his hands and forehead to the floor. He sat up. He fell forward
again. He stood. He started the whole thing again.
Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise, I thought. Hot-weather yoga for the Bedouins.
Asanas without sweat, heaven without strain.

He went through the cycle four times, muttering throughout. When he had finished—with a right-
left turning of the head and a short bout of meditation—he opened his eyes, smiled, stepped off his

carpet and rolled it up with a flick of the hand that spoke of old habit. He returned it to its spot in the
next room. 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 praying in church—on my knees, immobile, silent before Christ on the Cross—the
image of this callisthenic communion with God in the 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 to love it. It is a beautiful religion of
brotherhood and devotion.
The mosque was truly an open construction, to God and to breeze. We sat cross-legged listening
to the imam until the time came to pray. Then the random pattern of sitters disappeared as we stood
and arranged ourselves shoulder to shoulder in rows, every space ahead being filled by someone
from behind until every line was solid and we were row after row of worshippers. 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 with God, and his relationship with God was
personal and loving. “If you take two steps towards God,” he used to tell me, “God runs to you!”
He was a very plain-featured man, with nothing in his looks or in his dress that made memory
cry hark. I’m not surprised I didn’t see him the first time we met. Even when I knew him very well,
encounter after encounter, I had difficulty recognizing him. His name was Satish Kumar. These are
common names in Tamil Nadu, so the coincidence is not so remarkable. Still, it pleased me that this
pious baker, as plain as a shadow and of solid health, and the Communist biology teacher and science
devotee, the walking mountain on stilts, sadly afflicted with polio in his childhood, carried the same
name. Mr. and Mr. Kumar taught me biology and Islam. Mr. and Mr. Kumar led me to study 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 of the ninety-nine revealed names of
God. He was a hafiz, one who knows the Qur’an by heart, and he sang it in a slow, simple chant. My
Arabic was never very good, but I loved its sound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels
rolled just beneath my comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of
time. It was not wide, just one 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 came out of that bakery feeling heavy with glory. I would climb onto my bicycle
and pedal that glory through the air.
One such time I left town and on my way back, at a point where the land was high and I could
see the sea to my left and down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was in heaven. The spot was in
fact no different from when I had passed it not long before, but my way of seeing it had changed. The
feeling, a paradoxical mix of pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas
before the road, the sea, the trees, the air, the sun all spoke differently to me, now they spoke one
language of unity. Tree took account of road, which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea,
which shared things with sun. Every element lived in harmonious relation with its neighbour, and all
was kith and kin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like the centre of a small circle coinciding
with the centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah.
One other time I felt God come so close to me. It was in Canada, much later. I was visiting
friends in the country. It was winter. I was out alone on a walk on their large property and returning to
the house. It was a clear, sunny day after a night of snowfall. All nature was blanketed in white. As I
was coming up to the house, I turned my head. There was a wood and in that wood, a small clearing.
A breeze, or perhaps it was an animal, had shaken a branch. Fine snow was falling through the air,
glittering in the sunlight. In that falling golden dust in that sun-splashed clearing, I saw the Virgin
Mary. Why her, I don’t know. My devotion to Mary was secondary. But it was her. Her skin was
pale. She was wearing a white dress and a blue cloak; I remember being struck by their pleats and
folds. When I say Isaw her, I don’t quite mean it literally, though she did have body and colour. I felt
I saw her, a vision beyond vision. I stopped and squinted. She looked beautiful and supremely regal.
She was smiling at me with loving kindness. After some seconds she left me. My heart beat with fear
and joy.
The presence of God is the finest of rewards.

CHAPTER 21

I am sitting in a downtown café, after, thinking. I have just spent most of an afternoon with him.
Our encounters always leave me weary of the glum contentment that characterizes my life. What
were those words he used that struck me? Ah, yes: “dry, yeastless factuality”, “the better story”. I
take pen and paper out and write:

Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation,
joy; a quickening of the moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an
intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of the universe along moral lines, not
intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is what we 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 presence and 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. Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry,
yeastless factuality, might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, “Possibly a f-f-failing
oxygenation of the b-b-brain,” and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.

CHAPTER 23

Alas, the sense of community that a common faith brings to a people spelled trouble for me. In time,
my religious doings went from the notice of those to whom it didn’t matter and only amused, to that of
those to whom it did matter—and they were not amused.
“What is your son doing going to temple?” asked the priest.
“Your son was seen in church crossing himself,” said the imam.
“Your son has gone Muslim,” said the pandit.
Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of my bemused parents. You see, they didn’t
know. They didn’t know that I was a practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagers always hide
a few things from their parents, isn’t that so? All sixteen-year-olds have secrets, don’t they? But fate
decided that my parents and I and the three wise men, as I shall call them, should meet one day on the
Goubert Salai seaside esplanade and that my secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy, hot
Sunday afternoon and the Bay of Bengal glittered under a blue sky. Townspeople were out for a
stroll. Children screamed and laughed. Coloured balloons floated in the air. Ice cream sales were
brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn’t they have just walked by with a nod
and a smile? It was not to be. We were to meet not just one wise man but all three, and not one after
another but at the same time, and each would decide upon seeing us that right then was the golden
occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, the zoo director, he of the model devout son. When I saw
the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror.
When it was clear that all three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low.
The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all three of them were approaching the
same people. Each must have assumed that the others were there for some business other than pastoral
and had rudely chosen that moment to deal with it. Glances of displeasure were exchanged.
My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blocked by three broadly smiling religious
strangers. I should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himself as part of the
New India—rich, modern and as secular as ice cream. He didn’t have a religious bone in his body.
He was a businessman, pronounced busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound
professional, more concerned with inbreeding among the lions than any overarching moral or
existential scheme. It’s true that he had all new animals blessed by a priest and there were two small
shrines at the zoo, one to Lord Ganesha and one to Hanuman, gods likely to please a zoo director,
what with the first having the head of an elephant and the second being a monkey, but Father’s
calculation was that this was good for business, not good for his soul, a matter of public relations
rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worry was alien to him; it was financial worry that rocked
his being. “One epidemic in the collection,” he used to say, “and we’ll end up in a road crew
breaking up stones.” Mother was mum, bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and a
Baptist education had precisely cancelled each other out as far as religion was concerned and had left
her serenely impious. I suspect she suspected that I had a different take on the matter, but she never
said anything when as a child I devoured the comic books of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and
an illustrated children’s Bible and other stories of the gods. She herself was a big reader. She was
pleased 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 had held a cricket bat rather than a flute, if Christ had appeared more plainly to him
as an umpire, if the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had shown some notions of bowling, he
might have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn’t, and so he slumbered.

After the “Hellos” and the “Good days”, there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it
when he said, with pride in his voice, “Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our
choir soon.”
My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised.
“You must be mistaken. He’s a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer, and
his knowledge of the Holy Qur’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 Hindu boy. I see him all the time at the
temple coming for darshan and performing puja.”
My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.
“There is no mistake,” said the priest. “I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he’s a
Christian.”
“I know him too, and I tell you he’s a Muslim,” asserted the imam.
“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 and disbelieving.
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,” he nearly whispered, “there is salvation
only in Jesus.”
“Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion,” said the pandit.
“They strayed long ago from God’s path,” said the imam.
“Where’s God in your religion?” snapped the priest. “You don’t have a single miracle to show
for it. What kind of religion is that, without miracles?”
“It isn’t a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs all the time, that’s what! We Muslims
stick to the essential miracle of existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing—these are
miracles enough for us.”
“Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know that God is truly with us.”
“Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be with you—you tried to kill him! You
banged him to a cross with great big nails. Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? The prophet
Muhammad—peace be upon him—brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and
died at a ripe old age.”
“The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in the middle of the desert? Those were
drooling epileptic fits brought 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 have choice words for you,” replied the imam,
with narrowed eyes.
“Well, he’s not! Christ is alive, while your old ‘p.b.u.h.’ is dead, dead, dead!”
The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said, “The real question is, why is Piscine
dallying with these foreign religions?”
The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out of their 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 troubles and provoking riots. The proof of
how bad Islam is, is how uncivilized 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,” the priest chimed in.
“While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. They are the
nightmare of all non-white people.”
“And they eat pigs and are cannibals,” added the imam for good measure.
“What it comes down to,” the priest put out with cool rage, “is whether Piscine wantsreal
religion—or myths from a cartoon 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 looked as if they might come to blows.
Father raised his hands. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!” he interjected. “I would like to remind
you there is freedom of practice in this country.”
Three apoplectic faces turned to him.
“Yes! Practice—singular!” the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like
punctuation marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.
They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures.
Their fingers came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and 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 on God. We all agree on that.” The imam and the priest nodded. “But he can’t be
a Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim. It’s impossible. 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, as did Father, whence they felt the
decision must come. Mother looked at me.
A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.
“Hmmm, Piscine?” Mother nudged me. “How do you feel about the question?”
“Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.’ I just want to love God,” I blurted out, and looked
down, red in the face.
My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from
the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes,
the Mahatma walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to
my heart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, “I suppose that’s what we’re all trying to
do—love God.”
I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who hadn’t stepped into a temple with a serious
intent since I had had the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can’t reprimand a boy
for wanting to love God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces.
Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, then thought better, said, “Ice cream, anyone?”
and headed for the closest ice cream wallah before we could answer. Mother gazed at me a little
longer, with an expression that was both tender and perplexed.
That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Father bought three ice cream sandwiches. We
ate them in unusual silence 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?” he said, bringing the palms of his hands
together in front of his face in a reverent namaskar. “Does Mecca beckon?” He crossed himself. “Or
will it be to Rome for your coronation as the next Pope Pius?” He drew in the air a Greek letter,
making clear the spelling of his mockery. “Have you found time yet 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 on Sunday, you only need to convert to three more religions to be
on holiday for the rest of your life.”
And other lampoonery of such kind.

CHAPTER 25

And that wasn’t the end of it. There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if
Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These
people walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in
rags 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 sputter angry words. The
degree of their indignation is astonishing. Their resolve is frightening.
These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside.
They should direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been
let out. The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing
of each heart. Meanwhile, the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their
defence, not God’s, that the 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 could not feel the peace of Christ. A Brahmin sometimes shooed me away from darshan.
My religious doings were reported to my parents 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 Immaculate Conception and went instead to Our Lady of
Angels. I no longer lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I went to temple at crowded
times when the Brahmins were too distracted to come between God and me.

CHAPTER 26

A few days after the meeting on the esplanade, I took my courage 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 papers after 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 received the proper baptism of Christ.”
“Why do you want to pray outside? In fact, why do you want to pray at all?”
“Because I love God.”
“Aha.” He seemed taken aback by my answer, nearly embarrassed by it. There was a pause. I
thought he was going to offer me ice cream again. “Well, Petit Séminaire is Christian only in name.
There are many Hindu boys there who aren’t Christians. You’ll get just as good an education without
being baptized. 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 as theirs. Muslims say the God of the
Hebrews and Christians is the 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 for centuries! 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 the direction of the zoo. At that moment
I’m sure Father felt a blow of chill air against the back of his neck. She turned to the bookshelf. “I
have a book here that you’ll like.” She already had her arm out, reaching for a volume. It was Robert
Louis Stevenson. 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’t possibly 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, a path-of-least-resistance look on her
face, which meant I had to put up a stiff fight in precisely the right spots. She adjusted a cushion.
“Father and I find your religious zeal a bit of a mystery.”
“It is a Mystery.”
“Hmmm. I don’t mean it that way. Listen, my darling, if you’re going to be religious, you must be
either a Hindu, a Christian or a Muslim. You heard what they said on the esplanade.”
“I don’t see why I can’t be all three. Mamaji has two passports. He’s Indian and French. Why
can’t I be a Hindu, a Christian 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. One nation, one passport.”
“One nation in the sky?”
“Yes. Or none. There’s that option too, you know. These are terribly old-fashioned things you’ve
taken to.”
“If there’s only one nation in the sky, shouldn’t all passports be valid for it?”
A cloud of uncertainty came over her face.
“Bapu Gandhi said—”
“Yes, I know what Bapu Gandhi said.” She brought a hand to her forehead. She had a weary
look, Mother did. “Good grief,” 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 unemployed by the looks of it. If you want to
march into his room and pull the prayer rug from under his feet and discuss the question of Christian
baptism with him, please go ahead. I won’t object.”
“No, no.” I could tell from his voice that Father was settling deeper into his chair. There was a
pause.
“He seems to be attracting religions the way a dog attracts fleas,” he pursued. “I don’t
understand it. We’re a modern Indian family; we live in a modern way; India is on the cusp of
becoming a truly modern and advanced nation—and here we’ve produced a son who thinks he’s the
reincarnation of Sri Ramakrishna.”
“If Mrs. Gandhi is what being modern and advanced is about, I’m not sure I like it,” Mother
said.
“Mrs. Gandhi will pass! Progress is unstoppable. It is a drumbeat to which we must all march.
Technology helps and good ideas spread—these are two laws of nature. If you don’t let technology
help you, if you resist good ideas, you condemn yourself to dinosaurhood! I am utterly convinced of
this. Mrs. Gandhi and her foolishness will pass. The New India will come.”
(Indeed she would pass. And the New India, or one family of it, would decide to move to
Canada.)
Father went on: “Did you hear when he said, ‘Bapu Gandhi said, “All religions are true”’?”
“Yes.”
“Bapu Gandhi? The boy is getting to be on affectionate terms with Gandhi? After Daddy Gandhi,
what next? Uncle Jesus? And what’s this nonsense—has he really become a Muslim?”
“It seems so.”
“A Muslim! A devout Hindu, all right, I can understand. A Christian in addition, it’s getting to be
a bit strange, but I can stretch my mind. The Christians have been here for a long time—Saint Thomas,
Saint Francis Xavier, the missionaries and so on. We owe them good schools.”
“Yes.”
“So all that I can sort of accept. ButMuslim? It’s totally foreign to our tradition. They’re
outsiders.”
“They’ve been here a very long time too. They’re a hundred times more numerous than the
Christians.”
“That makes no difference. They’re outsiders.”
“Perhaps Piscine is marching to a different drumbeat of progress.”
“You’re defending the boy? You don’t mind it that he’s fancying himself a Muslim?”
“What can we do, Santosh? He’s taken it to heart, and it’s not doing anyone any harm. Maybe it’s
just a phase. It too may 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 and music.”
“You think that’s better?”
“No, no. Oh, I don’t know what to think. It’s been a long day.” He sighed. “I wonder how far
he’ll go with these interests.”
Mother chuckled. “Last week he finished a book called The Imitation of Christ.”
“The Imitation of Christ! I say again, I wonder how far he’ll go with these interests!” cried
Father.
They laughed.

CHAPTER 28

I loved my prayer rug. Ordinary in quality though it was, it glowed with beauty in my eyes. I’m sorry I
lost it. Wherever I laid it I felt special affection for the patch of ground beneath it and the immediate
surroundings, which to me is a clear indication that it was a good prayer rug because it helped me
remember that the earth is the creation of God and sacred the same all over. The pattern, in gold lines
upon a background of red, was plain: a narrow rectangle with a triangular peak at one extremity to
indicate the qibla, the direction of prayer, and little curlicues floating around it, like wisps of smoke
or accents from a strange language. The pile was soft. When I prayed, the short, unknotted tassels
were inches from the tip of my forehead at one end of the carpet and inches from the tip of my toes at
the other, a cozy size to make you feel at home anywhere upon this vast earth.
I prayed outside because I liked it. Most often I unrolled my prayer rug in a corner of the yard
behind the house. It was a secluded spot in the shade of a coral tree, next to a wall that was covered
with bougainvillea. Along the length of the wall was a row of potted poinsettias. The bougainvillea
had also crept through the tree. The contrast between its purple bracts and the red flowers of the tree
was very pretty. And when that tree was in bloom, it was a regular aviary of crows, mynahs,
babblers, rosy pastors, sunbirds and parakeets. The wall was to my right, at a wide angle. Ahead of
me and to my left, beyond the milky, mottled shade of the tree, lay the sun-drenched open space of the
yard. The appearance of things changed, of course, depending on the weather, the time of 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 I scratched into the pale yellow ground and carefully kept up.
Sometimes, upon finishing my prayers, I would turn and catch sight of Father or Mother or Ravi
observing me, until they got used to the sight.
My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. Mother played along nicely, Father looked on
stonily, and Ravi was mercifully absent because of a cricket match, which did not prevent him from
commenting at great length on the event. The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though
just a beaker’s worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.

CHAPTER 29

Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they’ve known for a great
unknown beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a
beggar? Why enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult?
The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life.
The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered that from the deep furrows that appeared
on Father’s forehead when he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversation that I caught between
him and Mother and Mamaji and others. It’s not that I didn’t understand the drift of what they said—
it’s that I wasn’t interested. The orangutans were as eager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never
asked after the news from Delhi; the rhinos and goats continued to live in peace; the birds twittered;
the clouds carried rain; the sun was hot; the earth breathed; God was—there was no Emergency in my
world.
Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976, the Tamil Nadu government was
brought down by Delhi. It had been one of Mrs. Gandhi’s most vocal critics. The takeover was
smoothly enforced—Chief Minister Karunanidhi’s ministry vanished quietly into “resignation” or
house arrest—and what does the fall of one local government matter when the whole country’s
Constitution has been suspended these last eight months? But it was to Father the crowning touch in
Mrs. Gandhi’s dictatorial takeover of the nation. The camel at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw
broke Father’s back.
He shouted, “Soon she’ll come down to our zoo and tell us that her jails are full, she needs more
space. Could we put Desai 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 have been
fine with me if Father had been gay about it. I wish he hadn’t fretted so much. It’s hard on a son to see
his father sick with worry.
But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and none more so than small b business, the
one that risks the shirt on its back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, like a museum,
it is at the service of popular education and science. And by this token, not much of a money-making
venture, for the Greater Good and the Greater Profit are not compatible aims, much to Father’s
chagrin. The truth was, we were 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 that matter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its inhabitants in the wild, is precarious. It is
neither big enough a business to be above the law nor small enough to survive on its margins. To
prosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democratic elections, freedom of speech, freedom of
the press, freedom of association, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India’s Constitution.
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 they work their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up in one year will be
torn down in one day by others. Because of the impression that the future is blocked up, that they
might do all right but not their children. Because of the feeling that nothing will change, that happiness
and prosperity are possible only 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. Ravi and I were thunderstruck.Canada! If

Andhra Pradesh, just north of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey’s hop across a strait, was the dark
side of the moon, imagine what Canada was. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like
Timbuktu, by definition a place permanently far away.

CHAPTER 30

He’s married. I am bent down, taking my shoes of , when I hear him say, “I would like you to meet
my wife.” I look up and there beside him is ... Mrs. Patel. “Hello,” she says, extending her hand
and smiling. “Piscine has been telling me lots about you.” I can’t say the same of her. I had no
idea. She’s on her way out, so we talk only a few minutes. She’s also Indian but has a more
typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation. She’s a little younger than him, skin
slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and lovely white teeth. She has
in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She’s a pharmacist. When I
say, “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel,” she replies, “Please, make it Meena.” After a quick kiss
between husband and wife, she’s of on a working Saturday.
This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence.
They were there all along, but I hadn’t seen them because I wasn’t looking for them.
He’s a shy man. Life has taught him not to show of what is most precious to him.
Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?
“I’ve made a special chutney for you,” he says. He’s smiling.
No, he is.

CHAPTER 31

They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the
wish to see the zoo. “All these years and I’ve never seen it. It’s so close by, too. Will you show it to
me?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I replied. “It would be an honour.”
We agreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school.
I worried all that day. I scolded myself, “You fool! Why did you say the main gate? At any time
there will be a crowd of people there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You’ll never
recognize him!” If I walked by him without seeing him he would be hurt. He would think I had
changed my mind and didn’t want to be seen with a poor Muslim baker. He would leave without
saying a word. He wouldn’t be angry—he would accept my claims that it was the sun in my eyes—but
he wouldn’t want to come to the zoo any more. I could see it happening that way. I had to recognize
him. I would hide and wait until I was certain it was him, that’s what I would do. But I had noticed
before that it was when I tried my hardest to recognize him that I was least able to pick him out. The
very effort seemed to blind me.
At the appointed hour I stood squarely before the main gate of 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 like that.”
“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 few more 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 a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I
felt a smile welling up in me.
“Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you.”
“Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with your eyes?”
“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 hand away and showed Mr. Kumar into the
zoo.
He marvelled at everything, at how to tall trees came tall giraffes, how carnivores were
supplied with herbivores and herbivores with grass, how some creatures crowded the day and others
the night, how some that needed sharp beaks had sharp beaks and others that needed limber limbs had
limber limbs. It made me happy that he was so impressed.
He quoted from the Holy Qur’an: “In all this there are messages indeed for a people who use
their reason.”
We came to the zebras. Mr. Kumar had never heard of such 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 and sturdy specimen. I took it out of the
bag. At that moment I heard a slight scraping of gravel to my right. It was Mr. Kumar, coming up to
the railing in his usual limping and rolling gait.
“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 to the low fence. It twitched its ears and
stamped the ground softly. I broke the carrot in two and gave one half to Mr. Kumar and one half to
Mr. Kumar. “Thank you, Piscine,” said one; “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 let go. The zebra sank its teeth into the carrot and snapped it in two. It crunched
loudly on the treat for a few seconds, then reached for the remaining piece, lips flowing over Mr.

Kumar’s fingertips. He released the carrot and touched the zebra’s soft nose.
It was Mr. Kumar’s turn. He wasn’t so demanding of the zebra. Once it had his half of the carrot
between its lips, he let go. 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 the same 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 surprising living arrangements. All are instances of
that animal equivalent of anthropomorphism: zoomorphism, where an animal takes a human being, or
another animal, to be one of its kind.
The most famous case is also the most common: the pet dog, which has so assimilated humans
into the realm of doghood as to want to mate with them, a fact that any dog owner who has had to pull
an amorous dog from the leg of a mortified visitor will confirm.
Our golden agouti and spotted paca got along very well, contentedly huddling together and
sleeping against each other until the first was stolen.
I have already mentioned our rhinoceros-and-goat herd, and the case of circus lions.
There are confirmed stories of drowning sailors being pushed up to the surface of the water and
held there by dolphins, a characteristic way in which these marine mammals help each other.
A case is mentioned in the literature of a stoat and a rat living in a companion relationship,
while other rats presented to the stoat were devoured by it in the typical way of stoats.
We had our own case of the freak suspension of the predator-prey relationship. We had a mouse
that lived for several weeks with the vipers. While other mice dropped in the terrarium disappeared
within two days, this little brown Methuselah built itself a nest, stored the grains we gave it in
various hideaways and scampered about in plain sight of the snakes. We were amazed. We put up a
sign to bring the mouse to the public’s attention. It finally met its end in a curious way: a young viper
bit it. Was the viper unaware of the mouse’s special status? Unsocialized to it, perhaps? Whatever the
case, the mouse was bitten by a young viper but devoured—and immediately—by an adult. If there
was a spell, it was broken by the young one. Things returned to normal after that. All mice
disappeared down the vipers’ gullets at the usual rate.
In the trade, dogs are sometimes used as foster mothers for lion cubs. Though the cubs grow to
become larger than their caregiver, and far more dangerous, they never give their mother trouble and
she never loses her placid behaviour or her sense of authority over her litter. Signs have to be put up
to explain to the public that the dog is not live food left for the lions (just as we had to put up a sign
pointing out that rhinoceros are herbivores and do not eat goats).
What could be the explanation for zoomorphism? Can’t a rhinoceros distinguish big from small,
tough hide from soft fur? Isn’t it plain to a dolphin what a dolphin is like? I believe the answer lies in
something I mentioned earlier, that measure of madness that moves life in strange but saving ways.
The golden agouti, like the rhinoceros, was in need of companionship. The circus lions don’t care to
know that their leader is a weakling human; the fiction guarantees their social well-being and staves
off violent anarchy. As for the lion cubs, they would positively keel over with fright if they knew their
mother 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 it swallowed the mouse, must
have felt somewhere in its undeveloped mind a twinge of regret, a feeling that something greater was
just missed, an imaginative leap away from the lonely, crude reality of a reptile.

CHAPTER 33

He shows me family memorabilia. Wedding photos first. A Hindu wedding with Canada
prominently on the edges. A younger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Falls for their
honeymoon. Had a lovely time. Smiles to prove it. We move back in time. Photos from his student
days at U of T: with friends; in front of St. Mike’s; in his room; during Diwali on Gerrard Street;
reading at St. Basil’s Church dressed in a white gown; wearing another kind of white gown in a
lab of the zoology department; on graduation day. A smile every time, but his eyes tell another
story.
Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ.
With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific—and there is next to nothing. He tells me that
the camera did click regularly—on all the usual important occasions—but everything was lost.
What little there is consists of what was assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events.
There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of a V.I.P. In black and white another world
is revealed to me. The photo is crowded with people. A Union cabinet minister is the focus of
attention. There’s a giraf e in the background. Near the edge of the group, I recognize a younger
Mr. Adirubasamy.
“Mamaji?” I ask, pointing.
“Yes,” he says.
There’s a man next to the minister, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair very cleanly combed.
He looks like a plausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his son’s.
“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 my father who took the picture.”
On the same page there’s another group shot, mostly of schoolchildren. He taps the photo.
“That’s Richard Parker,” he says.
I’m amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personality from appearance. Unfortunately, it’s
black and white again and a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days, casually. Richard
Parker is looking away. He doesn’t even realize that his picture is being taken.
The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photo of the swimming pool of the
Aurobindo Ashram. It’s a nice big outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean blue bottom
and an attached diving pool.
The next page features a photo of the front gate of Petit Séminaire school. An arch has the
school’s motto painted on it: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness.
And that’s it. An entire childhood memorialized in four nearly irrelevant photographs.
He grows sombre.
“The worst of it,” he says, “is that I can hardly remember what my mother looks like any
more. I can see her in my mind, but it’s fleeting. As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she
fades. It’s the same with her voice. If I saw her again in the street, it would all come back. But
that’s not likely to happen. It’s very sad not to remember 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 us with a good
sum to make a fresh start in Canada (though now, when I think of it, the sum is laughable—how
blinded we are by money). We could have sold our animals to zoos in India, but American zoos were
willing to pay higher prices. CITES, the Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species,
had just come into effect, and the window on the trading of captured wild animals had slammed shut.
The future of zoos would now lie with other zoos. The Pondicherry Zoo closed shop at just the right
time. There was a scramble to buy our animals. The final buyers were a number of zoos, mainly the
Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and the soon-to-open Minnesota 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 did not want to live in a country of gale-force winds and minus-two-hundred-degree
winters. Canada was not on the cricket map. Departure was made easier—as far as getting us used to
the idea—by the time it took for all the pre-departure preparations. It took well over a year. I don’t
mean for us. I mean for the animals. Considering that animals dispense with clothes, footwear, linen,
furniture, kitchenware, toiletries; that nationality means nothing to them; that they care not a jot for
passports, money, employment prospects, schools, cost of housing, healthcare facilities—considering,
in short, their lightness 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 the wetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-
and-so written hundreds of times. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Haggling gone

through. Decisions sent higher up for approval. Prices agreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines
signed. Congratulations given. Certificates of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export
permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantine regulations clarified. Transportation organized. A
fortune spent on telephone calls. It’s a joke in the zoo business, a weary joke, that the paperwork
involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in trading an
elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a whale, never. There seemed
to be a single file of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolis via Delhi and
Washington, each with his form, his problem, his hesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon
couldn’t possibly have been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair off his head and came
close to giving up on a number of occasions.
There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, and our 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 cataract operation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What
next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?” Some of our other animals were considered “too common”, the lions
and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these for an extra orang-utan from the Mysore
Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (As for Elfie, she lived out the rest of her days at the
Trivandrum Zoo.) One zoo asked for “an authentic Brahmin cow” for their children’s zoo. Father

walked out into the urban jungle of Pondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a nice fat hump
and horns so straight and at such right angles to its head that it looked as if it had licked an electrical
outlet. Father had its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fitted to the tips, for added
authenticity.
A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. I had never seen real live Americans.
They were pink, fat, friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examined our animals.
They put most of them to sleep and then applied stethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as if
horoscopes, drew blood in syringes and analyzed it, fondled humps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded
eyes with flashlights, pinched skins, stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. They must have thought
they were being drafted into the U.S. Army. We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushing
handshakes.
The result was that the animals, like us, got their working papers. They were future Yankees, and
we, future Canucks.

CHAPTER 35

We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on the Panamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Her
officers were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she was large and impressive. On our last day
in Pondicherry I said goodbye to Mamaji, to Mr. and Mr. Kumar, to all my friends and even to many
strangers. Mother was apparelled in her finest sari. Her long tress, artfully folded back and attached
to the back of her head, was adorned with a garland of fresh jasmine flowers. She looked beautiful.
And sad. For she was leaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery
River, of coastlines and stone temples, of bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known
shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of this and that, 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 heart already, she lingered.
The day before our departure she pointed at a cigarette wallah and earnestly asked, “Should we
get a pack or two?”
Father replied, “They have tobacco in Canada. And why do you want to buy cigarettes? We
don’t smoke.”
Yes, they have tobacco in Canada—but do they have Gold Flake cigarettes? Do they have Arun
ice cream? Are the bicycles Heroes? Are the televisions Onidas? Are the cars Ambassadors? Are the
bookshops Higginbothams’? Such, I suspect, were the questions that swirled in Mother’s mind as she
contemplated buying cigarettes.
Animals were sedated, cages were loaded and secured, feed was stored, bunks were assigned,
lines were tossed, and whistles were blown. As the ship was worked out of the dock and piloted out
to sea, I wildly waved goodbye to India. The sun was shining, the breeze was steady, and seagulls
shrieked in the air above us. I was terribly excited.
Things didn’t turn out the way they were supposed to, but what can you do? You must take life
the way it comes at you and 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 stretches of country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I remember wondering where 950
million Indians could be hiding.
I could say the same of his house.
I’m a little early. I’ve just set foot on the cement steps of the front porch when a teenager
bursts out the front door. He’s wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseball equipment, and
he’s in a hurry. When he sees me he stops dead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollers
into the house, “Dad! The writer’s here.” To me he says, “Hi,” and rushes of .
His father comes to the front door. “Hello,” he says.
“That was your son?” I ask, incredulous.
“Yes.” To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips. “I’m sorry you didn’t meet
properly. He’s late for practice. His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick.”
I’m in the entrance hall. “I didn’t know you had a son,” I say. There’s a barking. A small
mongrel mutt, black and brown, races up to me, panting and snif ing. He jumps up against my legs.
“Or a dog,” I add.
“He’s friendly. Tata, down!”
Tata ignores him. I hear “Hello.” Only this greeting is not short and forceful like Nick’s. It’s
a long, nasal and softly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reaching for me like a tap on
the shoulder or a gentle tug at my pants.
I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room, looking up at me bashfully, is a little
brown girl, pretty in pink, very much at home. She’s holding an orange cat in her arms. Two front
legs sticking straight up and a deeply sunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossed
arms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down to the floor. The animal seems quite relaxed
about being stretched on the rack in this manner.
“And this is your daughter,” I say.
“Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin is comfortable like that?”
Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed.
“Hello, Usha,” I say.
She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behind his leg.
“What are you doing, little one?” he says. “Why are you hiding?”
She doesn’t reply, only looks at me with a smile and hides her face.
“How old are you, Usha?” I ask.
She doesn’t reply.
Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel, bends down and picks up his daughter.
“You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You’re four years old. One, two, three, four.”
At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose with his index finger. She finds this
terribly funny. She giggles and buries her face in the crook of his neck.
This story has a happy ending.

PART TWO
The Pacific Ocean

CHAPTER 37

The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart. From the lifeboat I saw something
in the water.
I cried, “Richard Parker, is that you? It’s so hard to see. Oh, that this rain would stop! Richard
Parker? Richard Parker? Yes, it is you!”
I could see his head. He was struggling to stay at the surface of the water.
“Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to see you, Richard Parker! Don’t give up,
please. Come to the lifeboat. Do you hear this whistle? TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEEY!ou
heard right. Swim, swim! You’re a strong swimmer. It’s not a hundred feet.”
He had seen me. He looked panic-stricken. He started swimming my way. The water about him
was shifting wildly. He looked small and helpless.
“Richard Parker, can you believe what has happened to us? Tell me it’s a bad dream. Tell me
it’s not real. Tell me I’m still in my bunk on the Tsimtsum and I’m tossing and turning and soon I’ll
wake up from this nightmare. Tell me I’m still happy. Mother, my tender guardian angel of wisdom,
where are you? And you, Father, my loving worrywart? And you, Ravi, dazzling hero of my
childhood? Vishnu preserve me, Allah protect me, Christ save me, I can’t bear it!TREEEEEE!
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!”
I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I had never experienced such intense pain, such a
ripping of the nerves, such an ache of the heart.
He would not make it. He would drown. He was hardly moving forward and his movements
were weak. His nose and mouth kept dipping underwater. Only his eyes were steadily on me.
“What are you doing, Richard Parker? Don’t you love life? Keep swimming then!TREEEEEE!
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! Kick with your legs. Kick! Kick! Kick!”
He stirred in the water and made to swim.
“And what of my extended family—birds, beasts and reptiles? They too have drowned. Every
single thing I value in life has been destroyed. And I am allowed no explanation? I am to suffer hell
without any account from heaven? In that case, what is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it no
more than to shine at practicalities—the getting of food, clothing and shelter? Why can’t reason give
greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a
vast net if there’s so little fish to catch?”
His head was barely above water. He was looking up, taking in the sky one last time. There was
a lifebuoy in the boat with a rope tied to it. I took hold of it and waved it in the air.
“Do you see this lifebuoy, Richard Parker? Do you see it? Catch hold of it!HUMPF! I’ll try
again. HUMPF!”
He was too far. But the sight of the lifebuoy flying his way gave him hope. He revived and
started beating the water with vigorous, desperate strokes.
“That’s right! One, two. One, two. One, two. Breathe when you can. Watch for the waves.
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!”
My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But there was no time for frozen shock. It was
shock in activity. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwilling to let go, wanted to
fight to the very end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don’t know.
“Isn’t it ironic, Richard Parker? We’re in hell yet still we’re afraid of immortality. Look how

close you are! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEET! REEEEEE! Hurrah, hurrah! You’ve made it, Richard
Parker, you’ve made it. Catch! HUMPF!”
I threw the lifebuoy mightily. It fell in the water right in front of him. With his last energies he
stretched forward and took hold of it.
“Hold on tight, I’ll pull you in. Don’t let go. Pull with your eyes while I pull with my hands. In a
few seconds you’ll be aboard and we’ll be together. Wait a second. Together? We’ll be together?
Have I gone mad?”
I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope.
“Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker! Let go, I said. I don’t want you here, do you
understand? Go somewhere else. Leave me alone. Get lost. Drown! Drown!”
He was kicking vigorously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him
away. I missed and lost hold of the oar.
I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move
the lifeboat away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end closer to
Richard Parker.
I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air.
He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard.
“Oh my God!”
Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving
and coughing three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his
feet on the tarpaulin, eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn.
His head was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth.
I turned around, stepped over the zebra and threw myself overboard.

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 dug up valleys—the
Tsimtsum did not care. It moved with the slow, massive confidence of a continent.
I had bought a map of the world for the trip; I had set it up in our cabin against a cork billboard.

Every morning I got our position from the control bridge and marked it on the map with an orange-
tipped pin. We sailed from Madras across the Bay of Bengal, down through the Strait of Malacca,

around Singapore and up to Manila. I loved every minute of it. It was a thrill to be on a ship. Taking
care of the animals kept us very busy. Every night we fell into bed weary to our bones. We were in
Manila for two days, a question of fresh feed, new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine
maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton
of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part of Father’s wheeling and dealing. A
ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders. A chimpanzee is like a
smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of its larger
cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I would
do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels
of a ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines,
he said. Did something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don’t know. I don’t think anyone will ever
know. The answer is a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The
ship vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared
beneath my feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt
shock. I felt a great emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and
fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can’t be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me
up. The ship was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying
passengers or for their comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because
the level of noise was so uniform that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing
disturbed, not Ravi’s snoring nor my talking in my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a
new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears.
I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the morning. 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 I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked
the word beckon; he would have said, “Adventure beckons,” and would have gone off to prowl
around the ship. The level of noise was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps,
muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, “Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let’s go exploring.”
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek.
Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in

me. I stopped at Father and Mother’s door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my
watch and deciding against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and
catch the dawn. Maybe I would see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I
climbed the stairs. We were two levels below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny
noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized
what the weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It’s true there was rain, but it wasn’t so very
hard. It certainly wasn’t a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I
suppose some of the gusts would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much
difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough, but to a landlubber the sea is always impressive and
forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching up, and their white foam, caught by the
wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I’d seen that on other days and the ship
hadn’t sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It’s designed to stay
afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn’t sink a ship? Why, I only
had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced
the elements. This was adventure.
“Canada, here I come!” I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still,
but there was enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show.
The stage is vast, the lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special
effects is absolutely unlimited. What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an
earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood couldn’t orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the
ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in
his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat
wasn’t hanging straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My
knuckles were white. The thing was, I wasn’t holding on so tightly because of the weather, but
because otherwise I would fall in towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It
wasn’t a severe list, but enough to surprise me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn’t sheer any
more. I could see the ship’s great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I
let go, hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I
got up. With the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down
just one level when I saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below
like a riotous crowd, raging, frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn’t
believe my eyes. What was this water doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot,
frightened and incredulous and ignorant of what I should do next. Down there was where my family
was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn’t entertaining any more. I was very
afraid. Now it was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn’t level the other way
either. There was a noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn’t
look to be eighty feet away. The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as
unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some
men running in the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion

crafted by rain and shadow. We had the hatch covers 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, not farm livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some
men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the
collective scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself
giving up the ghost? I fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The
waves were getting closer. We were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck. A gaur—an Indian wild ox
—exploded out of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it,
dumbstruck and amazed. Who in God’s name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the
ship who spoke English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They
would explain everything. They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge.
There was no one on the starboard side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I
got up. They were looking overboard. I shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other.
They spoke a few words. They came towards me quickly. I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me.
I said, “Thank God I’ve found you. What is happening? I am very scared. There is water at the bottom
of the ship. I am worried about 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 jacket into my arms and shouting something in
Chinese. I noticed an orange whistle dangling from the life jacket. The men were nodding vigorously
at me. When they took hold of me and lifted me in their strong arms, I thought nothing of it. I thought
they were helping me. I was so full of trust in them that I felt grateful as they carried me in the air.
Only when they threw me overboard did I begin to have doubts.

CHAPTER 39

I landed with a trampoline-like bounce on the half-unrolled tarpaulin covering a lifeboat forty feet
below. It was a miracle I didn’t hurt myself. I lost the life jacket, except for the whistle, which stayed
in my hand. The lifeboat had been lowered partway and left to hang. It was leaning out from its
davits, swinging in the storm, some twenty feet above the water. I looked up. Two of the men were
looking down at me, pointing wildly at the lifeboat and shouting. I didn’t understand what they wanted
me to do. I thought they were going to jump in after me. Instead they turned their heads, looked
horrified, and this creature appeared in the air, leaping with the grace of a racehorse. The zebra
missed the tarpaulin. It was a male Grant, weighing over five hundred pounds. It landed with a loud
crash on the last bench, smashing it and shaking the whole lifeboat. The animal called out. I might
have expected the braying of an ass or the neighing of a horse. It was nothing of the sort. It could 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 and quivering, revealing yellow
teeth and dark pink gums. The lifeboat fell through the air and we hit the seething water.

CHAPTER 40

Richard Parker did not jump into the water after me. The oar I intended to use as a club floated. I held
on to it as I reached for the lifebuoy, now vacant of its previous occupant. It was terrifying to be in the
water. It was black and cold and in a 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 pulled me down. I could hardly breathe. If there hadn’t
been the lifebuoy I wouldn’t have lasted a minute.
I saw a triangle slicing the water fifteen feet away. It was a shark’s fin. An awful tingle, cold
and liquid, went up and down my 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 on the lifebuoy with my arms. I couldn’t see Richard
Parker. He wasn’t on the tarpaulin or on a bench. He was at the bottom of 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 right before me.
The bright orange tarpaulin was held down by a strong nylon rope that wove its way between
metal grommets in the tarpaulin and blunt hooks on the side of the boat. I happened to be treading
water at the bow. The tarpaulin was not as securely fixed going over the stem—which had a very
short prow, what in a face would be called a snub nose—as it was elsewhere around the boat. There
was a little looseness in the tarpaulin as the rope went from one hook on one side of the stem to the
next hook on the other side. I lifted the oar in the air and I shoved its handle into this looseness, into
this lifesaving detail. I pushed the oar in as far as it would go. The lifeboat now had a prow
projecting over the waves, if crookedly. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs around the oar. The
oar handle pushed up against the tarpaulin, but tarpaulin, rope and oar held. I was out of the water, if
only by a fluctuating two, three feet. The crest of the larger waves kept striking me.
I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in
front of me, sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me. Had I considered my prospects in the light of
reason, I surely would have given up and let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before being
eaten. But I don’t recall that I had a single thought during those first minutes of relative safety. I didn’t
even notice daybreak. I held on to the oar, I just held on, God only knows why.
After a while I made good use of the lifebuoy. I lifted it out of the water and put the oar through
its hole. I worked it down until the ring was hugging me. Now it was only with my legs that I had to
hold on. If Richard Parker appeared, it would be more awkward to drop from the oar, but one terror
at a time, Pacific before tiger.

CHAPTER 41

The elements allowed me to go on living. The lifeboat did not sink. Richard Parker kept out of sight.
The sharks prowled but did not lunge. The waves splashed me but did not pull me off.
I watched the ship as it disappeared with much burbling and belching. Lights flickered and went
out. I looked about for my family, for survivors, for another lifeboat, for anything that might bring me
hope. There was nothing. Only rain, marauding waves 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 the craning I had been doing. My back hurt from leaning against the lifebuoy.
And I needed to be higher up if I were to see other lifeboats.
I inched my way along the oar till my feet were against the bow of the boat. I had to proceed
with extreme caution. My guess was that Richard Parker was on the floor of the lifeboat beneath the
tarpaulin, his back to me, facing the zebra, which he had no doubt killed by now. Of the five senses,
tigers rely the most on their sight. Their eyesight is very keen, especially in detecting motion. Their
hearing is good. Their smell is average. I mean compared to other animals, of course. Next to Richard
Parker, I was deaf, blind and nose-dead. But at the moment he could not see me, and in my wet
condition could probably not smell me, and what with the whistling of the wind and 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 not
sense me. If he did, he would kill me right away. Could he burst through the tarpaulin, I wondered.
Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. He was a fierce, 450-pound carnivore.
Each of his claws was as sharp as a knife. Reason said No. The tarpaulin was sturdy canvas, not a
Japanese paper wall. I had landed upon it from a height. Richard Parker could shred it with his claws
with a little time and effort, but he couldn’t pop through it like a jack-in-the-box. And he had not seen
me. Since he had not seen me, he had no reason to claw his way through it.
I slid along the oar. I brought both my legs to one side of the oar and placed my feet on the
gunnel. The gunnel is the top edge of a boat, the rim if you want. I moved a little more till my legs
were on the boat. I kept my eyes fixed on the horizon of the tarpaulin. Any second I expected to see
Richard Parker rising up and coming for me. Several times I had fits of fearful trembling. Precisely
where I wanted to be most still—my legs—was where I trembled most. My legs drummed upon the
tarpaulin. A more obvious rapping on Richard Parker’s door couldn’t be imagined. The trembling
spread to my 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 myself up. I looked beyond the end of the
tarpaulin. I was surprised to see that the zebra was still alive. It lay near the stern, where it had fallen,
listless, but its stomach was still panting and its eyes were still moving, expressing terror. It was on
its side, facing me, its head and neck awkwardly propped against the boat’s side bench. It had badly
broken a rear leg. The angle of it was completely unnatural. Bone protruded through skin and there
was bleeding. Only its slim front legs had a semblance of normal position. They were bent and neatly
tucked against its twisted torso. From time to time the zebra shook its head and barked and snorted.
Otherwise it lay quietly.
It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly white and intensely black. I was so
eaten up by anxiety that I couldn’t dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, the queer, clean,
artistic boldness of its design and the fineness of its head struck me. Of greater significance to me was
the strange fact that Richard Parker had not killed it. In the normal course of things he should have

killed the zebra. That’s what predators do: they kill prey. In the present circumstances, where Richard
Parker would be under tremendous mental strain, fear should have brought out an exceptional level of
aggression. The zebra should have been properly butchered.
The reason behind its spared life was revealed shortly. It froze my blood—and then brought a
slight measure of relief. A head appeared beyond the end of the tarpaulin. It looked at me in a direct,
frightened way, ducked under, appeared again, ducked under again, appeared once more, disappeared
a last time. It was the bear-like, balding-looking head of a spotted hyena. Our zoo had a clan of six,
two dominant females and four subordinate males. They were supposed to be going to Minnesota. The
one here was a male. I recognized it by its right ear, which was badly torn, its healed jagged edge
testimony to old violence. Now I understood why Richard Parker had not killed the zebra: he was no
longer aboard. There couldn’t be both a hyena and a tiger in such a small space. He must have fallen
off the tarpaulin and drowned.
I had to explain to myself how a hyena had come to be on the lifeboat. I doubted hyenas were
capable of swimming in open seas. I concluded that it must have been on board all along, hiding
under the tarpaulin, and that I hadn’t noticed it when I landed with a bounce. I realized something
else: the hyena was the reason those sailors had thrown me into the lifeboat. They weren’t trying to
save my life. That was the last of their concerns. They were using me as fodder. They were hoping
that the hyena would attack me and that somehow I would get rid of it and make the boat safe for them,
no matter if it cost me my life. Now I knew what they were pointing at so furiously just before the
zebra appeared.
I never thought that finding myself confined in a small space with 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 I would have stayed on the ship and I surely would
have drowned; and if I had to share quarters with a wild animal, better the upfront ferocity of a dog
than the power and stealth of a cat. I breathed the smallest sigh of relief. As a precautionary measure I
moved onto the oar. I sat astride it, on the rounded edge of the speared lifebuoy, my left foot against
the tip of the prow, my right foot on the gunnel. It was comfortable enough and I was facing the boat.
I looked about. Nothing but sea and sky. The same when we were at the top of a swell. The sea
briefly imitated every land feature—every hill, every valley, every plain. Accelerated geotectonics.
Around the world in eighty swells. But nowhere on it could I find my family. Things floated in the
water but none that brought me hope. I could see no other lifeboats.
The weather was changing rapidly. The sea, so immense, so breathtakingly immense, was
settling into a smooth and steady motion, with the waves at heel; the wind was softening to a tuneful
breeze; fluffy, radiantly white clouds were beginning to light up in a vast fathomless dome of delicate
pale blue. It was the dawn of a beautiful day in the Pacific Ocean. My shirt was already beginning to
dry. The night had vanished as quickly as the ship.
I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was either fixed on practical details of immediate
survival or transfixed by pain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands at my head.

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 fertility goddess, provider of milk and love,
wondrous arm spread of comfort, terror of ticks, picker-up of crying ones, are you to witness this
tragedy too? It’s not right that gentleness meet horror. Better that you had died right away. How
bitterly glad I 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 for long. What do you know about the sea? Nothing. What do I know
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 can have 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, I love you, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Not the spiders, please.”
It was Orange Juice—so called because she tended to drool—our prize Borneo orang-utan
matriarch, zoo star and mother of two fine boys, surrounded by a mass of black spiders that crawled
around her like malevolent worshippers. The bananas on which she floated were held together by the
nylon net with which they had been lowered into the ship. When she stepped off the bananas into the
boat, they bobbed up and rolled over. The net became loose. Without thinking about it, only because it
was at hand’s reach and about to sink, I took hold of the net and pulled it aboard, a casual gesture that
would turn out to be a lifesaver in many ways; this net would become one of my most precious
possessions.
The bananas came apart. The black spiders crawled as fast as they could, but their situation was
hopeless. The island crumbled beneath them. They all drowned. The lifeboat briefly floated in a sea
of fruit.
I had picked up what I thought was a useless net, but did I think of reaping from this banana
manna? No. Not a single one. It was banana split in the wrong sense of the term: the sea dispersed
them. This colossal waste would later weigh on me heavily. I would nearly go into convulsions of
dismay at my stupidity.
Orange Juice was in a fog. Her gestures were slow and tentative and her eyes reflected deep
mental confusion. She was in a state of profound shock. She lay flat on the tarpaulin for several
minutes, quiet and still, before reaching over and falling into the lifeboat proper. I heard a hyena’s
scream.

CHAPTER 43

The last trace I saw of the ship was a patch of oil glimmering 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. Right now in Tokyo, in Panama City, in Madras, in Honolulu, why, even
in Winnipeg, red lights were blinking on consoles, alarm bells were ringing, eyes were opening wide
in horror, mouths were gasping, “My God! The Tsimtsum has sunk!” and hands were reaching for
phones. More red lights were starting to blink and more alarm bells were starting to ring. Pilots were
running to their planes with their shoelaces still untied, such was their hurry. Ship officers were
spinning their wheels till they were feeling dizzy. Even submarines were swerving underwater to join
in the rescue effort. We would be rescued soon. A ship would appear on the horizon. A gun would be
found to kill the hyena and put the zebra out of its misery. Perhaps Orange Juice could be saved. I
would climb aboard and be greeted by my family. They would have been picked up in another
lifeboat. I only had to ensure my survival for the next few hours until this rescue ship came.
I reached from my perch for the net. I rolled it up and tossed it midway on the tarpaulin to act as
a barrier, however small. Orange Juice had seemed practically cataleptic. My guess was she was
dying of shock. It was the hyena that worried me. I could hear it whining. I clung to the hope that a
zebra, a familiar prey, and an orang-utan, an unfamiliar one, would distract it from thoughts of me.
I kept one eye on the horizon, one eye on the other end of the lifeboat. Other than the hyena’s
whining, I heard very little from the animals, no more than claws scuffing against a hard surface and
occasional groans and arrested cries. No major fight seemed to be taking place.
Mid-morning the hyena appeared again. In the preceding minutes its whining had been rising in
volume to a scream. It jumped over the zebra onto the stern, where the lifeboat’s side benches came
together to form a triangular bench. It was a fairly exposed position, the distance between bench and
gunnel being about twelve inches. The animal nervously peered beyond the boat. Beholding a vast
expanse of shifting water seemed to be the last thing it wanted to see, for it instantly brought its head
down and dropped to the bottom of the boat behind the zebra. That was a cramped space; between the
broad back of the zebra and the sides of the buoyancy tanks that went all round the boat beneath the
benches, there wasn’t much room left for a hyena. It thrashed about for a moment before climbing to
the stern again and jumping back over the zebra to the middle of the boat, disappearing beneath the
tarpaulin. This burst of activity lasted less than ten seconds. The hyena came to within fifteen feet of
me. My only reaction was to freeze with fear. The zebra, by comparison, swiftly reared its head and
barked.
I was hoping the hyena would stay under the tarpaulin. I was disappointed. Nearly immediately
it leapt over the zebra and onto the stern bench again. There it turned on itself a few times,
whimpering and hesitating. I wondered what it was going to do next. The answer came quickly: it
brought its head low and ran around the zebra in a circle, transforming the stern bench, the side
benches and the cross bench just beyond the tarpaulin into a twenty-five-foot indoor track. It did one
lap—two—three—four—five—and onwards, non-stop, till I lost count. And the whole time, lap after
lap, it went yip yip yip yip yip in a high-pitched way. My reaction, once again, was very slow. I was
seized by fear and could only watch. The beast was going at a good clip, and it was no small animal;
it was an adult male that looked to be about 140 pounds. The beating of its legs against the benches
made the whole boat shake, and its claws were loudly clicking on their surface. Each time it came
from the stern I tensed. It was hair-raising enough to see the thing racing my way; worse still was the

fear that it would keep going straight. Clearly, Orange Juice, wherever she was, would not be an
obstacle. And the rolled-up tarpaulin and the bulge of the net were even more pitiful defences. With
the slightest of efforts the hyena could be at the bow right at my feet. It didn’t seem intent on that
course of action; every time it came to the cross bench, it took it, and I saw the upper half of its body
moving rapidly along the edge of the tarpaulin. But in this state, the hyena’s behaviour was highly
unpredictable and it could decide to attack me without warning.
After a number of laps it stopped short at the stern bench and crouched, directing its gaze
downwards, to the space below the tarpaulin. It lifted its eyes and rested them upon me. The look 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 and black—were it not for the
strain that exuded from every cell of its body, an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever.
I prepared for my end. For nothing. It started running in circles again.
When an animal decides to do something, it can do it for a very long time. All morning the hyena
ran in circles going yip yip yip yip yip. Once in a while it briefly stopped at the stern bench, but
otherwise every lap was identical to the previous one, with no variations in movement, in speed, in
the pitch or the volume of the yipping, in the counter-clockwise direction of travel. Its yipping was
shrill and annoying in the extreme. It became so tedious and draining to watch that I eventually turned
my head to the side, trying to keep guard with the corner of my eyes. Even the zebra, which at first
snorted each time the hyena raced by its head, fell into a stupor.
Yet every time the hyena paused at the stern bench, my heart jumped. And as much as I wanted to
direct my attention to the horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying back to this maniacal
beast.
I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but it is a plain fact that the spotted hyena is
not well served by its appearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that
slope to the hindquarters look as if they’ve come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its
shaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation. The colour is
a bungled mix of tan, black, yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classy ostentation of a
leopard’s rosettes; they look rather like the symptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. The
head is broad and too massive, with a high forehead, like that of a bear, but suffering from a receding
hairline, and with ears that look ridiculously mouse-like, large and round, when they haven’t been
torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open and panting. The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly
and unwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put together look doglike, but like no dog anyone
would want as a pet.
But I had not forgotten Father’s words. These were not cowardly carrion-eaters. IfNational
Geographic portrayed them as such, it was because National Geographic filmed during the day. It is
when the moon rises that the hyena’s day starts, and it proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas
attack in packs whatever animal can be run down, its flanks opened while still in full motion. They go
for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes, and not only the old or the infirm in a herd—full-grown
members too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from buttings and kickings immediately, never
giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that can be distracted from its mother
is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, but hyenas also eat young lions and young
rhinoceros. They are diligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat, all that will be
left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet be dragged away and gnawed down at leisure by young ones
in the lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which blood has been spilt will be eaten. Hyenas’
stomachs swell visibly as they swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, they become so full they

have difficulty moving. Once they’ve digested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which they
pick clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidental cannibalism is a common occurrence during
the excitement of a feeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take in the ear or nostril of a
clan member, no hard feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are too
many to admit to disgust at anything.
In fact, a hyena’s catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate it nearly forces admiration. A hyena
will drink from water even as it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use for its urine: in
hot, dry weather it will cool itself by relieving its bladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing
mud bath with its paws. Hyenas snack on the excrement of herbivores with clucks of pleasure. It’s an
open question as to what hyenas won’t eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of those whose ears and
noses they gobbled down as appetizers) once they’re dead, after a period of aversion that lasts about
one day. They will even attack motor vehicles—the headlights, the exhaust pipe, the side mirrors. It is
not their gastric juices that limit hyenas, but the power of their jaws, which is formidable.
That was the animal I had racing around in circles before me. An animal to pain the eye and chill
the heart.
Things ended in typical hyena fashion. It stopped at the stern and started producing deep groans
interrupted by fits of heavy panting. I pushed myself away on the oar till only the tips of my feet were
holding on to the boat. The animal hacked and coughed. Abruptly it vomited. A gush landed behind
the zebra. The hyena dropped into what it had just produced. It stayed there, shaking and whining and
turning around on itself, exploring the furthest confines of animal anguish. It did not move from the
restricted space for the rest of the day. At times the zebra made noises about the predator just behind
it, but mostly it lay in hopeless and sullen silence.

CHAPTER 44

The sun climbed through the sky, reached its zenith, began to come down. I spent the entire day
perched on the oar, moving only as much as was necessary to stay balanced. My whole being tended
towards the spot on the horizon that would appear and save me. It was a state of tense, breathless
boredom. Those first hours are associated in my memory with one sound, not one you’d guess, not the
yipping of the hyena or the hissing of the sea: it was the buzzing of flies. There were flies aboard the
lifeboat. They emerged and flew about in the way of flies, in great, lazy orbits except when they came
close to each other, when they spiralled together with dizzying speed and a burst of buzzing. Some
were brave enough to venture out to where I was. They looped around me, sounding like sputtering,
single-prop airplanes, before hurrying home. Whether they were native to the boat or had come with
one of the animals, the hyena most likely, I can’t say. But whatever their origin, they didn’t last long;
they all disappeared within two days. The hyena, from behind the zebra, snapped at them and ate a
number. Others were probably swept out to sea by the wind. Perhaps a few lucky ones came to their
life’s term and died of old age.
As evening approached, my anxiety grew. Everything about the end of the day scared me. At
night a ship would have difficulty seeing me. At night the hyena might become active again and maybe
Orange Juice too.
Darkness came. There was no moon. Clouds hid the stars. The contours of things became hard to
distinguish. Everything disappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. The sea was quiet and there
was hardly any wind, so I couldn’t even ground myself in sound. I seemed to be floating in pure,
abstract blackness. I kept my eyes fixed on where I thought the horizon was, while my ears were on
guard for any sign of the animals. I couldn’t imagine lasting the night.
Sometime during the night the hyena began snarling and the zebra barking and squealing, and I
heard a repeated knocking sound. I shook with fright and—I will hide nothing here—relieved myself
in my pants. But these sounds came from the other end of the lifeboat. I couldn’t feel any shaking that
indicated movement. The hellish beast was apparently staying away from me. From nearer in the
blackness I began hearing loud expirations and groans and grunts and various wet mouth sounds. The
idea of Orange Juice stirring was too much for my nerves to bear, so I did not consider it. I simply
ignored the thought. There were also noises coming from beneath me, from the water, sudden flapping
sounds and swishing sounds that were over and done with in an instant. The battle for life was 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’t concern me. Daybreak came. It happened
quickly, yet by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with
light. The calm sea opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon,
but I didn’t need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope.
As things emerged in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my
heart. Oh, what it was to bask in it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived
the night. Today I would be rescued. To think that, to string those words together in my mind, was
itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it
eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I imagined Ravi would greet me first and
with a tease. “What’s this?” he would say. “You find yourself a great big lifeboat and you fill it with
animals? You think you’re Noah or something?” Father would be unshaven and dishevelled. Mother
would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it was going
to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon might
curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening
in the lifeboat. The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a
piece of hide. My eyes automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with
horror.
The zebra’s broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern,
behind the zebra. A flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim
bore its suffering patiently, without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth
was the only visible sign of distress. Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense
hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was
short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn’t have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your
own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It
was sad that it was suffering so much—and being such a big, strapping creature it wasn’t at the end of
its ordeal—but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and then I moved on. This is not
something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not forgotten that poor
zebra and what it went 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 to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its
weight, it floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had
plenty of freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to
swamp us. But it also meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away,
bringing us broadside to the waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating
against the hull, while larger waves made for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to
side. This jerky and incessant motion was making me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the 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 on making my nausea go away that I saw

Orange Juice. I had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far
from the hyena as she could get. Not so. She was on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the
hyena’s indoor track and barely hidden from me by the bulge of rolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her
head only an inch or so and right away I saw her.
Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despite the rolling of the boat I brought
myself to a kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juice came into
sight. She was deeply slouched and holding on to the gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very
low between her arms. Her mouth was open and her tongue was lolling about. She was visibly
panting. Despite the tragedy afflicting me, despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about
Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word:seasickness. The image of a new species popped into
my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned to my sitting position. The poor dear looked
so humanly sick! It is a particularly funny thing to read human traits in animals, especially in apes and
monkeys, where it is so easy. Simians are the clearest mirrors we have in the animal world. That is
why they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I brought my hands to my chest, surprised at how I
felt. Oh my. This laughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. And Orange Juice had not
only cheered me up; she had also taken on 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 about Orange Juice that was
remarkable: she was uninjured. And she had her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she could
safely ignore it. The ecosystem on this lifeboat was decidedly baffling. Since there are no natural
conditions in which a spotted hyena and an orang-utan can meet, there being none of the first in
Borneo and none of the second in Africa, there is no way of knowing how they would relate. But it
seemed to me highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that when brought together these
frugivorous tree-dwellers and carnivorous savannah-dwellers would so radically carve out their
niches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely an orang-utan would smell of prey to a hyena, albeit
a strange one, one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendous hairballs, nonetheless
better-tasting than an exhaust pipe and well worth looking out for when near trees. And surely a hyena
would smell of a predator to an orang-utan, a reason for being vigilant when a piece of durian has
been dropped to the ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If
goats could be brought to live amicably with rhinoceros, why not orangutans with hyenas? That would
be a big winner at a zoo. A sign would have to be put up. I could see it already: “Dear Public, Do not
be afraid for the orang-utans! They are in the trees because that is where they live, not because they
are afraid of the spotted hyenas. Come back at mealtime, or at sunset when they get thirsty, and you
will see them climbing down from their trees and moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by
the hyenas.” Father would be fascinated.
Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of what would become a dear, reliable friend
of mine. There was a bumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. A few seconds
later, so close to the boat I could have leaned down and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a
hawksbill, flippers lazily turning, head sticking out of the water. It was striking-looking in an ugly sort
of way, with a rugged, yellowish brown shell about three feet long and spotted with patches of algae,
and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, two solid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that
stared at me intently. The expression was haughty and severe, like that of an ill-tempered old man
who has complaining on his mind. The queerest thing about the reptile was simply that it was. It
looked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in its shape compared to the sleek, slippery
design of fish. Yet it was plainly 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 and sank out of sight, back flippers
pushing water in alternate strokes.

CHAPTER 46

Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the
job of unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have
so many bad nights to choose from that I’ve made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea
stands in my memory as one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night
in being a more conventional sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and
sadness and spiritual pain, and different from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate
fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was preceded by a dreadful evening.
I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains
on the day. It was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas
of supernatural proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were
makos—swift, pointy-snouted predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from
their mouths. They were about six or seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously.
The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by
several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us and glided underfoot with fearsome grace.
It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The other sharks paid a longer visit,
coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand’s reach below the surface of the
water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful, differently shaped. I
might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere: Orange Juice’s
head came into sight.
She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you
or I would bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of
expansive relaxation. But such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad
and mournful, she began to look about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the
likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping
males five and eight years old that were her—and our—pride. It was unmistakably these she had on
her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally mimicking what I had been doing these last
thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I was just another animal that had lost
everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted.
Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn’t moved from its cramped
quarters all day. It put its front legs on the zebra’s side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its
jaws. It pulled roughly. A strip of hide came off the zebra’s belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a
gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance.
Immediately blood poured forth like a river. Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to
defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the
beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no more than explain the origin of the
previous night’s knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the boat. The zebra’s attempts at
self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It made a gaping wound
in the zebra’s side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the zebra, the
hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera. There was
no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches
before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag.
But it was heavy, and with the zebra’s haunches being higher than its belly—and blood being slippery

—the hyena started to slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra’s guts, up to
the knees of its front legs. It pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this
position, half in, half out. The zebra was being eaten alive from the inside.
It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it
reared its head straight up, as if appealing to heaven—the abomination of the moment was perfectly
expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her
bench. With her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on
crooked wheels. But with her giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was
greater than her height—one hand hung over the water, the other reached across the width of the
lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her lips, showing off enormous canines, and
began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an animal normally as silent as a
giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and retreated. But not for long.
After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up and its tail rose
straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth, it
responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with
the effort. I could see deep down the hyena’s throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had
been carrying the whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing
had the circumstances been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an
all-out battle, with the ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs.
The hyena’s roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice’s bass roar filled
the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears
were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its
blood overboard. Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The
water began to churn around us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the
food so close at hand. Their tail fins flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit
repeatedly. I was not afraid we would capsize—I thought the sharks would actually punch through 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 of roaring in each other’s faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn
physical. Instead it broke off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking
noises, turned away, and the hyena lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra’s butchered body.
The sharks, finding nothing, stopped knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, 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, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was
ending. When the sun slipped below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra,
but my family as well. With that second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead;
I could no longer deny it. What a thing to acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose
someone with whom you can share the experience of growing old, who is supposed to bring you a
sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree of your life and give it new
branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you

like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above
you. It is like losing—I’m sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the
whole night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the
night eating.

CHAPTER 47

The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds
that looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up
and down in a regular motion.
The zebra was still alive. I couldn’t believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula
like a freshly erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull,
dry shine, yet, in its strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was
confined to a tremor in the rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no
idea a living being could sustain so much injury and go on living.
The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it
was a result of taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a
dangerous mood too. She was fidgeting and showing her teeth.
I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I
would fall into the water if I tried to balance on the oar.
The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the
hyena’s occasional assaults.
Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was
yipping. Orange Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their
complaining fused and shot up to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and
made for Orange Juice.
I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I
gave up on Orange Juice’s life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I
underestimated her grit.
She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love
and admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian
owners? Her story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is
bought when it is small and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in
appetite. It reveals itself incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to
handle. One day the maid pulls the sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son
jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its hands—over some such seemingly small matter, the pet
flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened. The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at
the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered.
Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A clearing is come to. It is briefly
explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and the pet sees all the
ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It has been
left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are. It
waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets.
Quickly it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few
days. Or is attacked by dogs.
Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry
Zoo. She remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child
of her never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my
hair. She was a young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I

observed her at a distance. I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought
I knew not only her habits but also her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me
realize that I was wrong. All my life I had known only a part of her.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast’s head hit the bench it
had just reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought
surely either the bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair
on its body as erect as the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn’t quite so kinetic now. It withdrew.
I exulted. Orange Juice’s stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn’t last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical
truth. Let it become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large
on the scales as she did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though
she was from living in the comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds.
Female orang-utans are half the size of males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute
strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless. What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge.
What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it learn where to bite, how hard, for how
long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile arms and long canines, but if it
does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena, with only its jaws, will
overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she
could strike. Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the
beast snarl viciously. She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice’s defence
lacked precision and coherence. Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena
let go of her wrist and expertly got to her throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and
pulled at its hair while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us:
her eyes expressed fear in such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt
to climb onto the tarpaulin. The hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the
lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see
through the tears in my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending
death. I was far too numb to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was
time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in
the middle; it made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the
rolled-up tarpaulin. And these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was
in, it felt like a great trek. When I laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an
invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench
and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since the capital moment of my life was coming up
this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I raised my hands to the level of my
chest—the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth was red. Orange Juice lay
next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short legs were folded
together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her
head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final

struggle, I looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker’s head. It was gigantic. It looked the
size of the planet Jupiter to my 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 had slept and was awaking after dreaming
of a tiger.

CHAPTER 48

Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. A panther was terrorizing the Khulna
district of Bangladesh, just outside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was
found of her was a tiny hand with a henna pattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was the
seventh person killed in two months by the marauder. And it was growing bolder. The previous
victim was a man who had been attacked in broad daylight in his field. The beast dragged him 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 was found hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept a watch nearby that night, hoping to
surprise the panther and kill it, but it never appeared. The Forest Department hired a professional
hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in a tree near a river where two of the attacks had taken
place. A goat was tied to a stake on the river’s bank. The hunter waited several nights. He assumed
the panther would be an old, wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anything more
difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger that stepped into the open one night. A female with a
single cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be about three months old, paid little
attention to the goat. It raced to the water’s edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followed suit. Of
hunger and thirst, thirst is the greater imperative. Only once the tiger had quenched her thirst did she
turn to the goat to satisfy her hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the
other with immobilizing darts. This animal was not the man-eater, but so close to human habitation
she might pose a threat to the villagers, especially as she was with cub. He picked up the gun with the
darts. He fired as the tiger was about to fell the goat. The tiger reared up and snarled and raced away.
But immobilizing darts don’t bring on sleep gently, like a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle
of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity on the animal’s part makes it act all the faster. The
hunter called his assistants on the radio. They found the tiger about two hundred yards from the river.
She was still conscious. Her back legs had given way and her balance on her front legs was woozy.
When the men got close, she tried to get away but could not manage it. She turned on them, lifting a
paw that was meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. She collapsed and the Pondicherry Zoo
had two new tigers. The cub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. The hunter, whose
name was Richard Parker, picked it up with his bare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to
drink in the river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at the Howrah train station was evidently
a man both befuddled and diligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its
name was Richard Parker, that the hunter’s first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None
Given. Father had had a good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker’s name had stuck.
I don’t know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eating panther.

CHAPTER 49

In the morning I could not move. I was pinned by weakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was
exhausting. I applied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as a caravan of camels crossing
a desert, some thoughts came together.
The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, the clouds low, the breeze light. That
was one thought. The boat was rocking gently, that was another.
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute
of sleep in three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a
thing should need consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various
mental items and points of view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced
memory or a fancy or any other such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened,
highly agitated state. The truth of it would be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.

How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-
six feet long was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat

surely made Richard Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of
navigation. From tip of nose to tip of tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much
better. We see that in sports all the time, don’t we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses
confidence in his playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger
has nothing left to lose, he becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he’s playing like the
devil and the champion must work hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a
hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn’t
even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my life was over. That being settled, why not do
something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now
that the word had popped into my head I couldn’t think of anything else, as if the word itself were
salty and the more I thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a
compelling sensation the thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die
and the discomfort of asphyxiation goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on
the Cross died of suffocation, but His only complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even
God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go
raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the
mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this sensation that my blood was turning to a
thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh
water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I
was on a genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That
seemed like a perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to
ensure the safety of his crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money
under the noble guise of saving lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was
find it.

Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was
climbing the side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange
lava. I lay flat. I carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not
see Richard Parker. The hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the
zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn’t ten feet away, yet my heart didn’t skip a beat. Richard
Parker’s presence had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a
tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the
animal. “You ugly, foul creature,” I muttered. The only reason I didn’t stand up and beat it off the
lifeboat with a stick was lack of strength and stick, not lack of heart.
Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say to itself, “Super alpha is watching me
—I better not move”? I don’t know. At any rate, it didn’t move. In fact, in the way it ducked its head it
seemed to want to hide from me. But it was no use hiding. It would get its just desserts soon enough.
Richard Parker also explained the animals’ strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena
had confined itself to such an absurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waited so long
before killing it. It was fear of the greater beast and fear of touching the greater beast’s food. The
strained, temporary peace between Orange Juice and the hyena, and my reprieve, were no doubt due
to the same reason: in the face of such a superior predator, all of us were prey, and normal ways of
preying were affected. It seemed the presence of a tiger had saved me from a hyena—surely a
textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, to such an extent that the hyena had taken
liberties. Richard Parker’s passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways
could I account for it: sedation and seasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animals to
lessen their stress. Might he have sedated Richard Parker shortly before the ship sank? Had the shock
of the shipwreck—the noises, the falling into the sea, the terrible struggle to swim to the lifeboat—
increased the effect of the sedative? Had seasickness taken over after that? These were the only
plausible explanations 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 and twenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it
was printed on one of the side benches in black letters. It also said that the lifeboat was designed to
accommodate a maximum of thirty-two people. Wouldn’t that have been merry, sharing it with so
many? Instead we were three and it was awfully crowded. The boat was symmetrically shaped, with
rounded ends that were hard to tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixed rudder, no more
than a rearward extension of the keel, while the bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with the
saddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The aluminum hull was studded with rivets and
painted white.
That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not as spacious as might be expected because
of the side benches and the buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length of the boat,
merging at the bow and stern to form end benches that were roughly triangular in shape. The benches
were the top surfaces of the sealed buoyancy tanks. The side benches were one and a half feet wide
and the end benches were three feet deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twenty feet long and
five feet wide. That made a territory of one hundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this
space widthwise were three cross benches, including the one smashed by the zebra. These benches
were two feet wide and were evenly spaced. They were two feet above the floor of the boat—the
play Richard Parker had before he would knock his head against the ceiling, so to speak, if he were
beneath a bench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches of space, the distance between the
gunnel, which supported the tarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enough for him to
stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks of treated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the
buoyancy tanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat had rounded ends and rounded sides,
but the interior volume was rectangular.
It seems orange—such a nice Hindu colour—is the colour of survival because the whole inside
of the boat and the tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other
significant object aboard was orange. Even the plastic, beadless whistles were orange.
The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on each side of the bow in stark, black, roman
capitals.
The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough on the skin after a while. It had been
unrolled to just past the middle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneath the tarpaulin, in
Richard Parker’s den; the middle cross bench was just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open;
and the third cross bench lay broken beneath the dead zebra.
There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel for holding an oar in place, and five
oars, since I had lost one trying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on one side bench,
one rested on the other and one made up my life-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars
as a means of propulsion. This lifeboat was no racing shell. It was a heavy, solid construction
designed for stolid floating, not for navigating, though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two to row
we could have made some headway.
I did not grasp all these details—and many more—right away. They came to my notice with time
and as a result of necessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleak future, when some
small thing, some detail, would transform itself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would no
longer be the small thing it was before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would
save my life. This happened time and again. How true it is that necessity is the mother of invention,

how very true.

CHAPTER 51

But that first time I had a good look at the lifeboat I did not see the detail I wanted. The surface of the
stern and side benches was continuous and unbroken, as were the sides of the buoyancy tanks. The
floor lay flat against the hull; there could be no cache beneath it. It was certain: there was no locker
or box or any other sort of container anywhere. Only smooth, uninterrupted orange surfaces.
My estimation of captains and ship chandlers wavered. My hopes for survival flickered. My
thirst remained.
And what if the supplies were at the bow, beneath the tarpaulin? I turned and crawled back. I felt
like a dried-out lizard. I pushed down on the tarpaulin. It was tautly stretched. If I unrolled it, I would
give myself access to what supplies might be stored below. But that meant creating an opening onto
Richard Parker’s den.
There was no question. Thirst pushed me on. I eased the oar from under the tarpaulin. I placed
the lifebuoy around my waist. I laid the oar across the bow. I leaned over the gunnel and with my
thumbs pushed from under one of the hooks the rope that held down the tarpaulin. I had a difficult time
of it. But after the first hook, it was easier with the second and the third. I did the same on the other
side of the stem. The tarpaulin became slack beneath my elbows. I was lying flat on it, my legs
pointed towards the stern.
I unrolled it a little. Immediately I was rewarded. The bow was like the stern; it had an end
bench. And upon it, just a few inches from the stem, a hasp glittered like a diamond. There was the
outline of a lid. My heart began to pound. I unrolled the tarpaulin further. I peeked under. The lid was
shaped like a rounded-out triangle, three feet wide and two feet deep. At that moment I perceived an
orange mass. I jerked my head back. But the orange wasn’t moving and didn’t look right. I looked
again. It wasn’t a tiger. It was a life jacket. There were a number of life jackets at the back of Richard
Parker’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 was his haunches I could see,
and part of his back. Tawny and striped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flat on
his stomach. He was still except for the breathing motion of his sides. I blinked in disbelief at how
close he was. He was right there, two feet beneath me. Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom.
And between us there was nothing but a thin tarpaulin, easily got round.
“God preserve me!” No supplication was ever more passionate yet more gently carried by the
breath. I lay absolutely motionless.
I had to have water. I brought my hand down and quietly undid the hasp. I pulled on the lid. It
opened onto a locker.
I have just mentioned the notion of details that become lifesavers. Here was one: the lid was
hinged an inch or so from the edge of the bow bench—which meant that as the lid opened, it became a
barrier that closed off the twelve inches of open space between tarpaulin and bench through which
Richard Parker could get to me after pushing aside the life jackets. I opened the lid till it fell against
the crosswise oar and the edge of the tarpaulin. I moved onto the stem, facing the boat, one foot on the
edge of the open locker, the other against the lid. If Richard Parker decided to attack me from below,
he would have to push on the lid. Such a push would both warn me and help me fall backwards into
the water with the lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop the tarpaulin from astern, I was in
the best position to see him early 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 for joy. The open locker glistened with
shiny new things. Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing!
That moment of material revelation brought an intensity of pleasure—a heady mix of hope, surprise,
disbelief, thrill, gratitude, all crushed into one—unequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday,
wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving occasion. 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 is unmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life was served in pale golden cans that
fit nicely in the hand. Drinking Water said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the
vintners. 500 ml were the contents. There were stacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance.
With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. It was cool to the touch and heavy. I
shook it. The bubble of air inside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to be delivered 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 the locker. There was a great quantity of
things. I rummaged about. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run its fruitful course. I had
to drink now—or I would die. I could not find the desired instrument. But there was no time for
useless distress. Action was needed. Could I prise it open with my fingernails? I tried. I couldn’t. My
teeth? It wasn’t worth trying. I looked over the gunnel. The tarpaulin hooks. Short, blunt, solid. I
kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holding the can with both my hands, I sharply brought it up
against a hook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint of dinting, I managed
the trick. A pearl of water appeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged the opposite side of
the top against the hook to make another hole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat back
on the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened my mouth. I tilted the can.
My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be 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 last drop, sucking at the hole to catch any remaining
moisture. I went, “Ahhhhhh!”, tossed the can overboard and got another one. I opened it the way I had
the first and its contents vanished just as quickly. That can sailed overboard too, and I opened the next
one. Which, shortly, also ended up in the ocean. Another can was dispatched. I drank four cans, two
litres of that most exquisite of nectars, before I stopped. You might think such a rapid intake of water
after prolonged thirst might upset my system. Nonsense! I never felt better in my life. Why, feel my
brow! My forehead was wet with fresh, clean, refreshing perspiration. Everything in me, right down
to the pores of my skin, was expressing joy.
A sense of well-being quickly overcame me. My mouth became moist and soft. I forgot about the
back of my throat. My skin relaxed. My joints moved with greater ease. My heart began to beat like a
merry drum and blood started flowing through my veins like cars from a wedding party honking their
way through town. Strength and suppleness came back to my muscles. My head became clearer.
Truly, I was coming back to life from the dead. It was glorious, it was glorious. I tell you, to be drunk
on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk on water is noble and ecstatic. I basked in bliss and
plenitude for several minutes.
A certain emptiness made itself felt. I touched my belly. It was a hard and hollow cavity. Food
would be nice now. A masala dosai with a coconut chutney—hmmmmm! Even better: oothappam!
HMMMMM! Oh! I brought my hands to my mouth—IDLI! The mere thought of the word provoked a
shot of pain behind my jaws and a deluge of saliva in my mouth. My right hand started twitching. It

reached and nearly touched the delicious flattened balls of parboiled rice in my imagination. It sank
its fingers into their steaming hot flesh ... It formed 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 Seven Oceans Standard Emergency Ration,
from faraway, exotic Bergen, Norway. The breakfast that was to make up for nine missed meals, not
to mention odd tiffins that Mother had brought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid and
vacuum-packed in silver-coloured plastic that was covered with instructions in twelve languages. In
English it said the ration consisted of eighteen fortified biscuits of baked wheat, animal fat and
glucose, and that no more than six should be eaten in a twenty-four-hour period. Pity about the fat, but
given the exceptional circumstances the vegetarian part of me would simply pinch its nose and bear it.
At the top of the block were the words Tear here to open and a black arrow pointing to the edge
of the plastic. The edge gave way under my fingers. Nine wax-paper-wrapped rectangular bars
tumbled out. I unwrapped one. It naturally broke into two. Two nearly square biscuits, pale in colour
and fragrant in smell. I bit into one. Lord, who would have thought? I never suspected. It was a secret
held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the best in the world! These biscuits were amazingly good.
They were savoury and delicate to the palate, neither too sweet nor too salty. They broke up under the
teeth with a delightful crunching sound. Mixed with saliva, they made a granular paste that was
enchantment to the tongue and mouth. And when I swallowed, my stomach had only one thing to say:
Hallelujah!
The whole package disappeared in a few minutes, wrapping paper flying away in the wind. I
considered opening another carton, but I thought better. No harm in exercising a little restraint.
Actually, with half a kilo of emergency ration in my stomach, I felt quite heavy.
I decided I should find out what exactly was in the treasure chest before me. It was a large
locker, larger than its opening. The space extended right down to the hull and ran some little ways
into the side benches. I lowered my feet into the locker and sat on its edge, my back against the stem. I
counted the cartons of Seven Ocean. I had eaten one; there were thirty-one left. According to the
instructions, each 500-gram carton was supposed to last one survivor three days. That meant I had
food rations to last me—31 X 3—93 days! The instructions also suggested survivors restrict
themselves to half a litre of water every twenty-four hours. I counted the cans of water. There were
124. Each contained half a litre. So I had water rations to last me 124 days. Never had simple
arithmetic brought such a smile to my face.
What else did I have? I plunged my arm eagerly into the locker and brought up one marvellous
object after another. Each one, no matter what it was, soothed me. I was so sorely in need of company
and comfort that the attention brought to making each one of these mass-produced goods felt like a
special 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 15.5 kilos in all
16 wool blankets
12 solar stills
10 or so orange life jackets, each with an orange, beadless whistle 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 of about 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, but each 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 centimetres and an outer diameter of 80
centimetres, and an attached rope
1 large hunting knife with a solid handle, a pointed end and one edge a sharp blade and the other
a sawtoothed blade; attached by a long string to a ring in the locker
1 sewing kit with straight and curving needles and strong white 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 lost shoe
1 spotted hyena
1 Bengal tiger
1 lifeboat
1 ocean
1 God
I ate a quarter of the large chocolate bar. I examined one of the rain catchers. It was a device that
looked like an inverted umbrella with a good-sized catchment pouch and a connecting rubber 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 of food, water and rest that flowed through my
weakened system, bringing me a new lease on life, also brought me the strength to see how desperate
my situation was. I awoke to the reality of Richard Parker. There was a tiger in the lifeboat. I could
hardly believe it, yet I knew I had to. And I had to save myself.
I considered jumping overboard and swimming away, but my body refused to move. I was
hundreds of miles from landfall, if not over a thousand miles. I couldn’t swim such a distance, even
with a lifebuoy. What would I eat? What would I drink? How would I keep the sharks away? How
would I keep warm? How would I know which way to go? There was not a shadow of doubt about
the matter: to leave the lifeboat meant certain death. But what was staying aboard? He would come at
me like a typical cat, without a sound. Before I knew it he would seize the back of my neck or my
throat and I would be pierced by fang-holes. I wouldn’t be able to speak. The lifeblood would flow
out of me unmarked by a final utterance. Or he would 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 is oncoming death with time to spare, time in
which all the happiness that was yours and all the happiness that might have been yours becomes
clear to you. You see with utter lucidity all that you are losing. The sight brings on an oppressive
sadness that no car about to hit you or water about to drown you can match. The feeling is truly
unbearable. The words Father, Mother, Ravi, India, Winnipeg struck me with searing poignancy.
I was giving up. I would have given up—if a voice hadn’t made itself heard in my heart. The
voice said, “I will not die. I refuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat the odds, as
great as they are. I have survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine. The
amazing will be seen every day. I will put in all the hard work necessary. Yes, so long as God is with
me, I will not die. Amen.”
My face set to a grim and determined expression. I speak in all modesty as I say this, but I
discovered at that moment that I have a fierce will to live. It’s not something evident, in my
experience. Some of us give up on life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope.
Still others—and I am one of those—never give up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter
the cost of battle, the losses we take, the improbability of success. We fight to the very end. It’s not a
question of courage. It’s something constitutional, an inability to let go. It may be nothing more than
life-hungry stupidity.
Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if he had been waiting for me to become a
worthy opponent. My chest became tight with fear.
“Quick, man, quick,” I wheezed. I had to organize my survival. Not a second to waste. I needed
shelter and right away. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But now the tarpaulin was
unrolled at the bow; there was nothing to hold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at the
end of an oar provided real safety from Richard Parker. He might 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 had life jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy.
With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneath the tarpaulin for the extra oars on the
side benches. Richard Parker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As I dragged each oar
out—you can imagine how carefully—he stirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three

oars. A fourth was already resting crosswise on the tarpaulin. I raised the locker lid to close the
opening onto Richard Parker’s den.
I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin around the lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now
squared by the oars. My raft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centre as the first
move.
Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker’s growling was now a
deep rumble that shook the 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. The life jackets were at hand’s reach. Some
were right against Richard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream.
I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty grasping it, my hand was trembling so much.
I pulled the jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another one out. And another. I
was feeling faint with fear. I was having great difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I could
throw myself overboard with these life jackets. I pulled a last one out. I had four life jackets.
Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked them through the armholes of the life jackets—in
one armhole, out the other—so that the life jackets became secured to the four corners of the raft. I
tied each one shut.
I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With the knife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed
the four oars where they met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! At each corner I made
ten knots and still I worried that the oars would come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing
my stupidity. A tiger aboard and I had waited three days and three nights to save my life!
I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied the lifebuoy to each side of the square. I
wove the lifebuoy’s rope through the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of the lifebuoy—all
round the raft—as yet another precaution against 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. I took the rest of the buoyant line.
There was a hole that went through the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought the buoyant rope
through it and hitched it. I only had to hitch the other end of the rope to the raft and I might be saved.
The hyena fell silent. My heart stopped and then beat triple speed. 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 feet from me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena’s end had come, and mine. I
stood rooted to the spot, paralyzed, in thrall to the action before my eyes. My brief experience with
the relations of unconfined wild animals in lifeboats had made me expect great noise and protest
when the time came for bloodshed. But it happened practically in silence. The hyena died neither
whining nor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore
emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and made for the hyena. The hyena was leaning against the stern
bench, behind the zebra’s carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight. Instead it shrank to the floor,
lifting a forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its face was of terror. A massive paw
landed on its shoulders. Richard Parker’s jaws closed on the side of the hyena’s neck. Its glazed eyes
widened. There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The
hyena shook. Its eyes went dull. It was over.
Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, private and half-hearted, it seemed. He
was panting, his tongue hanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook his head. He sniffed
the dead hyena. He raised his head high and smelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern

bench and lifted himself. His feet were wide apart. The rolling of the boat, though gentle, was visibly
not to his liking. He looked beyond the gunnel at the open seas. He put out a low, mean snarl. He
smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. It turned—turned—turned full round—till he was
looking straight at me.
I wish I could describe what happened next, not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it.

I beheld Richard Parker from the angle that showed him off to greatest effect: from the back, half-
raised, with his head turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were an intentional,

even affected, display of mighty art. And what art, what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet
equally evident was the lithesome grace of it. He was incredibly muscular, yet his haunches were thin
and his glossy coat hung loosely on his frame. His body, bright brownish orange streaked with black
vertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with a tailor’s eye for harmony by his pure
white chest and underside and the black rings of his long tail. His head was large and round,
displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee and some of the finest whiskers of the cat world,
thick, long and white. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped like perfect arches. His
carrot orange face had a broad bridge and a pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy
dabs of black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yet subtle, for it brought less attention to
itself than it did to the one part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whose rufous lustre shone
nearly with a radiance. The patches of white above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouth
came off as finishing touches worthy of a Kathakali dancer. The result was a face that looked like the
wings of a butterfly and bore an expression vaguely old and Chinese. But when Richard Parker’s
amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of
self-possession on the point of exploding with rage. His ears twitched and then swivelled right
around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly revealed was as long as
my longest finger.
Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear.
That’s when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawny brown rat materialized on the side
bench, nervous and breathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. The rat leapt onto the
tarpaulin and raced my way. At the sight, in shock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and I
practically fell into the locker. Before my incredulous eyes the rodent hopped over the various parts
of the raft, jumped onto me and climbed to the top of my head, where I felt its little claws clamping
down on my scalp, holding on for dear life.
Richard Parker’s eyes had followed the rat. They were now fixed on my head.
He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of his body, moving his forepaws sideways
along the side bench. He dropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I could see the top of
his head, his back and his long, curled tail. His ears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at
the middle of the boat. Without effort the front half of his body rose in the air and his forepaws came
to rest on the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin.
He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, his paws—so big! so big! His teeth—an
entire army battalion in a mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I was about to die.
But the tarpaulin’s strange softness bothered him. He pressed at it tentatively. He looked up
anxiously—the exposure to so much light and open space did not please him either. And the rolling
motion of the boat continued to unsettle him. For a brief moment, Richard Parker was hesitating.
I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it in my mind as it sailed through the air—
its outstretched claws and erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker
opened his maw and the squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher’s mitt. Its

hairless tail vanished like a spaghetti noodle sucked into a mouth.
He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down and returned beneath the tarpaulin. My
legs instantly became functional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again to block 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 hearing the sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the
middle of the boat. He was eating the hyena by great chunks, voraciously. This chance would not
come again. I reached and retrieved the remaining life jackets—six in all—and the last oar. They
would go to improving the raft. I noticed in passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of cat piss. It
was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of the boat. It must have come from Richard Parker.
So he was indeed seasick.
I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft were now tethered. Next I attached a life
jacket to each side of the raft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across the hole of the
lifebuoy to act as a seat. I turned the last oar into a footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about
two feet from the lifebuoy, and tying the remaining life jacket to it. My fingers trembled as I worked,
and my breath was short and strained. I checked and rechecked all my knots.
I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. No whitecaps. The wind was low and constant.
I looked down. There were fish—big fish with protruding foreheads and very long dorsal fins,
dorados they are called, and smaller fish, lean and long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still—and
there were sharks.
I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it did not float, I was as good as dead. It took
to the water beautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was such that they pushed the oars and
the lifebuoy right out of the water. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched the water, the fish
scattered—except for the sharks. They remained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneath
the 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 protruding tips of the oars would allow. I leaned
out and lay my hands on the lifebuoy. Through the “cracks” in the floor of the raft—yawning
crevasses would be more accurate—I looked directly into the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard
Richard Parker again. I flopped onto the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not
move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through
the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the
oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came close, but did not 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 the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and
wavered in the air. It was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I
wanted to get back. This raft business was far too precarious. It only needed 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 of comfort 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. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft,
microraft, might do for a pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The
closer I got to the lifeboat, the slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, 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. My options were limited to perching above
a tiger or hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on
the other hand, had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the
lifeboat and to the raft. I let the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that
about rightly balanced my two fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the
lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if
the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the
temperature dropped, and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh
water plopped loudly and wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again.
When I was at the bow I turned onto my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and
carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn’t in sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a
blanket and the survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn’t mean to slam it—only to
protect my precious goods from the rain—but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake.
In the very act of revealing myself to Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made
a great loud noise to attract his attention. He was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly.
Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His
claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back onto the raft, and I believe it was
terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft and lifeboat so swiftly. I let
out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing through the air, teeth
and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more unbearable was
the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag,
I was already soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I
wrapped myself with it nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging
of the rope at the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet
too far for my eyes, buffeted the raft. Fingers of water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet
my bottom.

CHAPTER 54

It rained all night. I had a horrible, sleepless time of it. It was noisy. On the rain catcher the rain made
a drumming sound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, it made a hissing sound, as if I
were at the centre of a great nest of angry snakes. Shifts in the wind changed the direction of the rain
so that parts of me that were beginning to feel warm were soaked anew. I shifted the rain catcher,
only to be unpleasantly surprised a few minutes later when the wind changed once more. I tried to
keep a small part of me dry and warm, around my chest, where I had placed the survival manual, but
the wetness spread with perverse determination. I spent the whole night shivering with cold. I
worried constantly that the raft would come apart, that the knots holding me to the 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 night progressed. The rope to the lifeboat
tautened with a jerk rather than with a tug, and the rocking of the raft became more pronounced and
erratic. It continued to float, rising above every wave, but there was no freeboard and the surf of
every breaking wave rode clear across it, washing around me like a river washing around a boulder.
The sea was warmer than the rain, but it meant that not the smallest part of me stayed dry that night.
At least I drank. I wasn’t really thirsty, but I forced myself to drink. The rain catcher looked like
an inverted umbrella, an umbrella blown open by the wind. The rain flowed to its centre, where there
was a hole. The hole was connected by a rubber tube to a catchment pouch made of thick, transparent
plastic. At first the water had a rubbery taste, but quickly the rain rinsed the catcher and the water
tasted fine.
During those long, cold, dark hours, as the pattering of the invisible rain got to be deafening, and
the sea hissed and coiled and tossed me about, I held on to one thought: Richard Parker. I hatched
several plans to get rid of him so that the lifeboat might be mine.
Plan Number One: Push Him of the Lifeboat. What good would that do? Even if I did manage
to shove 450 pounds of living, fierce animal off the lifeboat, tigers are accomplished swimmers. In
the Sundarbans they have been known to swim five miles in open, choppy waters. If he found himself
unexpectedly overboard, Richard Parker would simply tread water, climb back aboard and make me
pay the price for my treachery.
Plan Number Two: Kill Him with the Six Morphine Syringes. But I had no idea what effect they
would have on him. Would they be enough to kill him? And how exactly was I supposed to get the
morphine into his system? I could remotely conceive surprising him once, for an instant, the way his
mother had been when she was captured—but to surprise him long enough to give him six
consecutive injections? Impossible. All I would do by pricking him with a needle would be to get a
cuff in return that would take my head off.
Plan Number Three: Attack Him with All Available Weaponry. Ludicrous. I wasn’t Tarzan. I
was a puny, feeble, vegetarian life form. In India it took riding atop great big elephants and shooting
with powerful rifles to kill tigers. What was 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 between my teeth? Finish him off with straight and
curving sewing needles? If I managed to nick him, it would be a feat. In return 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 at the bow and got the rope to go around

the stern and a noose to go around his neck, I could pull on the rope while he pulled to get at me. And
so, in the very act of reaching for me, 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 to do was let the unforgiving laws of
nature run their course and I would be saved. Waiting for him to waste away and die would require
no effort on my part. I had supplies for months to come. What did he have? Just a few dead animals
that would soon go bad. What would he eat after that? Better still: where would he get water? He
might last for weeks without food, but no animal, however mighty, can do without water for any
extended period of time.
A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like a candle in the night. I had a plan and it
was a good one. I only 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 had only felt, the great curtains of rain crashing down on me from towering heights and
the waves that threw a path over me and trod me underfoot one after another.
Dull-eyed, shaking and numb, one hand gripping the rain catcher, the other clinging to the raft, I
continued to wait.
Sometime later, with a suddenness emphasized by the silence that followed, the rain stopped.
The sky cleared and the waves seemed to flee with the clouds. The change was as quick and radical
as changing countries on land. I was now in a different ocean. Soon the sun was alone in the sky, and
the ocean was a smooth skin reflecting the light with a million mirrors.
I was stiff, sore and exhausted, barely grateful to be still alive. The words “Plan Number Six,
Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six” repeated themselves in my mind like a mantra and brought me a
small measure of comfort, though I couldn’t recall for the life of me what Plan Number Six was.
Warmth started coming to my bones. I closed the rain catcher. I wrapped myself with the blanket and
curled up on my side in such 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 I awoke, and hot. The blanket was nearly dry. It had been
a brief bout of deep sleep. I lifted myself onto an elbow.
All about me was flatness and infinity, an endless panorama of blue. There was nothing to block
my view. The vastness hit me like a punch in the stomach. I fell back, winded. This raft was a joke. It
was nothing but a few sticks and a little cork held together by string. Water came through every crack.
The depth beneath would make a bird dizzy. I caught sight of the lifeboat. It was no better than half a
walnut shell. It held on to the 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 onto the gunnel and looked my way. The
sudden appearance of a tiger is arresting in any environment, but it was all the more so here. The
weird contrast between the bright, striped, living orange of his coat and the inert white of the boat’s
hull was incredibly compelling. My overwrought senses screeched to a halt. 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,” my mind whispered urgently. But what
was Plan Number Six? Ah yes. The war of attrition. The waiting game. Passivity. Letting things
happen. The unforgiving laws of nature. The relentless march of time and the hoarding of resources.
That was Plan Number Six.
A thought rang in my mind like an angry shout: “You fool and idiot! You dimwit! You brainless
baboon! Plan Number Six is the worst plan of all! Richard Parker is afraid of the sea right now. It
was nearly his grave. But crazed with thirst and hunger he will surmount his fear, and he will do
whatever is necessary to appease his need. He will turn this moat into a bridge. He will swim as far
as he has to, to catch the drifting raft and the food upon it. As for water, have you forgotten that tigers
from the Sundarbans are known to drink saline water? Do you really think you can outlast his
kidneys? I tell you, if you wage a war of attrition, you will lose it! You will die! 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 or convention, 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-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to
push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble.
You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you. You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped
with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement, despite superior tactics and a number of
undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening, wavering. Your anxiety
becomes dread.
Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going
on. Already your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like 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 your knees to shake as though they
were dancing. Your heart strains too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the
rest of your body. Every part of you, in the manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work
well. They always 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 is but 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 when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your
memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you
must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you
don’t, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you
open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.

CHAPTER 57

It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me
witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was
the gaze of a contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a
restaurant table after a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching.
Clearly, Richard Parker had eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips
were rising and falling, no teeth were showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He
was simply taking me in, observing me, in a manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept
twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head. It was all so, well, catlike. He looked
like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was
astonished. Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these
being most likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and
oestrous females. It’s a cry that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close
up. Tigers go woof when they are caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would
instantly make your legs jump up and run away if they weren’t frozen to the spot. When they charge,
tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use for purposes of threatening has yet another
guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the emotion behind it, sounds either
like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when it’s an infuriated snarl,
like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening—in both cases, utterly spine-chilling. Tigers make
other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as frequently as
small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of the
characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A
good thing that is. I’m afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty
could roar its displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats,
but louder and in a deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And
tigers can be utterly, majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because
Father had told me about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only
once, while on a working visit to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being
treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express
friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were
asking me a question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed
down, my heart stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him
or me, but of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live—or
we would die—together. He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes,
but it would be foolish to count on such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the
simple passage of time, in which his animal toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I

tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there’s more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about
Richard Parker. A part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be
left alone with despair, a foe even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was
thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me from thinking too much about my family and my tragic
circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated him for it, yet at the same time I was grateful. I
am grateful. It’s the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I wouldn’t be alive today to tell you my story.
I looked around at the horizon. Didn’t I have here a perfect circus ring, inescapably round,
without a single corner for him to hide in? I looked down at the sea. Wasn’t this an ideal source of
treats with which to condition him to obey? I noticed a whistle hanging from one of the life jackets.
Wouldn’t this make a good whip with which to keep him in line? What was missing here to tame
Richard Parker? Time? It might be weeks before 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 there any reward greater than life? Any punishment worse than
death? I looked at Richard Parker. My panic was gone. My fear was dominated. Survival was at
hand.
Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the show begin. I rose to my feet. Richard Parker
noticed. The balance was not easy. I took a deep breath and shouted, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and
girls, hurry to your seats! Hurry, hurry. You don’t want to be late. Sit down, open your eyes, open
your hearts and prepare to be amazed. Here it is, for your enjoyment and instruction, for your
gratification and edification, the show you’ve been waiting for all your life, THE GREATEST
SHOW ON EARTH! Are you ready for the miracle of it? Yes? Well then: they are amazingly
adaptable. You’ve seen them in freezing, snow-covered temperate forests. You’ve seen them in
dense, tropical monsoon jungles. You’ve seen them in sparse, semi-arid scrublands. You’ve seen
them in brackish mangrove swamps. Truly, they would fit anywhere. But you’ve never seen them
where you are about to see them now! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, it is
my pleasure and honour to present to you: THE PI PATEL, INDO-CANADIAN, TRANS-PACIFIC,
FLOATING CIRCUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSST!!R!EEEEEE! TREEEEEET! REEEEEE! TREEEEEE!
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!”
I had an effect on Richard Parker. At the very first blow of the whistle he cringed and he snarled.
Ha! Let him jump into the 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. He might not be afraid of the sea when he
was driven mad by hunger and thirst, but for the time being it was a fear I could rely on.
“TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!”
He backed off and dropped to the bottom of the boat. The first training session was over. It was
a resounding success. I stopped whistling and sat down heavily on the raft, out of breath 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. I turned them carefully. The manual was
written by a British Royal Navy commander. It contained a wealth of practical information on
surviving at sea after a shipwreck. It included survival 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. Or that 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 best

nurses.
Put up your feet at least five minutes every hour.
Unnecessary exertion should be avoided. But an idle mind tends to sink, so the mind should be
kept occupied with whatever light distraction may suggest itself. Playing card games, Twenty
Questions and I Spy With My Little Eye are excellent forms of simple recreation. Community
singing is another sure-fire way to lift the spirits. Yarn spinning is also highly recommended.
Green water is shallower than blue water.
Beware of far-off clouds that look like mountains. Look for green. Ultimately, a foot is the only
good judge of land.
Do not go swimming. It wastes energy. Besides, a survival craft may drift faster than you can
swim. Not to mention the danger of sea life. If you are hot, wet your clothes instead.
Do not urinate in your clothes. The momentary warmth is not worth the nappy rash.
Shelter yourself. Exposure can kill faster than thirst or hunger.
So long as no excessive water is lost through perspiration, the body can survive up to fourteen
days without water. If you feel 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 is tasty and filling; their fat has many uses; and the castaway will find 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 the will to live, you will. Good luck!
There were also a few highly cryptic lines distilling the art and science of navigation. I learned that
the horizon, as seen from a height of five feet on a calm day, was two and a half miles away.
The injunction not to drink urine was quite unnecessary. No one called “Pissing” in his
childhood would be caught dead with a cup of pee at his lips, even alone in a lifeboat in the middle of
the Pacific. And the gastronomic suggestions only confirmed to my mind that the English didn’t know
the meaning of the word food. Otherwise, the manual was a fascinating pamphlet on how to avoid
being pickled in brine. Only one important topic was not addressed: the establishing of alpha-omega
relationships with major lifeboat pests.
I had to devise a training program for Richard Parker. I had to make him understand that I was
the top tiger and that his territory was limited to the floor of the boat, the stern bench 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 the
bow of the boat, bordered by the neutral territory of the middle bench, was my territory and utterly
forbidden to him.
I had to start fishing very soon. It would not take long for Richard Parker to finish the animal
carcasses. At the zoo the adult lions and tigers ate on average ten pounds of meat a day.
There were many other things I had to do. I had to find a means of sheltering myself. If Richard
Parker stayed under the tarpaulin all the time, it was for a good reason. To be continuously outside,
exposed to sun, wind, rain and sea, was exhausting, and not only to the body but also to the mind.
Hadn’t I just read that exposure could inflict a quick death? I had to devise some sort of canopy.
I had to tie the raft to the lifeboat with a second rope, in case the first should break or become
loose.
I had to improve the raft. At present it was seaworthy, but hardly habitable. I would have to
make it fit for living in until I could move to my permanent quarters on the lifeboat. For example, I
had to find a way to stay dry on it. My skin was wrinkled and swollen all over from being constantly
wet. That had to change. And I had to find a way to store things on the 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 with me. In my experience, a castaway’s worst mistake is to hope too much and
do too little. Survival starts by paying attention to what is close at hand and immediate. To look out
with idle hope 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 much water. And I was all alone. All alone.
I burst into hot tears. I buried my face in my crossed arms and sobbed. My situation was patently
hopeless.

CHAPTER 59

Alone or not, lost or not, I was thirsty and hungry. I pulled on the rope. There was a slight tension. As
soon as I lessened my grip on it, it slid out, and the distance between the lifeboat and the raft
increased. So the lifeboat drifted faster than the raft, pulling it along. I noted the fact without thinking
anything of it. My mind was more focused on the doings of Richard Parker.
By the looks of it, he was under the tarpaulin.
I pulled the rope till I was right next to the bow. I reached up to the gunnel. As I was crouched,
preparing myself for a quick raid on the locker, a series of waves got me thinking. I noticed that with
the raft next to it, the lifeboat had changed directions. It was no longer perpendicular to the waves but
broadside to them and was beginning to roll from side to side, that rolling that was so unsettling for
the stomach. The reason for this change became clear to me: the raft, when let out, was acting as a sea
anchor, as a drag that pulled on the lifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, waves and
steady winds are usually perpendicular to each other. So, if a boat is pushed by a wind but held back
by a sea anchor, it will 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, which makes for a front-to-back pitching that is much more
comfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to the boat, the dragging effect was gone,
and there was nothing to steer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turned broadside and rolled.
What may seem like a detail to you was something which would save my life and which Richard
Parker would come to regret.
As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It was a disconsolate growl, with something
indefinably green and queasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but he was not much of a
sailor.
I had a chance yet.
Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, I received at that moment a quiet but
sinister warning about what I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of
life, so charismatic in his vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point
of raising myself over the bow when I heard a gentle thrashing buzz. I saw something small land in the
water next to me.
It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two before being swallowed by an underwater
mouth. Another cockroach landed in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroaches plopped into
the water on either side of the bow. Each was claimed by a fish.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thing I saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin
above the bow bench, was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. I watched it, strangely
interested. When it decided it was time, it deployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering,
hovered above the lifeboat momentarily, as if making sure no one had been left behind, and then
veered overboard to its death.
Now we were two. In five days the populations of orang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and
cockroaches had been wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that might still be alive in the
remains of the animals, there was no other life left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me.
It was not a comforting thought.
I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. I deliberately did not look under the
tarpaulin for fear that looking would be like shouting and would attract Richard Parker’s attention.

Only once the lid was leaning against the tarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyond
it.
A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quite sharp, what every cat cage in a zoo
smells of. Tigers are highly territorial, and it is with their urine that they mark the boundaries of their
territory. Here was good news wearing a foul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below
the tarpaulin. Richard Parker’s territorial claims seemed to be limited to the floor of the boat. This
held promise. If I could make the tarpaulin mine, we might get along.
I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to the side 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 exactly what I would be doing in his place: cooling off
in the shade. The day was getting beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from
me, his hind legs sticking straight back and splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner
thighs lying directly against the floor. The position looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill,
about one-third of the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I
was about to drink from the rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the
graduated drinking beakers. If I couldn’t go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of
water would not last forever. I took hold of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as
much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the beaker into Parker’s Pond, four feet from his back
paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did
I worry about ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn’t even think about it. All I had on my mind was
my thirst. I drained that beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the
urge to urinate. I relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed
that it was as if a minute hadn’t passed and I were still considering Richard Parker’s rainwater. I
hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it
was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration,
so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it
was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn’t be said of the canned water that was my staple. But I
heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin and over the locker lid to stake my
claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as
freshly watered as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many
promises they held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt
water. It consists of an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber
that has a surface of black rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the
principle of distillation: sea water lying beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the
sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and
collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone, from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came
equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I
inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy chamber with the requisite ten litres of

sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the lifeboat and the other to the
raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots become loose, but
also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The stills
looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I
was doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making
sure each was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest
oar, into a mast of sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly
cut a notch into it, about halfway down, and with the knife’s point I drilled three holes through its flat
part. Work was slow but satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a
vertical position to the inside of one of the corners of the raft, flat part, the masthead, rising in the air,
handle disappearing underwater. I ran the rope tightly into the notch, to prevent the oar from slipping
down. Next, to ensure that the mast would stand straight, and to give myself lines from which to hang
a canopy and supplies, I threaded ropes through the holes I had drilled in the masthead and tied them
to the tips of the horizontal oars. I strapped the life jacket that had been attached to the footrest oar to
the base of the mast. It would play a double role: it would provide extra flotation to compensate for
the vertical weight of the mast, and it would make for a slightly raised seat for me.
I threw a blanket over the lines. It slid down. The angle of the lines was too steep. I folded the
lengthwise edge of the blanket over once, cut two holes midway down, about a foot apart, and linked
the holes with a piece of string, which I made by unweaving a length of rope. I threw the blanket over
the lines again, with the new girdle string going around the masthead. I now had a canopy.
It took me a good part of the day to fix up the raft. There were so many details to look after. The
constant motion of the sea, though gentle, didn’t make my work any easier. And I had to keep an eye
on Richard Parker. The result was no galleon. The mast, so called, ended hardly a few inches above

my head. As for the deck, it was just big enough to sit on cross-legged or to lie on in a tight, nearly-to-
term fetal position. But I wasn’t complaining. It was seaworthy and it would save me from Richard

Parker.
By the time I had finished my work, the afternoon was nearing its end. I gathered a can of water,
a can opener, four biscuits of survival ration and four blankets. I closed the locker (very softly this
time), sat down on the raft and let out the rope. The lifeboat drifted away. The main rope tensed,
while the security rope, which I had deliberately measured out longer, hung limply. I laid two
blankets beneath me, carefully folding them so that they didn’t touch the water. I wrapped the other
two around my shoulders and rested my back against the mast. I enjoyed the slight elevation I gained
from sitting on the extra life jacket. I was hardly higher up from the water than one would be from a
floor sitting on a thick cushion; still, I hoped not to get wet so much.
I enjoyed my meal as I watched the sun’s descent in a cloudless sky. It was a relaxing moment.
The vault of the world was magnificently tinted. The stars were eager to participate; hardly had the
blanket of colour been pulled a little than they started to shine through the deep blue. The wind blew
with a faint, warm breeze and the sea moved about kindly, the water peaking and troughing like
people dancing in a circle who come together and raise their hands and move apart and come together
again, over and over.
Richard Parker sat up. Only his head and a little of his shoulders showed above the gunnel. He
looked out. I shouted, “Hello, Richard Parker!” and I waved. He looked at me. He snorted or
sneezed, neither word quite captures it. Prusten again. What a stunning creature. Such a noble mien.
How apt that in full it is a Royal Bengal tiger. I counted myself lucky in a way. What if I had ended up

with a creature that looked silly or ugly, a tapir or an ostrich or a flock of turkeys? That would have
been a more trying companionship in some ways.
I heard a splash. I looked down at the water. I gasped. I thought I was alone. The stillness in the
air, the glory of the light, the feeling of comparative safety—all had made me think so. There is
commonly an element of silence and solitude to peace, isn’t there? It’s hard to imagine being at peace
in a busy subway station, isn’t it? So what was all this commotion?
With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city. Just below me, all around, unsuspected
by me, were highways, boulevards, streets and roundabouts bustling with submarine traffic. In water
that was dense, glassy and flecked by millions of lit-up specks of plankton, fish like trucks and buses
and cars and bicycles and pedestrians were madly racing about, no doubt honking and hollering at
each other. The predominant colour 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, another appeared. These trails came from all directions and disappeared in all directions.
They were like those time-exposure photographs you see of cities at night, with the long red streaks
made by the tail lights of cars. Except that here the cars were driving above and under each other as if
they were on interchanges that were stacked ten storeys high. And here the cars were of the craziest
colours. The dorados—there must have been over fifty patrolling beneath the raft—showed off their
bright gold, blue and green as they whisked by. Other fish 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 to be colourful. But whatever the size or colour of a
vehicle, one thing was constant: the furious driving. There were many collisions—all involving
fatalities, I’m afraid—and a number of cars spun wildly out of control and collided against barriers,
bursting above the surface of the water and splashing down in showers of luminescence. I gazed upon
this urban hurly-burly like someone observing a city from a hot-air balloon. It was a spectacle
wondrous and awe-inspiring. This is surely what Tokyo 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 had assumed that the Pacific, but for passing
schools of fish, was a sparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since that cargo ships travel
too quickly for fish. You are as likely to see sea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest
from a car on a highway. Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play about boats and ships much like dogs
chase cars: they race along until they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, it is on foot,
and quietly, that you must explore a forest. It is the same with the sea. You must stroll through the
Pacific at a walking pace, so to speak, to see the wealth and abundance that it holds.
I settled on my side. For the first time in five days I felt a measure of calm. A little bit of hope—
hard earned, well deserved, reasonable—glowed in me. I fell asleep.

CHAPTER 60

I awoke once during the night. I pushed the canopy aside and looked out. The moon was a sharply
defined crescent and the 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, a dancing play of black and silver that extended without limits all about me. The volume of
things was confounding—the volume of 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 and so beheld the entire universe, everything that there is. Before the sage could
die of fright, Vishnu awoke and took him back into his mouth. For the first time I noticed—as I would
notice repeatedly during my ordeal, between one throe of agony and the next—that my suffering was
taking place in a grand setting. I saw my suffering for what it was, finite and insignificant, and I was
still. My suffering did not fit anywhere, I realized. And I could accept this. It was all right. (It was
daylight that brought my protest: “No! No! No! My sufferingdoes matter. I want to live! I can’t help
but mix my life with that of the universe. Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry onto a vastness—how
can I not dwell on this brief, cramped view I have of things? This peephole is all I’ve got!”) I
mumbled words of Muslim prayer and went back to sleep.

CHAPTER 61

The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable
considering the strain I was 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, for the first time in my life. After a
breakfast of three biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the
subject. The first problem arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing
food from under a tiger’s nose was a proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an
investment that would bring him an excellent return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only one
left. The other I had lost when the ship sank.
I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a
bucket for my catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the
bow but his head did not lift. I let the raft out.
I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked
three that had an intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard work;
the leather was tough. I carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, so
that the point of the hook was hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many fish the
previous evening that I expected easy success.
I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the line,
happy freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with only
the rubber sole and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheer
exasperation I tried the sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug and then the
line was unexpectedly light. All I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle.
This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and weights
in the kit, besides a whole other kit. And I wasn’t even fishing for myself. I had plenty of food in
store.
Still, a part of my mind—the one that says what we don’t want to hear—rebuked me. “Stupidity
has a price. You should show more care and wisdom next time.”
Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached up
and bit my bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon as I
touched it I recoiled in horror. The turtle swam away.
The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again. “What
exactly do you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he’ll last on three
dead animals? Do I need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he’s on his
last legs he probably won’t lift his nose at much. But don’t you think that before he submits to eating
puffy, putrefied zebra he’ll try the fresh, juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how are we
doing with the water situation? You know how tigers get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his
breath recently? It’s pretty awful. That’s a bad sign. Perhaps you’re hoping that he’ll lap up the
Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite amazing, this limited capacity
to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a tidal mangrove forest, I

suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don’t they say that drinking too much saline water makes a man-
eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He’s yawning. My, my, what an enormous

pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you’ll get a chance to
visit.”

Richard Parker’s tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his
mouth closed. He swallowed.
I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my own
dire predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the rainfall
and he didn’t seem too concerned with hunger. But he did make various tiger noises—growls and
moans and the like—that did nothing to put me at ease. The riddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I
needed bait, but I would have 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 most unexpected way. I had pulled myself up to the
lifeboat. More than that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging through the locker, feverishly
looking for an idea that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from the
boat. I fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard Parker.
Desperation had pushed me to take such a risk.
Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up—only to discover that I was dead centre in the
focus of his stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my way
and sitting up, looking as if he’d been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn’t
heard him stir? What delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard
across the face. I cried out and closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the lifeboat and
struck me. I was to have my face clawed off—this was the gruesome way I was to die. The pain was
so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock. Blessed be that part of us that protects us from too much
pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a fuse box. I whimpered, “Go ahead, Richard Parker, finish me
off. But please, what you must 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. I fearfully opened an eye.
It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It was
about fifteen inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry,
featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me
across the face, not Richard Parker. He was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was
going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about
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 flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air, just ahead of
Richard Parker’s open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It happened with lightning
speed. Richard Parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls flapping, but the fish was too
quick for him. He looked astonished and displeased. He turned to me again. “Where’s my treat?” his
face seemed to inquire. Fear and sadness gripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandoned
hope that I could jump onto the raft before he could jump onto me.
At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying
fish. They came like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something
insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of
them at a time, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into the
water just before the boat. A number sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding like
firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin.
Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racket of flapping and flailing
and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the

martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at
a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I received cuts 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 they were faster
swimmers and their short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were just
behind them and lunging from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks
too; they also leapt out of the water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some
dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn’t last long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish
jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised
himself and went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and
whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually,
it was not so much the speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption
in the moment. Such a mix of ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy
of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker
and a much greater number 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 tackle that morning had had a sobering effect
on me. I couldn’t allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand
pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was
to appearing, the more afraid and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding
it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing
was gasping for water, its mouth and gills opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its
wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of
the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn’t complete the action. Such
sentimentalism may seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were
the deeds of others, of predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat’s death, but
I’d only thrown it; it was Richard Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism
stood between me and the willful beheading of a fish.
I covered the fish’s head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered
in the air. The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly
in the blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I
imagined what it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my
neck. I was appalled. I gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I
waited, the longer the fish’s suffering would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer
felt any life fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It
was split open and bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever
killed. I was now a killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy,
bookish and religious, and now I had blood on my hands. It’s a terrible burden to carry. All sentient

life is sacred. I never forget to include this fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the
markets of Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I
chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I’d had in the
morning. But success seemed 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 it sink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat.
It was when I used the flying fish’s head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out
and pulling it in quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first
strike. A dorado surged forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had
properly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the
water, tugging on the line so hard I thought it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The
line became very taut. It was good line; it would not break. I started bringing the dorado in. It
struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The line cut into my hands. I wrapped
my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as an ox. I was not sure I
would be able to pull it in.
I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed
the dorado’s distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms
were aching. Every time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into
letting out some line.
At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would
fit the dorado like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing
mass of pure muscle, so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was
giving me a ride like I imagine a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and
triumphant mood. A dorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging
forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock’s comb, and a
coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a
handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the sea, against the wind, against the
sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me. “Thank you, Lord Vishnu,
thank you!” I shouted. “Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish. 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 the trouble—after all, it was for Richard
Parker and he would have dispatched it with expert ease—but for the hook that was embedded in its
mouth. I exulted at having a dorado at the end of my line—I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I
went about the job in a direct way. I took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on
the head with the hammerhead (I still didn’t have the stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did
a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succession. Blue,
green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I
was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for its death-knell
iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed to
retrieve a part of my bait.
You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the
muffled killing of a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by arguing
that profiting from a pitiful flying fish’s navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the

excitement of actively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-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 the lifeboat. I brought it along the side,
keeping very low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy thud
and provoked a gruff expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet
mashing sound of a mouth at work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle hard several
times, to remind Richard Parker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to
pick up some biscuits and a can of water. The five remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I
pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in the now-consecrated fish blanket.
By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up my fishing gear, put things away and had my
supper, night had come on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and the moon, and it was very
dark. I was tired, but still excited by the events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness was
profoundly satisfying; I hadn’t thought at all about my plight or myself. Fishing was surely a better
way of passing the time than yarn-spinning or playing I Spy. I determined to start again the next day as
soon as there was light.
I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickering of the dying dorado.

CHAPTER 62

I slept in fits that night. Shortly before sunrise I gave up trying to fall asleep again and lifted myself on
an elbow. I spied with my little eye a tiger. Richard Parker was restless. He was moaning and
growling and pacing about the lifeboat. It was impressive. I assessed the situation. He couldn’t be
hungry. Or at least not dangerously hungry. Was he thirsty? His tongue hung from his mouth, but only
on occasion, and he was not panting. And his stomach and paws were still wet. But they were not
dripping wet. There probably wasn’t much water left in the boat. Soon he would be thirsty.
I looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had vanished. But for a few wisps on the horizon, the sky
was clear. It would be another hot, rainless day. The sea moved in a lethargic way, as if already
exhausted by the oncoming heat.
I sat against the mast and thought over our problem. The biscuits and the fishing gear assured us
of the solid part of our diet. It was the liquid part that was the rub. It all came down to what was so
abundant around us but marred by salt. I could perhaps mix some sea water with his fresh water, but I
had to procure more fresh water to start with. The cans would not last long between the two of us—in
fact, I was loath to share even one with Richard Parker—and it would be foolish to rely on rainwater.
The solar stills were the only other possible source of drinkable water. I looked at them
doubtfully. They had been out two days now. I noticed that one of them had lost a little air. I pulled on
the rope to tend to it. I topped off its cone with air. Without any real expectation I reached underwater
for the distillate pouch that was clipped to the round buoyancy chamber. My fingers took hold of a
bag that was unexpectedly fat. A shiver of thrill went through me. I controlled myself. As likely as
not, salt water had leaked in. I unhooked the pouch and, following the instructions, lowered it and
tilted the still so that any more water from beneath the cone might flow into it. I closed the two small
taps that led to the pouch, detached it and pulled it out of the water. It was rectangular in shape and
made of thick, soft, yellow plastic, with calibration marks on one side. I tasted the water. I tasted it
again. It was salt-free.
“My sweet sea cow!” I exclaimed to the solar still. “You’ve produced, and how! What a
delicious milk. Mind you, a little rubbery, but I’m not complaining. Why, look at me drink!”

I finished the bag. It had a capacity of one litre and was nearly full. After a moment of sigh-
producing, shut-eyed satisfaction, I reattached the pouch. I checked the other stills. Each one had an

udder similarly heavy. I collected the fresh milk, over eight litres of it, in the fish bucket. Instantly
these technological contraptions became as precious to me as cattle are to a farmer. Indeed, as they
floated placidly in an arc, they looked almost like cows grazing in a field. I ministered to their needs,
making sure that there was enough sea water inside each and that the cones and chambers were
inflated to just the right pressure.
After adding a little sea water to the bucket’s contents, I placed it on the side bench just beyond
the tarpaulin. With the end of the morning coolness, Richard Parker seemed safely settled below. I
tied the bucket in place using rope and the tarpaulin hooks on the side of the boat. I carefully peeked
over the gunnel. He was lying on his side. His den was a foul sight. The dead mammals were heaped
together, a grotesque pile of decayed animal parts. I recognized a leg or two, various patches 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 side bench. After I had gathered what I needed
for the day from the locker and was ready to go, I tossed another piece over the tarpaulin in front of
Richard Parker. It had the intended effect. As I drifted away I saw him come out into the open to fetch

the morsel of fish. His head turned and he noticed the other morsel and the new object next to it. He
lifted himself. He hung his huge head over the bucket. I was afraid he would tip it over. He didn’t.
His face disappeared into it, barely fitting, and he started to lap up the water. In very little time the
bucket started shaking and rattling emptily with each strike of his tongue. When he looked up, I stared
him aggressively in the eyes and I blew on the whistle a few times. He disappeared under the
tarpaulin.
It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboat was resembling a zoo enclosure more
and more: Richard Parker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his food stash, his lookout
and now his water hole.
The temperature climbed. The heat became stifling. I spent the rest of the day in the shade of the
canopy, fishing. It seems I had had beginner’s luck with that first dorado. I caught nothing the whole
day, not even in the late afternoon, when marine life appeared in abundance. A turtle turned up, a
different kind this time, a green sea turtle, bulkier and smoother-shelled, but curious in the same fixed
way as a hawksbill. I did nothing about it, but I started thinking that I should.
The only good thing about the day being so hot was the sight the solar stills presented. Every
cone was covered on the inside with drops and rivulets of condensation.
The day ended. I calculated that the next morning would make 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 fellow castaways survived forty-seven days. Steven Callahan survived seventy-six.
Owen Chase, whose account of the sinking of the whaling shipEssex by a whale inspired Herman
Melville, survived eighty-three days at sea with two mates, interrupted by a one-week stay on an
inhospitable island. The Bailey family survived 118 days. I have heard of a Korean merchant sailor
named Poon, I believe, who survived the Pacific for 173 days in the 1950s.
I survived 227 days. That’s how long my trial lasted, over seven months.
I kept myself busy. That was one key to my survival. On a lifeboat, even on a raft, there’s always
something that needs doing. An average day for me, if such a notion can be applied to a castaway,
went like this:

Sunrise to mid-morning:
wake up
prayers
breakfast for Richard Parker
general inspection of raft and lifeboat, with particular attention paid to all knots
and ropes
tending of solar stills (wiping, inflating, topping off with water)
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 of scabs and sores,
upkeeping of equipment, puttering about locker, observation and study of Richard
Parker, picking at of turtle bones, etc.)

Late afternoon to early evening:

prayers
fishing and preparing of fish
tending of curing strips of flesh (turning over, cutting away of putrid parts) dinner
preparations dinner for self and Richard Parker

Sunset:

general inspection of raft and lifeboat (knots and ropes again) collecting and
safekeeping of distillate from solar stills storing of all foods and equipment

arrangements for night (making of bed, safe storage on raft of flare, in case of
ship, and rain catcher, in case of rain)
prayers

Night:

fitful sleeping
prayers

Mornings were usually better than late afternoons, when the emptiness of time tended to make
itself felt.
Any number of events affected this routine. Rainfall, at any time of the day or night, stopped all
other business; for as long as it fell, I held up the rain catchers and was feverishly occupied storing
their catch. A turtle’s visit was another major disruption. And Richard Parker, of course, was a
regular disturbance. Accommodating him was a priority I could not neglect for an instant. He didn’t
have much of a routine beyond eating, drinking and sleeping, but there were times when he stirred
from his lethargy and rambled about his territory, making noises and being cranky. Thankfully, every
time, the sun and the sea quickly tired him and he returned to beneath the tarpaulin, to lying on his side
again, or flat on his stomach, his head on top of his crossed front legs.
But there was more to my dealings with him than strict necessity. I also spent hours observing
him because it was a distraction. A tiger is a fascinating animal at any time, and all the more so when
it is your sole companion.
At first, looking out for a ship was something I did all the time, compulsively. But after a few
weeks, five or six, I stopped doing it nearly entirely.
And I survived because I made a point of forgetting. My story started on a calendar day—July
2nd, 1977—and ended on a calendar day—February 14th, 1978—but in between there was no
calendar. I did not count the days or the weeks or the months. Time is an illusion that only makes us
pant. I survived 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 time and imprinted themselves on my memory. The smell of spent hand-flare shells,
and prayers at dawn, and the killing of turtles, and the biology of algae, for example. And many more.
But I don’t know if I can put them in order for you. My memories 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 the seams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I lived stark naked except for the
whistle that dangled from my neck by a string.
Salt-water boils—red, angry, disfiguring—were a leprosy of 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 gasp and cry out. Naturally, these boils developed on the parts of
my body that got the most wet and the most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days
when I could hardly find a position in which I could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the
process was slow, and new boils appeared if I didn’t stay dry.

CHAPTER 65

I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survival manual on navigation. Plain and simple
explanations on living off the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge of seafaring was
assumed by the author of the manual. The castaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who,
compass, chart and sextant in hand, knew how he found his way into trouble, if not how he would get
out of it. The result was advice such as “Remember, time is distance. Don’t forget to wind your
watch,” or “Latitude can be measured with the fingers, if need be.” I had a watch, but it was now at
the bottom of the Pacific. I lost it when the Tsimtsum sank. As for latitude and longitude, my marine
knowledge was strictly limited to what lived in the sea and did not extend to what cruised on top of
it. Winds and currents were a mystery to me. The stars meant nothing to me. I couldn’t name a single
constellation. My family lived by one star alone: the sun. We were early to bed and early to rise. I
had in my life looked at a number of beautiful starry nights, where with just two colours and the
simplest of styles nature draws the grandest of pictures, and I felt the feelings of wonder and
smallness that we all feel, and I got a clear sense of direction from the spectacle, most definitely, but I
mean that in a spiritual sense, not in a geographic one. I hadn’t the faintest idea how the night sky
might serve as a road map. How could the stars, sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they
kept moving?
I gave up trying to find out. Any knowledge I might gain was useless. I had no means of
controlling where I was going—no rudder, no sails, no motor, some oars but insufficient brawn. What
was the point of plotting a course if I could not act on it? And even if I could, how should I know
where to go? West, back to where we came from? East, to America? North, to Asia? South, to where
the shipping lanes were? Each seemed a good and bad course in equal measure.
So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Time became distance for me in the way
it is for all mortals—I travelled down the road of life—and I did other things with my fingers than try

to measure latitude. I found out later that I travelled a narrow road, the Pacific equatorial counter-
current.

CHAPTER 66

I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for a variety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with
large hooks and many sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and only one or two sinkers.
Success was slow to come, and when it did, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out of
proportion to the reward. The hours were long, the fish were small, and Richard Parker was forever
hungry.
It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuable fishing equipment. They came in three
screw-in pieces: two tubular sections that formed the shaft—one with a moulded plastic handle at its
end and a ring for securing the gaff with a rope—and a head that consisted of a hook measuring about
two inches across its curve and ending in a needle-sharp, barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was
about five feet long and felt as light and sturdy as a sword.
At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to a depth of four feet or so, sometimes with
a fish speared on the hook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, my body 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 could
muster. It was a split-second decision. Experience taught me that it was better to strike when I felt I
had a good chance of success than to strike wildly, for a fish learns from experience too, and rarely
falls for the same trap twice.
When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on the hook, impaled, and I could confidently
bring it aboard. But if I gaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often get away with a twist
and a forward spurt of speed. Injured, it would be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had not
meant to make. So with large fish I aimed for the ventral area beneath their gills and their lateral fins,
for a fish’s instinctive reaction when struck there was to swim up, away from the hook, in the very
direction I was pulling. Thus it would happen: sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fish
would burst out of the water in my face. I quickly lost my revulsion at touching sea life. None of this
prissy fish blanket business any more. A fish jumping out of water was confronted by a famished boy
with a hands-on, no-holds-barred approach 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 a rope to the raft—and I would clutch at the
fish with my hands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than a hook. The struggle would be
fast and furious. Those fish were slippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only I had
had as many arms as the goddess Durga—two to hold the 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—I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down
until I could reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grew bolder and more agile. I developed an
instinct, a feel, for what to do.
My success improved greatly when I started using part of the cargo net. As a fishing net it was
useless—too stiff and heavy and with a weave that wasn’t tight enough. But it was perfect as a lure.
Trailing freely in the water, it proved irresistibly attractive to fish, and even more so when seaweed
started growing on it. Fish that were local in their ambit made the net their neighbourhood, and the
quick ones, the ones that tended to streak by, the dorados, slowed down to visit the new development.
Neither the residents nor the travellers ever suspected that a hook was hidden in the weave. There
were some days—too few unfortunately—when I could have all the fish I cared to gaff. At such times
I hunted far beyond the needs of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simply wasn’t enough space

on the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, to dry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers and
mackerels, let alone space in my stomach to eat them. I kept what I could and gave the rest to Richard
Parker. During those days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all
the fish scales that became stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of
colour that we Hindus wear on our foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me
then, I’m sure they would have thought I was a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn’t
have stopped. Those were the good days. They were rare.
Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manual said they were. Under the “hunting and
gathering” heading, they would go under “gathering”. Solid in build though they were, like tanks, they
were neither fast nor powerful swimmers; with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it was
possible to hold on to a turtle. But the survival manual failed to mention that a turtle caught was not a
turtle had. It still needed to be brought aboard. And hauling a struggling 130-pound turtle aboard a
lifeboat was anything but easy. It was a labour that demanded feats of strength worthy of Hanuman. I
did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow of the boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to
its neck, a front flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled until I thought my arms would come apart
and my head would explode. I ran the ropes around the tarpaulin hooks on the opposite side of the
bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gain before the rope slipped back. Inch by inch,
a turtle was heaved out of the water. It took time. I remember one green sea turtle that hung from the
side of the lifeboat for two days, the whole while thrashing about madly, free flippers beating in the
air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it would often happen that a turtle would help
me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pull on them; if I
pulled at the same moment, our conflicting efforts sometimes came together and suddenly it would
happen, easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surge over the gunnel and
slide onto the tarpaulin. I would fall back, exhausted but jubilant.
Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawksbills, and their belly shells were thinner. But they
tended to be bigger than hawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for the weakened castaway
that I became.
Lord, to think that I’m a strict vegetarian. To think that when I was a child I always shuddered
when I snapped open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal’s neck. I
descended to a level of savagery I never imagined possible.

CHAPTER 67

The underside of the raft became host to a multitude of sea life, like the net but smaller in form. It
started with a soft green algae that clung to the life jackets. Stiffer algae of a darker kind joined it.
They did well and became thick. Animal life appeared. The first that I saw were tiny, translucent
shrimp, hardly half an inch long. They were followed by fish no bigger that looked like they were
permanently under X-ray; their internal organs showed through their transparent skins. After that I
noticed the black worms with the white spines, the green gelatinous slugs with the primitive limbs,
the inch-long, motley-coloured fish with the potbellies, and lastly the crabs, half to three-quarters of
an inch across and brown in colour. I tried everything but the worms, including the algae. Only the
crabs didn’t have an unpalatably bitter or salty taste. Every time they appeared, I popped them one
after another into my mouth like candy until there were none left. I couldn’t control myself. It was
always a long wait between fresh crops of crabs.
The hull of the lifeboat invited life too, in the form of small gooseneck barnacles. I sucked their
fluid. Their flesh made for good fishing bait.
I became attached to these oceanic hitchhikers, though they weighed the raft down a little. They
provided distraction, like Richard Parker. I spent many hours doing nothing but lying on my side, a
life jacket pushed out of place a few inches, like a curtain from a window, so that I might have a clear
view. What I saw was an upside-down town, small, quiet and peaceable, whose citizens went about
with the sweet civility of angels. The sight was a welcome relief for my frayed nerves.

CHAPTER 68

My sleep pattern changed. Though I rested all the time, I rarely slept longer than an hour or so at a
stretch, even at night. It was not the ceaseless motion of the sea that disturbed me, nor the wind; you
get used to those the way you get used to lumps in a mattress. It was apprehension and anxiety that
roused me. It was remarkable how little sleep I got by on.
Unlike Richard Parker. He became a champion napper. Most of the time he rested beneath the
tarpaulin. But on calm days when the sun was not too harsh and on calm nights, he came out. One of
his favourite positions in the open was lying on the stern bench on his side, stomach overhanging the
edge of it, front and back legs extending down the side benches. It was a lot of tiger to squeeze onto a
fairly narrow ledge, but he managed it by making his back very round. When he was truly sleeping, he
laid his head on his front legs, but when his mood was slightly more active, when he might choose to
open his eyes and look about, he turned his head and lay his chin on the gunnel.
Another favourite position of his was sitting with his back to me, his rear half resting on the
floor of the boat and his front half on the bench, his face buried into the stern, paws right next to his
head, looking as if we were playing hide-and-seek and he were the one counting. In this position he
tended to lie very still, with only the occasional twitching of his ears to indicate that he was not
necessarily sleeping.

CHAPTER 69

On many nights I was convinced I saw a light in the distance. Each time I set off a flare. When I had
used up the rocket flares, I expended the hand flares. Were they ships that failed to see me? The light
of rising or setting stars bouncing off the ocean? Breaking waves that moonlight and forlorn hope
fashioned into illusion? Whatever the case, every time it was for nothing. Never a result. Always the
bitter emotion of hope raised and dashed. In time I gave up entirely on being saved by a ship. If the
horizon was two and a half miles away at an altitude of five feet, how far away was it when I was
sitting against the mast of my raft, my eyes not even three feet above the water? What chance was
there that a ship crossing the whole great big Pacific would cut into such a tiny circle? Not only that:
that it would cut into such a tiny circle and see me—what chance was there of that? No, humanity and
its unreliable ways could not be counted upon. It was land I had to reach, hard, firm, certain land.
I remember the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. By some freak of chemistry they smelled
exactly like cumin. It was intoxicating. I sniffed the plastic shells and immediately Pondicherry came
to life in my mind, a marvellous relief from the disappointment of calling for help and not being
heard. The experience was very strong, nearly a hallucination. From a single smell a whole town
arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, I see 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 light steadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre with a pinkish
red aureole. I had to turn away. I held the flare in the air at arm’s length and waved it slowly. For
about a minute heat showered down upon my forearm and everything was weirdly lit. Water around
the raft, until a moment before opaquely black, showed itself to be crowded with fish.

CHAPTER 70

Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a small hawksbill. It was its blood that tempted
me, the “good, nutritious, salt-free drink” promised by the survival manual. My thirst was that bad. I
took hold of the turtle’s shell and grappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a good grip, I
turned it over in the water and attempted to pull it onto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I
would never be able to deal with it on the raft. Either I let it go—or I tried my luck on the lifeboat. I
looked up. It was a hot and cloudless day. Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presence at the bow
on such days, when the air was like the inside of an oven and he did not move from under the
tarpaulin until sunset.
I held on to one of the turtle’s back flippers with one hand and I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat
with the other. It was not easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerked the turtle in the air
and brought it onto its back on the tarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more than growl
once or twice. He was not up to exerting himself in such heat.
My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no time to waste. I turned to the survival
manual as to a cookbook. It said to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knife should be
“inserted into the neck” to sever the arteries and veins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There
was no neck. The turtle had retracted into its shell; all that showed of its head was its eyes and its
beak, surrounded by circles of skin. It was looking at me upside down with a stern expression. I took
hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it, poked a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. I
decided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I had done it a thousand times, I jammed the
knife just to the right of the turtle’s head, at an angle. I pushed the blade deep into the folds of skin and
twisted it. The turtle retreated even further, favouring the side where the blade was, and suddenly shot
its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumped back. All four flippers came out and the
creature tried to make its getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly and head shaking
from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet and brought it down on the turtle’s neck, gashing it. Bright
red blood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about three hundred millilitres, a pop can’s
worth. I might have got much more, a litre I would guess, but the turtle’s beak was sharp and its front
flippers were long and powerful, with two claws on each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no
particular smell. I took a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memory is right. It’s hard to remember
first impressions. I drank the blood to the last drop.
I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough belly shell, but it proved easier with the
sawtoothed edge of the knife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clear of the flailing
flippers. The leathery skin at the head end of the shell was easy cutting, except around the flippers.
Sawing away at the rim, however, where shell met shell, was very hard work, especially as the turtle
wouldn’t stop moving. By the time I had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat and
exhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted reluctantly, with a wet sucking sound. Inner life was
revealed, twitching and jerking—muscles, fat, blood, guts and bones. And still the turtle thrashed
about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. It made no difference. Flippers continued to beat. With two
blows of the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did not stop. Worse, the separated head went
on gulping for air and blinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest of the turtle I lifted and
dropped into Richard Parker’s territory. He was 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 and made a joyous mess of himself. I was

utterly spent. The effort of butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup of blood.
I started thinking seriously about how I was going to deal with 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 from him. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of the
tarpaulin, no matter the time of day or the weather, no matter his mood. It was rights I needed, the sort
of rights that come with might.
It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory.

CHAPTER 71

To those who should ever find themselves in a predicament such as I was in, I would recommend the
following program:
1. Choose a day when the waves are small but regular. You want a sea that will put on a good
show when your lifeboat is broadside to it, though without capsizing your boat.
2. Stream your sea anchor full out to make your lifeboat as stable and comfortable as possible.
Prepare your safe haven from the lifeboat in case you should need it (you most likely will). If
you can, devise some means of bodily protection. Almost anything can make a shield. Wrapping
clothes or blankets around your limbs will make for a minimal form of armour.
3. Now comes the difficult part: you must provoke the animal that is afflicting you. Tiger,
rhinoceros, ostrich, wild boar, brown bear—no matter the beast, you must get its goat. The best
way to do this will most likely be to go to the edge of your territory and noisily intrude into the
neutral zone. I did just that: I went to the edge of the tarpaulin and stamped upon the middle
bench as I mildly blew into the whistle. It is important that you make a consistent, recognizable
noise to signal your aggression. But you must be careful. You want to provoke your animal, but
only so much. You don’t want it to attack you outright. If it does, God be with you. You will be
torn 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’s territory. Contain your aggression to staring
into its eyes and hurling toots and taunts.
4. When your animal has been roused, work in all bad faith to provoke a border intrusion. A good
way of bringing this about in my experience is to back off slowly as you are making your noises.
BE SURE NOT TO BREAK EYE CONTACT! As soon as the animal has laid a paw in your
territory, or even made a determined advance into the neutral territory, you have achieved your
goal. Don’t be picky or legalistic as to where its paw actually landed. Be quick to be affronted.
Don’t wait to construe—misconstrue as fast as you can. The point here is to make your animal
understand that its upstairs neighbour is exceptionally persnickety about territory.
5. Once your animal has trespassed upon your territory, be unflagging in your outrage. Whether you
have fled to your safe haven off the lifeboat or retreated to the back of your territory on the
lifeboat, START BLOWING YOUR WHISTLE AT FULL BLAST and IMMEDIATELY TRIP
THE SEA ANCHOR. These two actions are of pivotal importance. You must not delay putting
them into effect. If you can help your lifeboat get broadside to the waves by other means, with an
oar for example, apply yourself right away. The faster your lifeboat broaches to the waves, the
better.
6. Blowing a whistle continuously is exhausting for the weakened castaway, but you must not falter.
Your alarmed animal must associate its increasing nausea with the shrill cries of the whistle.
You can help things move along by standing at the end of your boat, feet on opposing gunnels,

and swaying in rhythm to the motion imparted by the sea. However slight you are, however large
your lifeboat, you will be amazed at the difference this will make. I assure you, in no time you’ll
have your lifeboat rocking and rolling like Elvis Presley. Just don’t forget to be blowing your
whistle all the while, and mind you don’t make your lifeboat capsize.
7. You want to keep going until the animal that is your burden—your tiger, your rhinoceros,
whatever—is properly green about the gills with seasickness. You want to hear it heaving and
dry retching. You want to see it lying at the bottom of the lifeboat, limbs trembling, eyes rolled
back, a deathly rattle coming from its gaping mouth. And all the while you must be shattering the
animal’s ears with the piercing blows of your whistle. If you become sick yourself, don’t waste
your vomit by sending it overboard. Vomit makes an excellent border 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 go away. You don’t want to overstate your case. No one dies of nausea, but
it can seriously sap the will to live. When enough is enough, stream the sea anchor, try to give
shade to your animal if it has collapsed in direct sunlight, and make sure it has water available
when it recovers, with anti-seasickness tablets dissolved in it, if you have any. Dehydration is a
serious danger at this point. Otherwise, retreat to your territory and leave your animal in peace.
Water, rest and relaxation, besides a stable lifeboat, will bring it back to life. The animal should
be allowed to recover fully before going through steps 1 to 8 again.
9. Treatment should be repeated until the association in the animal’s mind between the sound of the
whistle and the feeling of intense, incapacitating nausea is fixed and totally unambiguous.
Thereafter, the whistle alone will deal with trespassing or any other untoward behaviour. Just
one shrill blow and you will see your animal shudder with malaise and repair at top speed to the
safest, furthest part of its territory. Once this level of training is reached, use of the whistle
should be sparing.

CHAPTER 72

In my case, to protect myself from Richard Parker while I trained him, I made a shield with a turtle
shell. I cut a notch on each side of the shell and connected them with a length of rope. The shield was
heavier than I would have liked, but do soldiers ever get to choose their ordnance?
The first time I tried, Richard Parker bared his teeth, rotated his 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 and instantly let go of the shield. It sank without a trace after
hitting me in the shin. I was beside myself with terror—of Richard Parker, but also of being in the
water. In my mind a shark was at that very second shooting up for me. I swam for the raft in frantic
strokes, precisely the sort of wild thrashing that sharks find so deliciously inviting. Luckily there
were no sharks. I reached the raft, let out all the rope and sat with my arms wrapped around my knees
and my head down, trying to put out the fire of fear that was blazing within me. It was a long time
before the trembling of my body stopped completely. I stayed on the raft for the rest of that day and
the whole night. I did not eat or drink.
I was at it again next time I caught a turtle. Its shell was smaller, lighter, and made for a better
shield. Once more I advanced and started stamping on the middle bench with my foot.
I wonder if those who hear this story will understand that my behaviour was not an act of
insanity or a covert suicide attempt, but a simple necessity. Either I tamed him, made him see who
was Number One and who was Number Two—or I died the day I wanted to climb aboard the lifeboat
during rough 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 attack me. Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as a means of settling
scores. When animals fight, it is with the intent to kill and with the understanding that they may be
killed. A clash is costly. And so animals have a full system of cautionary signals designed to avoid a
showdown, and they are quick to back down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tiger attack a
fellow predator without warning. Typically a head-on rush for the adversary will be made, with much
snarling and growling. But just before it is too late, the tiger will freeze, the menace rumbling deep in
its throat. It will appraise the situation. 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. Four times he struck at me with his right paw
and sent me overboard, and four times I lost my shield. I was terrified before, during and after each
attack, and I spent a long time shivering with fear on the raft. Eventually I learned to read the signals
he was sending me. I found that with his ears, his eyes, his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat,
he spoke a simple, forcefully punctuated language that told me what his next move might be. I learned
to back down before he lifted his paw in the air.
Then I made my point, feet on the gunnel, boat rolling, my single-note language blasting from the
whistle, and Richard Parker 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 a book. A long book with a never-ending story.
One I could read again and again, with new eyes and a fresh understanding each time. Alas, there was
no scripture in the lifeboat. I was a disconsolate Arjuna in a battered chariot without the benefit of
Krishna’s words. The first time I came upon a Bible in the bedside table of a hotel room in Canada, I
burst into tears. I sent a contribution to the Gideons the very next day, with a note urging them to
spread the range of their activity to all places where worn and weary travellers might lay down their
heads, not just to hotel rooms, and that they should leave not only Bibles, but other sacred writings as
well. I cannot think of a better way to spread the faith. No thundering from a pulpit, no condemnation
from bad churches, no peer pressure, just a book of scripture quietly waiting to say hello, as gentle
and powerful as a little girl’s kiss on your cheek.
At the very least, if I had had a good novel! But there was only the survival manual, which I must
have read ten thousand times 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 that overwhelmed
me. I started it a week or so after the sinking of the Tsimtsum. Before that I was too busy and
scattered. The entries are not dated or numbered. What strikes me now is how time is captured.
Several days, several weeks, all on one page. I talked about what you might expect: about things that
happened and how I felt, about what I caught and what I didn’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 the circumstances—solitary Masses without priests or
consecrated Communion hosts, darshans without murtis, and pujas with turtle meat for prasad, acts of
devotion to Allah not knowing where Mecca was and getting my Arabic wrong. They brought me
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, a free act of love—but sometimes it was so hard to love. Sometimes my heart was sinking
so fast with anger, desolation and weariness, I was afraid it would sink to the very bottom of the
Pacific and I would not be able to lift it back up.
At such moments I tried to elevate myself. I would touch the turban I had made with the remnants
of my shirt and I would say aloud, “THIS IS GOD’S HAT!”
I would pat my pants and say aloud, “THIS IS GOD’S ATTIRE!”
I would point to Richard Parker and say aloud, “THIS IS GOD’S CAT!”
I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, “THIS IS GOD’S ARK!”
I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, “THESE ARE GOD’S WIDE ACRES!”
I would point at the sky and say aloud, “THIS IS GOD’S EAR!”
And in this way I would remind myself of creation and of my place in it.
But God’s hat was always unravelling. God’s pants were falling apart. God’s cat was a constant
danger. God’s ark was a jail. God’s wide acres were slowly killing me. God’s ear didn’t seem to be
listening.
Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank
God it always passed. A school of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out to be reknotted. Or
I thought of my family, of how they were spared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir and
eventually go away, and God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving.

CHAPTER 75

On the day when I estimated it was Mother’s birthday, I sang “Happy Birthday” to her out loud.

CHAPTER 76

I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. As soon as I became aware that he had had a
bowel movement, I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudging his feces my way
with the gaff and reaching for them from the tarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does
not matter with animals in the wild since they rarely spend any time next to their feces and mostly
have a neutral relationship to them; tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animals normally
excrete and move on. In the compact territory of a zoo, however, the case is quite different, and to
leave feces in an animal’s enclosure is to invite reinfection by encouraging the animal to eat them,
animals being gluttons for anything that remotely resembles food. That is why enclosures are cleaned,
out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to spare the eyes and noses of visitors. But
upholding the Patel family’s reputation for high standards in zookeeping was not my concern in the
case at hand. In a matter of weeks Richard Parker became constipated and his bowel movements
came no more than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring was hardly worth it from a sanitary
point of view. It was for another reason that I did it: it was because the first time Richard Parker
relieved himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that he tried to hide the result. The significance of this was
not lost on me. To display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them, would have been a sign of
social dominance. Conversely, to hide them, or try to, was a sign of deference—of deference to me.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, his head cocked back and his ears flat to the
sides, a quiet, sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptional alertness and
deliberation, not only to preserve my life but also to give him the right signal. The right signal was
that when I had his feces in my hand, I rolled them about for some seconds, brought them close to my
nose and sniffed them loudly, and swung my gaze his way a few times in a showy manner, glaring at
him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew) long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as to
provoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I blew in a low, menacing way in the whistle. By
doing this, by badgering him with my eyes (for, of course, with all animals, including us, to stare is an
aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle cry that had such ominous associations in his mind, I
made clear to Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, to fondle and sniff his feces if I
wanted to. So you see, it was not good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological bullying. And it
worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gaze always floated in mid-air, neither on me nor off
me. It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the
making. The exercise always left me utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated as Richard Parker. It was the result of our
diet, too little water and too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthly act, was hardly
that. It was a long-drawn, arduous and painful event that left me bathing in sweat and helpless with
exhaustion, a trial worse than a high fever.

CHAPTER 77

As the cartons of survival rations diminished, I reduced my intake till I was following instructions
exactly, holding myself to only two biscuits every eight hours. I was continuously hungry. I thought
about food obsessively. The less I had to eat, the larger became the portions I dreamed of. My fantasy
meals grew to be the size of India. A Ganges of dhal soup. Hot chapattis the size of Rajasthan. Bowls
of rice as big as Uttar Pradesh. Sambars to flood all of Tamil Nadu. Ice cream heaped as high as the
Himalayas. My dreaming became quite expert: all ingredients for my dishes were always in fresh and
plentiful supply; the oven or frying pan was always at just the right temperature; the proportion of
things was always bang on; nothing was ever burnt or undercooked, nothing too hot or too cold. Every
meal was simply perfect—only just beyond the reach of my hands.
By degrees the range of my appetite increased. Whereas at first I gutted fish and peeled their skin
fastidiously, soon I no more than rinsed off their slimy slipperiness before biting into them, delighted
to have such a treat between my teeth. I recall flying fish as being quite tasty, their flesh rosy white
and tender. Dorado had a firmer texture and a stronger taste. I began to pick at fish heads rather than

toss them to Richard Parker or use them as bait. It was a great discovery when I found that a fresh-
tasting fluid could be sucked out not only from the eyes of larger fish but also from their vertebrae.

Turtles—which previously I had roughly opened up with the knife 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 I looked upon a live sea turtle as a
ten-course meal of great delicacy, a blessed respite from fish. Yet so it was. In the veins of turtles
coursed a sweet lassi that had to be drunk as soon as it spurted from their necks, because it
coagulated in less than a minute. The best poriyals and kootus in the land could not rival turtle flesh,
either cured brown or fresh deep red. No cardamom payasam I ever tasted was as sweet or as rich as

creamy turtle eggs or cured turtle fat. A chopped-up mixture of heart, lungs, liver, flesh and cleaned-
out intestines sprinkled with fish parts, the whole soaked in a yolk-and-serum gravy, made an

unsurpassable, finger-licking thali. By the end of my journey I was eating everything a turtle had to
offer. In the algae that covered the shells of some hawksbills I sometimes found small crabs and
barnacles. Whatever I found in a turtle’s stomach became my turn to eat. I whiled away many a
pleasant hour gnawing at a flipper joint or splitting open bones and licking out their marrow. And my
fingers were forever picking away at bits of dry fat and dry flesh that clung to the inner sides of
shells, rummaging for food in the automatic way of monkeys.
Turtle shells were very handy. I couldn’t have done without them. They served not only as
shields, but as cutting boards for fish and as bowls for mixing food. And when the elements had
destroyed the blankets beyond repair, I used the shells to protect myself from the sun by propping
them against each other and lying beneath them.
It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made for a good mood. The one would follow
the other measure for measure: 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, anything was good to eat, no matter the taste.
I could put anything in my mouth, chew it and swallow it—delicious, foul or plain—so long as it
wasn’t salty. My body developed a revulsion for salt that I still experience to this day.
I tried once to eat Richard Parker’s feces. It happened early on, when my system hadn’t learned
yet to live with hunger and my imagination was still wildly searching for solutions. I had delivered

fresh solar-still water to his bucket not long before. After draining it in one go, he had disappeared
below the tarpaulin and I had returned to attending to some small matter in the locker. As I always did
in those early days, I glanced below the tarpaulin every so often to make sure he wasn’t up to
something. Well, this one time, lo, he was. He was crouched, his back was rounded and his rear legs
were spread. His tail was raised, pushing up against the tarpaulin. The position was telltale. Right
away I had food in mind, not animal hygiene. I decided there was little danger. He was turned the
other way and his head was out of sight. If I respected his peace and quiet, he might not even notice
me. I grabbed a bailing cup and stretched my arm forward. My cup arrived in the nick of time. At the
second it was in position at the base of his tail, Richard Parker’s anus distended, and out of it, like a
bubble-gum balloon, came a black sphere of excrement. It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I
will be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand
the degree of my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin
dropped into a beggar’s cup. A smile cracked my lips and made them bleed. I felt deep gratitude
towards Richard Parker. I pulled back the cup. I took the turd in 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 of the softness. In
fact, it was as hard as a rock. Load a musket with it and you could have shot a rhino.
I returned the ball to the cup and added a little water. I covered it and set it aside. My mouth
watered as I waited. When I couldn’t stand the wait any longer, I popped the ball into my mouth. I
couldn’t eat it. The taste was acrid, but it wasn’t that. It was rather my mouth’s conclusion, immediate
and obvious: there’s nothing to be had here. It was truly waste matter, with no nutrients in it. I spat it
out and was bitter at the loss of precious water. I took the gaff and went about collecting the rest of
Richard Parker’s feces. They went straight to the fish.
After just a few weeks my body began to deteriorate. My feet and ankles started to swell and I
was finding it very tiring to stand.

CHAPTER 78

There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and
billowy on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky
was a heavy, suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly
overcast. The sky was dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky was streaked with high, thin
clouds that looked like a cotton ball stretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The sky
was a density of dark and blustery rain clouds that passed by without delivering rain. The sky was
painted with a small number of flat clouds that looked like sandbars. The sky was a mere block to
allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the ocean, the vertical edges between light and
shadow perfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of falling rain. The sky was many
clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. The sky was black and
spitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge that
wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff.
There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend
telling you secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches.
The sea hissed like sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea
was dead silent.
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 centre of a circle. However much things may
appear to change—the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to
blinding white to darkest black—the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The
circumference is ever great. In fact, the circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a
harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the centre of one circle, while above you two opposing circles
spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive crowd that makes you cup your
ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon distresses you by silently
reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness. When you look
up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of Tranquillity,
there isn’t another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with fear,
rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.
Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. When it is light,
the openness of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic.
When it is day, you are hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on
yourself. When it is night, you are cold and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries and wrap
yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly
drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too much of it and you must feast. When
there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and motionless, you wish it
would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of water, you suffer
that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be flat again.
The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you are
stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from
your lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing
your fresh-water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that

some will probably go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes
clear that you have survived the sky’s attack and the sea’s treachery, your jubilation is tempered by
the rage that so much fresh water should fall directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last
rain you will ever see, that you will die of 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 the other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last
forever. You are so bored you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough
and your emotions are whipped into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In
your boredom there are elements of terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you
scream; you deliberately hurt yourself. And in the grip of terror—the worst storm—you yet feel
boredom, a deep weariness with it all.
Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and
stale, or fleeing it when life is threatened and precious.
Life on a lifeboat isn’t much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces.
The elements couldn’t be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous,
and morally it is killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes
expendable. You get your happiness where you can. You reach a point where you’re at the bottom of
hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you’re the luckiest person
on earth. Why? Because at your feet you have a tiny dead fish.

CHAPTER 79

There were sharks every day, mainly makos and blue sharks, but also oceanic whitetips, and once a
tiger shark straight from the blackest of nightmares. Dawn and dusk were their favourite times. They
never seriously troubled us. On occasion one knocked the hull of the lifeboat with its tail. I don’t think
it was accidental (other marine life did it too, turtles and even dorados). I believe it was part of a
shark’s way of determining the nature of the lifeboat. A good whack on the offender’s nose with a
hatchet sent it vanishing post-haste into the deep. The main nuisance of sharks was that they made
being in the water risky, like trespassing on a property where there’s a sign saying Beware of Dog.
Otherwise, I grew quite fond of sharks. They were like curmudgeonly old friends who would never
admit that they liked me yet came round to see me all the time. The blue sharks were smaller, usually
no more than four or five feet long, and the most attractive, sleek and slender, with small mouths and
discreet gill slits. Their backs were a rich ultramarine and their stomachs snow white, colours that
vanished to grey or black when they were at any depth, but which close to the surface sparkled with
surprising brilliance. The makos were larger and had mouths bursting with frightening teeth, but they
too were nicely coloured, an indigo blue that shimmered beautifully in the sun. The oceanic whitetips
were often shorter than the makos—some of which stretched to twelve feet—but they were much
stockier and had enormous dorsal fins that they sailed high above the surface of the water, like a war
banner, a rapidly moving sight that was always nerve-racking to behold. Besides, they were a dull
colour, a sort of greyish brown, and the mottled white tips of their fins held no special attraction.
I caught a number of small sharks, blue sharks for the most part, but some makos too. Each time
it was just after sunset, in the dying light of the day, and I caught them with my bare hands as they
came close to the lifeboat.
The first one was my largest, a mako over four feet long. It had come and gone near the bow
several times. As it was passing by yet again, I impulsively dropped my hand into the water and
grabbed it just ahead of the tail, where its body was thinnest. Its harsh skin afforded such a
marvellously good grip that without thinking about what I was doing, I pulled. As I pulled, it jumped,
giving my arm a terrific shake. To my horror and delight the thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of
water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second I didn’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 the mako towards the stern. The fish fell from the sky into Richard
Parker’s territory. It landed with a crash and started thwacking about with such thunder that I was
afraid it would demolish the boat. Richard Parker was startled. He attacked immediately.
An epic battle began. Of interest to zoologists I can report the following: a tiger will not at first
attack a shark out of water with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker
started clubbing the shark. I shuddered at every blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered
to a human would break every bone, would turn any piece of furniture into splinters, would reduce an
entire house into a pile of rubble. That the mako was not enjoying the treatment was evident from the
way it was twisting and turning and beating its tail and reaching with its mouth.
Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar with sharks, had never encountered a
predatory fish—whatever the case, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when I was
reminded that Richard Parker was not perfect, that despite his honed instincts he too could bumble.
He put his left paw into the mako’s mouth. The mako closed its jaws. Immediately Richard Parker
reared onto his back legs. The shark was jerked up, but it wouldn’t let go. Richard Parker fell back

down, opened his mouth wide and full-out roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air
visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot day. I can well imagine that somewhere far off,
150 miles away, a ship’s watch looked up, startled, and later reported the oddest thing, that he thought
he heard a cat’s meow coming from three o’clock. Days later that roar was still ringing in my guts.
But a shark is deaf, conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn’t think of pinching a tiger’s
paw, let alone of trying to swallow one, received a volcanic roar full in the face and quaked and
trembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the shark perceived only a dull vibration.
Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark’s head with his free front paw and biting it
with his jaws, while his rear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The shark held on to his paw,
its only line of defence and attack, and thrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about.
With great effort I managed to gain enough control of my body to get onto the raft and release it. The
lifeboat drifted away. I saw flashes of orange and deep blue, of fur and skin, as the lifeboat rocked
from side to side. Richard Parker’s snarling was simply terrifying.
At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutes Richard Parker sat up, licking his left
paw.
In the following days he spent much time tending his four paws. A shark’s skin is covered with
minute tubercles that make it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himself while repeatedly
raking the shark. His left paw was injured, but the damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws
were missing. As for the mako, except for the tips of the tail and the mouth area, incongruously
untouched, it was a half-eaten, butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps of internal
organs were strewn about.
I managed to gaff some of the shark’s remains, but to my disappointment the vertebrae of sharks
do not hold fluid. At least the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness of cartilage was a
welcome respite from so much soft food.
Subsequently I went for smaller sharks, pups really, and I killed them myself. I found that
stabbing them through the eyes with the knife was a faster, less tiresome way of killing them than
hacking at the tops of their heads with the hatchet.

CHAPTER 80

Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a special dorado. It was early morning on a cloudy
day, and we were in the midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was actively swatting at them.
I was huddled behind a turtle shell, shielding myself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of
net hanging from it extended into the open. I was hoping to catch fish in this way. I wasn’t having
much luck. A flying fish whizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of the water. It was a
bad calculation. The anxious flying fish got away, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel
like a cannonball. The thud it made shook the whole boat. A spurt of blood sprayed the tarpaulin. I
reacted quickly. I dropped beneath the hail of flying fish and reached for the dorado just ahead of a
shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearly there, and turning all kinds of colours. What a catch!
What a catch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. The fish was fat and fleshy. It must
have weighed a good forty pounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine would irrigate a desert.
Alas, Richard Parker’s great head had turned my way. I sensed it from the corner of my eyes.
The flying fish were still coming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was the fish in my hands
that was now the focus of his attention. He was eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wing
dangling from it. His back became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he
was in a crouch and he was making to attack me. It was too late to get away, too late even to blow my
whistle. My time had come.
But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was so hungry. There are only so many days
you can go without eating.
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 the term, I looked
Richard Parker dead in the eyes. Suddenly his brute strength meant only moral weakness. It was
nothing compared to the strength in my mind. I stared into his eyes, wide-eyed and defiant, and we
faced off. Any zookeeper will tell you that a tiger, indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of a
direct stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild ox has turned its eyes. But to know that
and to apply it are two very different things (and it’s a useless bit of knowledge if you’re hoping to
stare down a gregarious cat. While you hold one lion in the thrall of your gaze, another will come up
to you from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status and authority
was waged between a boy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest of lunges 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 with disbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried away to the raft. Shortly
thereafter, I delivered to Richard Parker a fair chunk of the fish.
From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer in question, and I began to spend
progressively more time on the lifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on the more
comfortable tarpaulin. I was still scared of Richard Parker, but only when it was necessary. His
simple presence no longer strained me. You can get used to anything—haven’t I already said that?
Isn’t that what all survivors say?
Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against its rolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little
—since the ends of the lifeboat were higher than its middle—and so I could keep an eye on Richard
Parker.
Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting just above the middle bench, my back to

Richard Parker and his territory. In this position I was further away from the edges of the boat and
less exposed to wind and spray.

CHAPTER 81

I know my survival is hard to believe. When I think back, I can hardly believe it myself.
My crude exploitation of Richard Parker’s weak sea legs is not the only explanation. There is
another: I was the source of food and water. Richard Parker had been a zoo animal as long as he
could remember, and he was used to sustenance coming to him without his lifting a paw. True, when
it rained and the whole boat became a rain catcher, he understood where the water came from. And
when we were hit by a school of flying fish, there too my role was not apparent. But these events did
not change the reality of things, which was that when he looked beyond the gunnel, he saw no jungle
that he could hunt in and no river from which he could drink freely. Yet I brought him food and I
brought him fresh water. My agency was pure and miraculous. It conferred power upon me. Proof: I
remained alive day after day, week after week. Proof: he did not 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 solar stills in the locker, out of Richard Parker’s
sight, in the three 50-litre plastic bags. I sealed them with string. Those plastic bags wouldn’t have
been more precious to me had they contained gold, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. I worried
incessantly about them. My worst nightmare was that I would open the locker one morning and find
that all three had spilled or, worse still, had split. To forestall such a tragedy, I wrapped them in
blankets to keep them from rubbing against the metal hull of the lifeboat, and I moved them as little as
possible to reduce wear and tear. But I fretted over the necks of the bags. Would the string not wear
them thin? How would I seal the 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 could take, I filled the bailing cups, the two plastic buckets, the two multi-purpose plastic
containers, the three beakers and the empty cans of water (which I now preciously kept). Next I filled
all the plastic vomit bags, sealing them by twisting them shut and making a knot. After that, if the rain
was still coming down, I used myself as a container. I stuck the end of the rain-catcher tube in my
mouth and I drank and I drank and I drank.
I always added a little sea water to Richard Parker’s fresh water, in a greater proportion in the
days following a rainfall, in a lesser during periods of drought. On occasion, in the early days, he
dipped his head overboard, sniffed the sea and took a few sips, but quickly he stopped doing it.
Still, we barely got by. The scarcity of fresh water was the single most constant source of
anxiety and suffering throughout our journey.
Of whatever food I caught, Richard Parker took the lion’s share, so to speak. I had little choice
in the matter. He was immediately aware when I landed a turtle or a dorado or a shark, and I had to
give quickly and generously. I think I set world records for sawing open the belly shells of turtles. As
for fish, they were hewn to pieces practically while they were still flopping about. If I got to be so
indiscriminate about what I ate, it was not simply because of appalling hunger; it was also plain rush.
Sometimes I just didn’t have the time to consider what was before me. It either went into my mouth
that instant or was lost to Richard Parker, who was pawing and stamping the ground and huffing
impatiently on the edge of his territory. It came as an unmistakable indication to me of how low I had
sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate like an animal, that this noisy, frantic,
unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker ate.

CHAPTER 83

The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds looked as if they were stumbling along before
the wind, frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a manner that made my heart
sink. I took in the solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen up
till now were mere hillocks of water. These swells were truly mountains. The valleys we found
ourselves in were so deep they were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat started sliding
down them, nearly surfing. The raft was getting exceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the
water and dragged along bouncing every which way. I deployed both sea anchors fully, at different
lengths so that they would not interfere with each other.
Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope.
We would rush up until we reached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and a tipping
forward of the lifeboat. The view would be clear for miles around. But the mountain would shift, and
the ground beneath us would start sinking in a most stomach-sickening way. In no time we would be
sitting once again at the bottom of a dark valley, different from the last but the same, with thousands of
tons of water hovering above us and with only our flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move
once more, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness, and the roller 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 the anchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled us through, but at
the expense of pulling the front of the boat down. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at the
bow. I was soaked through and through each time.
Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on taking us along. This time the bow vanished
underwater. I was shocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed to hold on. The boat was
swamped. I heard Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me was death
by water or death by animal. I chose death by animal.
While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped onto the tarpaulin and unrolled it towards
the stern, closing in Richard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Faster than a sewing machine
working a piece of cloth, I hooked down the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We were climbing
again. The boat was lurching upwards steadily. It was hard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now
covered and the tarpaulin battened down, except at my end. I squeezed in between the side bench and
the tarpaulin and pulled the remaining tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between
bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and the side benches were only one and a half feet wide.
But I was not so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to move onto the floor of the boat. There
were four hooks left to catch. I slipped a hand through the opening and worked the rope. With each
hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. I managed two. Two hooks left. The boat was rushing
upwards in a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirty degrees. I could feel myself
being pulled down towards the stern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching one more
hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This was not a job meant to be done from the inside of
the lifeboat but from the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something made easier by the fact that
holding on to it was preventing me from sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftly passed a
forty-five-degree incline.
We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when we reached the summit of the swell and broke
through its crest onto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell’s supply of water crashed down
on us. I felt as if I were being pummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forward and

everything was reversed: I was now at the lower end of the lifeboat, and the water that had swamped
it, with a tiger soaking in it, came my way. I did not feel the tiger—I had no precise idea of where
Richard Parker was; it was pitch-black beneath the tarpaulin—but before we reached the next valley I
was half-drowned.
For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down,
until terror became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up. I held on to
the tarpaulin rope with one hand and the edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body lay flat
against the side bench. In this position—water pouring in, water pouring out—the tarpaulin beat me to
a pulp, I was soaked and chilled, and I was bruised and cut by bones and turtle shells. The noise of
the storm was constant, as was Richard Parker’s snarling.
Sometime during the night my mind noted that the storm was over. We were bobbing on the sea
in a normal way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starry and 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 it were two tied oars and the life jacket
between them. They had the same effect on me as the last standing beam of a burnt-down house would
have on a householder. I turned and scrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My little marine
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 was perhaps not fatal to
my body, but it felt fatal to my spirits.
The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn in several places, some tears evidently the
work of Richard Parker’s claws. Much of our food was gone, either lost overboard or destroyed by
the water that had come in. I was sore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound was swollen
and white. I was nearly too afraid to check the contents of the locker. Thank God none of the water
bags had split. The net and the solar stills, which I had not entirely deflated, had filled the empty
space and prevented the bags from moving too much.
I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin at the stern. Richard Parker was so
silent I wondered whether he had drowned. He hadn’t. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to the middle
bench and daylight came to him, he stirred and growled. He climbed out of the water and set himself
on the stern bench. I took out needle and thread and went about mending the tears in the tarpaulin.
Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed the boat. Richard Parker watched me
distractedly. He seemed to find nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and I proceeded
slowly. One haul brought me something I had lost. I considered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand
was all that remained between me and death: the last of the orange whistles.

CHAPTER 84

I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming
and generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the
crest of a wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked
neither getting wet nor the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the
sea was regular in its motion. I awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in
the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my
left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It
had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the
water. It took me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its 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. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in
the glint of the whale’s eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so
before gently sinking under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and
vanished in the dark blue. Its tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn’t do, and
besides, I already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their
presence by their spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of
them, a short-lived archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits.
I was convinced that they understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed,
“Oh! It’s that castaway with the pussy cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has
enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn’t a
ship around I could alert. His mother would be very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I’ll try
to help. My name’s Pimphoo.” And so, through the grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me,
and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn’t sought help from a Japanese ship whose
dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the hands of a Norwegian ship. The
hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They
were very gay. Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose
other than sporting fun. I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they
were too fast and too big. I gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were
seafaring birds that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe
and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without 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’s petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on
the water. They, too, took no 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 its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as
a cork. It eyed me with curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its

way. I put no weights on the line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird
paddled up to the sinking bait and plunged its head underwater to get at it. My heart pounded with
excitement. I did not pull on the line for some seconds. When I did, the bird merely squawked and
regurgitated what it had just swallowed. Before I could try again, 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 of nowhere, gliding towards us, wings
spanning over three feet. It landed on the gunnel within hand’s reach of me. Its round eyes took me in,
the expression puzzled and serious. It was a large bird with a pure snowy white body and wings that
were jet-black at their tips and rear edges. Its big, bulbous head had a very pointed orange-yellow
beak and the red eyes behind the black mask made it look like a thief who had had a very long night.
Only the oversized, brown webbed feet left something to be desired in their design. The bird was
fearless. It spent several minutes tweaking its feathers with its beak, exposing soft down. When it was
finished, it looked up and everything fell into place, and it showed itself for what it was: a smooth,
beautiful, aerodynamic airship. When I offered it a bit of dorado, it pecked it out of my hand, jabbing
the palm.
I broke its neck by leveraging its head backwards, one hand pushing up the beak, the other
holding the neck. The feathers were so well attached that when I started pulling them out, skin came
off—I was not plucking the bird; I was tearing it apart. It was light enough as it was, a volume with
no weight. I took the knife and skinned it instead. For its size there was a disappointing amount of
flesh, only a little on its chest. It had a more chewy texture than dorado flesh, but I didn’t find there
was much of a difference in taste. In its stomach, besides the morsel of dorado I had just given it, I
found three small fish. After rinsing them of digestive juices, I ate them. I ate the bird’s heart, liver
and lungs. I swallowed its eyes and tongue with a gulp of water. I crushed its head and picked out its
small brain. I ate the webbings of its feet. The rest of the bird was skin, bone and feathers. I dropped
it beyond the edge of the tarpaulin for Richard Parker, who hadn’t seen the bird arrive. An orange
paw reached out.
Days later feathers and down were still floating up from his den and being blown out to sea.
Those that landed in the water were swallowed by fish.
None of the birds ever announced land.

CHAPTER 85

Once there was lightning. The sky was so black, day looked like night. The downpour was heavy. I
heard thunder far away. I thought it would stay at that. But a wind came up, throwing the rain this way
and that. Right after, a white splinter came crashing down from the sky, puncturing the water. It was
some distance from the lifeboat, but the effect was perfectly visible. The water was shot through with
what looked like white roots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean. I had never imagined
such a thing possible, lightning striking the sea. The clap of thunder was tremendous. The flash of
light was incredibly 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 on the floor of the boat, limbs splayed and visibly trembling.
The effect on me was completely the opposite. It was something to pull me out of my limited
mortal ways and thrust me into a state of exalted wonder.
Suddenly a bolt struck much closer. Perhaps it was meant for us: we had just fallen off the crest
of a swell and were sinking down its back when its top was hit. There was an explosion of hot air
and hot water. For two, perhaps three seconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a broken
cosmic window danced in the sky, insubstantial yet overwhelmingly powerful. Ten thousand trumpets
and twenty thousand drums could not have made as much noise as that bolt of lightning; it was
positively deafening. The sea turned white and all colour disappeared. Everything was either pure
white light or pure black shadow. The light did not seem to illuminate so much as to penetrate. As
quickly as it had appeared, the bolt vanished—the spray of hot water had not finished landing upon us
and already it was gone. The punished swell returned to black and rolled on indifferently.
I was dazed, thunderstruck—nearly in the true sense of the word. But not afraid.
“Praise be to Allah, Lord of All Worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment
Day!” I muttered. To Richard Parker I shouted, “Stop your trembling! This is miracle. This is an
outbreak of divinity. This is ... this is ...” I could not find what it was, this thing so vast and fantastic.
I was breathless and wordless. I lay back on the tarpaulin, arms and legs spread wide. The rain
chilled me to the bone. But I was smiling. I remember that close encounter with electrocution and
third-degree burns as one of the few times during my ordeal when I felt genuine happiness.
At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, to entertain thoughts that span the
universe, that capture both thunder 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 overwhelmed with happiness. All hurt and
frustration fell away and I positively 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 too far away to see us? Should I launch
a rocket flare? Nonsense!
“It’s coming right towards us, Richard Parker! Oh, I thank you, Lord Ganesha! Blessed be you in
all your manifestations, Allah-Brahman!”
It couldn’t miss us. Can there be any happiness greater than the happiness of salvation? The
answer—believe me—is No. I got to my feet, the first time in a long time I had made such an effort.
“Can you believe it, Richard Parker? People, food, a bed. Life is ours once again. Oh, what
bliss!”
The ship came closer still. It looked like an oil tanker. The shape of its bow was becoming
distinct. Salvation wore a robe of black metal with white trim.
“And what if ...?”
I did not dare say the words. But might there not be a chance that Father and Mother and Ravi
were still alive? The Tsimtsum had had a number of lifeboats. Perhaps they had reached Canada
weeks ago and were anxiously waiting for news from me. Perhaps I was the only person from the
wreck unaccounted for.
“My God, oil tankers are big!”
It was a mountain creeping up on us.
“Perhaps they’re already in Winnipeg. I wonder what our house looks like. Do you suppose,
Richard Parker, that Canadian houses have inner courtyards in the traditional Tamil style? Probably
not. I suppose they would fill up with snow in winter. Pity. There’s no peace like the peace of an
inner courtyard on a sunny day. I wonder what spices grow in Manitoba?”
The ship was very close. The crew better be stopping short or turning sharply soon.
“Yes, what spices ...? Oh my God!”
I realized with horror that the tanker was not simply coming our way—it was in fact bearing
down on us. The bow was a vast wall of metal that was getting wider every second. A huge wave
girdling it was advancing towards us relentlessly. Richard Parker finally sensed the looming
juggernaut. He turned and went “Woof! Woof! but not doglike—it was tigerlike: powerful, scary and
utterly suited to the situation.
“Richard Parker, it’s going to run us over! What are we going to do? Quick, quick, a flare! No!
Must row. Oar in oarlock ... there! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUM—”
The bow wave pushed us up. Richard Parker crouched, and the hairs on him stood up. The
lifeboat slid off the bow wave and 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 single sentinel to notice us languishing in the moat. I fired off a rocket flare,
but I aimed it poorly. Instead of surging over the bulwarks and exploding in the captain’s face, it
ricocheted off the ship’s side and went straight into the Pacific, where it died with a hiss. I blew on
my whistle with all my might. I shouted at the top of my lungs. All to no avail.

Its engines rumbling loudly and its propellers chopping explosively underwater, the ship churned
past us and left us bouncing and bobbing in its frothy wake. After so many weeks of natural sounds,
these mechanical noises were strange and awesome and stunned me into silence.
In less than twenty minutes a ship of three hundred thousand tons became a speck on the horizon.
When I turned away, Richard Parker was still looking in its direction. After a few seconds he turned
away too and our gazes briefly met. My eyes expressed longing, hurt, anguish, loneliness. All he was
aware of was that something stressful and momentous had happened, something beyond the outer
limits of his understanding. He did not see that it was salvation barely missed. He only saw that the
alpha here, this odd, unpredictable tiger, had been very excited. He settled down to another nap. His
sole comment on the event was a cranky meow.
“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 I would do. I
don’t think I would make it. No, I wouldn’t. I would die of hopelessness. Don’t give up, Richard
Parker, don’t give up. I’ll get you to land, I promise, I promise!”

CHAPTER 87

One of my favourite methods of escape was what amounts to gentle asphyxiation. I used a piece of
cloth that I cut from the remnants of a blanket. I called it my dream rag. I wet it with sea water so that
it was soaked but not dripping. I lay comfortably on the tarpaulin and I placed the dream rag on my
face, fitting it to my features. I would fall into a daze, not difficult for someone in such an advanced
state of lethargy to begin with. But the dream rag gave a special quality to my daze. It must have been
the way it restricted my air intake. I would be visited by the most extraordinary dreams, trances,
visions, thoughts, sensations, remembrances. And time would be gobbled up. When a twitch or a gasp
disturbed me and the rag fell away, I’d come to full consciousness, delighted to find that time had
slipped by. The dryness of the rag was part proof. But more than that was the feeling that things were
different, that the present moment was different from the previous present moment.

CHAPTER 88

One day we came upon trash. First the water glistened with patches of oil. Coming up soon after was
the domestic and industrial waste: mainly plastic refuse in a variety of forms and colours, but also
pieces of lumber, beer cans, wine bottles, tatters of cloth, bits of rope and, surrounding it all, yellow
foam. We advanced into it. I looked to see if there was anything that might be of use to us. I picked out
an empty corked wine bottle. The lifeboat bumped into a refrigerator that had lost its motor. It floated
with its door to the sky. I reached out, grabbed the handle and lifted the door open. A smell leapt out
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 and infected it was a
greenish jelly, and the quartered remains of a dead animal in such an advanced state of black
putrefaction that I couldn’t identify it. Judging by its size I think that it was lamb. In the closed, humid
confines of the refrigerator, the smell had had the time to develop, to ferment, to grow bitter and
angry. It assaulted my senses with a pent-up rage that made my head reel, my stomach churn and my
legs wobble. Luckily, the sea quickly filled the horrid hole and the thing sank beneath the surface. The
space left vacant by the departed refrigerator was filled by other trash.
We left the trash behind. For a long time, when the wind came from that direction, I could still
smell it. It took the sea a day to wash off the oily smears from the sides of the lifeboat.
I put a message in the bottle: “Japanese-owned cargo ship Tsimtsum, flying Panamanian flag,
sank July 2nd, 1977, in Pacific, four days out of Manila. Am in lifeboat. Pi Patel my name. Have
some food, some water, but Bengal tiger a serious problem. Please advise family in Winnipeg,
Canada. Any help very much appreciated. Thank you.” I corked the bottle and covered the cork with a
piece of plastic. I tied the plastic to the neck of the bottle with nylon string, knotting it tightly. I
launched the bottle into the water.

CHAPTER 89

Everything suffered. Everything became sun-bleached and weather-beaten. The lifeboat, the raft until
it was lost, the tarpaulin, 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 orange became
whitish orange. What was smooth became rough. What was rough became smooth. What was sharp
became blunt. What was whole became tattered. Rubbing fish skins and turtle fat on things, as I did,
greasing them a little, made no difference. The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry
mouths. As for the sun, it roasted everything. It kept Richard Parker in partial subjugation. It picked
skeletons clean and fired them to a gleaming white. It burned off my clothes and would have burned
off my skin, dark though it was, had I not protected it beneath blankets and propped-up turtle shells.
When the heat was unbearable I took a bucket and poured sea water on myself; sometimes the water
was so warm it felt like syrup. The sun also took care of all smells. I don’t remember any smells. Or
only the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. They smelled like cumin, did I mention that? I don’t even
remember what Richard Parker smelled like.
We perished away. It happened slowly, so that I didn’t notice it all the time. But I noticed it
regularly. We were two emaciated mammals, parched and starving. Richard Parker’s fur lost its
lustre, and some of it even fell away from his shoulders and haunches. He lost a lot of weight, became
a skeleton in an oversized bag of faded fur. I, too, withered away, the moistness sucked out of me, my
bones showing plainly through my thin flesh.
I began to imitate Richard Parker in sleeping an incredible number of hours. It wasn’t proper
sleep, but a state of semi-consciousness in which daydreams and reality were nearly
indistinguishable. 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. A primeval monster twenty
feet long. Striped. A tiger shark—very dangerous. Circled us. Feared it would attack.
Have survived one tiger; thought I would die at the hands of another. Did not attack.
Floated away. Cloudy weather, but nothing.
No rain. Only morning greyness. Dolphins. Tried to gaf one. 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 but not 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 could not take another drop. Let myself be soaked to rinse of salt.
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 this condition, firm, muscular, alive. Touched him
and fur shuddered as if I were a gnat. At length, head half in water stirred. Better to
drink than to drown. Better sign still: tail jumped. Threw piece of turtle meat in front of
nose. Nothing. At last half rose—to drink. Drank and drank. Ate. Did notrise fully. Spent
a good hour licking himself 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, but without noting it. Do you see these
invisible spirals on the margins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. It was the pens that
ran out.

CHAPTER 90

I said, “Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?” as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing
of it. Aches and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn’t
eaten anything in three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too
weak to pull it aboard. I cut the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him
his share. I expected him to catch it in his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down.
After sniffing left and right, he found the fish and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little
more discharge in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his
overall appearance. The ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was staring into his eyes as if I were
an eye doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react 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. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn’t go
away. The very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then
darkness came, blink as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of
everything. It spread into a blotch that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next
morning was a crack of light at the top of my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon,
everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no
longer stand. My lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous
saliva as foul to taste as it was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs,
especially my feet, were swollen and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there
was no food. As for water, Richard Parker was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a
day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared to the moral torture I was about to endure. I
would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering began. I could not tell you when
exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant. It must have been
sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last another
one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a
zookeeper. I was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken
down and wasted away as I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the
afternoon. To make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had
been living with for so long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have 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 the middle of the boat. I closed my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I
muttered, “Goodbye, Richard Parker. I’m sorry for having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear
Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son and brother is coming to meet you. Not an
hour has gone by that I haven’t thought of you. The moment I see you will be the happiest of my life.

And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I love.”
I heard the words, “Is someone there?”
It’s astonishing what you hear when you’re alone in the blackness of your dying mind. A sound
without shape or colour sounds strange. To be blind is to hear otherwise.
The words came again, “Is someone there?”
I concluded that I had gone mad. Sad but true. Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth.
“Is someone there?” came the voice again, insistent.
The clarity of my insanity was astonishing. The voice had its very own timbre, with a heavy,
weary rasp. I decided to play along.
“Of course someone’s there,” I replied. “There’s always some one there. Who would be asking
the question otherwise?”
“I was hoping there would be someone else.”
“What do you mean, someone else? Do you realize where you are? If you’re not 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 beg you. 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. “The branches of the tree are bent over,
they are so weighed down with 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 anything you wanted?”
“Excellent question. I would have a magnificent buffet. I would start with rice and sambar.
There would be black gram dhal rice and curd rice and—”
“I would have—”
“I’m not finished. And with my rice I would have spicy tamarind sambar and small onion sambar
and—”
“Anything else?”
“I’m getting there. I’d also have mixed vegetable sagu and vegetable korma and potato masala
and cabbage vadai and masala dosai and spicy lentil rasam and—”
“I see.”
“Wait. And stuffed eggplant poriyal and coconut yam kootu and rice idli and curd vadai and
vegetable bajji and—”
“It sounds very—”
“Have I mentioned the chutneys yet? Coconut chutney and mint chutney and green chilli pickle
and gooseberry pickle, all served with the usual nans, popadoms, parathas and puris, of course.”
“Sounds—”
“The salads! Mango curd salad and okra curd salad and plain fresh cucumber salad. And for
dessert, almond payasam and milk payasam and jaggery pancake and peanut toffee and coconut burfi
and vanilla ice cream with hot, thick chocolate sauce.”

“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 need yams, grated coconut, green
plantains, chilli powder, ground black pepper, ground turmeric, cumin seeds, brown mustard seeds
and some coconut oil. You sauté the coconut until it’s golden brown—”
“May I make a suggestion?”
“What?”
“Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tongue with a mustard sauce?”
“That sounds non-veg.”
“It is. And then tripe.”
“Tripe? You’ve eaten the poor animal’s tongue and now you want to eat its stomach?”
“Yes! I dream of tripes à la mode de Caen—warm—with sweetbread.”
“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 coming from? Was I so far gone that I was
contemplating setting upon a cow and her young? What horrible crosswind was I caught in? 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 soufflé!”
“I’m feeling sick. Is there anything you won’t eat?”
“What I would give for oxtail soup. For roast suckling pig stuffed with rice, sausages, apricots
and raisins. For veal kidney in a butter, mustard and parsley sauce. For a marinated rabbit stewed in
red wine. For chicken liver sausages. For pork and liver pâté with veal. For frogs. Ah, give me frogs,
give me frogs!”
“I’m barely holding on.”
The voice faded. I was trembling with nausea. Madness in the mind was one thing, but it was not
fair that it should go to 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 it quite distasteful.”
I laughed. I knew it. I wasn’t hearing voices. I hadn’t gone mad. It was Richard Parker who was
speaking to me! The carnivorous rascal. All this time together and he had chosen an hour before we
were to die to pipe up. I was elated to be on speaking terms with a tiger. Immediately I was filled
with a vulgar curiosity, the sort that movie stars suffer from at the hands of their fans.
“I’m curious, tell me—have you ever killed a man?”
I doubted it. Man-eaters among animals are as rare as murderers among men, and Richard Parker
was caught while still a cub. But who’s to say that his mother, before she was nabbed 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: you have 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 must have 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. So why 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 any regrets now?”
“It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance.”
“Instinct, it’s called instinct. Still, answer the question, any regrets 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 rarely has 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 warm marbles in your mouth. You have an
Indian accent.”
“You speak as if your tongue were a saw and English words were made of wood. You have a
French accent.”
It was utterly incongruous. Richard Parker was born in Bangladesh and raised in Tamil Nadu, so
why should he have a French accent? Granted, Pondicherry was once a French colony, but no one
would have me believe that some of the zoo animals had frequented the Alliance Française on rue
Dumas.
It was very perplexing. I fell into a fog again.
I woke up with a gasp. Someone was there! This voice coming to my ears was neither a wind
with an accent nor an animal speaking up. It was someone else! My heart beat fiercely, making one
last go at pushing some blood through my worn-out system. My mind made a final attempt at being
lucid.
“Only an echo, I fear,” I heard, barely audibly.
“Wait, I’m here!” I shouted.
“An echo at sea ...”
“No, it’s me!”
“That this would end!”
“My friend!”
“I’m wasting away ...”
“Stay, stay!”
I could barely hear him.
I shrieked.
He shrieked back.

It was too much. I would go mad.
I had an idea.
“MY NAME,” I roared to the elements with my last breath, “IS PISCINE MOLITOR PATEL.”
How could an echo create a name? “Do you hear me? I am Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi
Patel!”
“What? Is someone there?”
“Yes, someone’s there!”
“What! Can it be true? Please, do you have any food? Anything at all. I have no food left. I
haven’t eaten anything in days. I must have something. I’ll be grateful for whatever you can spare. I
beg you.”
“But I have no food either,” I answered, dismayed. “I haven’t eaten anything in days myself. I
was hoping you would have food. Do you have water? My supplies are very low.”
“No, I don’t. You have no food at all? Nothing?”
“No, nothing.”
There was silence, a heavy silence.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m here,” he replied wearily.
“But where is that? I can’t see you.”
“Why can’t you see me?”
“I’ve gone blind.”
“What?” he exclaimed.
“I’ve gone blind. My eyes see nothing but darkness. I blink for nothing. These last two days, if
my skin can be trusted to measure time. It only can tell me if it’s day or night.”
I heard a terrible wail.
“What? What is it, my friend?” I asked.
He kept wailing.
“Please answer me. What is it? I’m blind and we have no food and water, but we have each
other. That is something. Something precious. So what is it, my dear brother?”
“I too am blind!”
“What?”
“I too blink for nothing, as you say.”
He wailed again. I was struck dumb. I had met another blind man on another lifeboat in the
Pacific!
“But how could you be blind?” I mumbled.
“Probably for the same reason you are. The result of poor hygiene on a starving body at the end
of its tether.”
We both broke down. He wailed and I sobbed. It was too much, truly it was too much.
“I have a story,” I said, after a while.
“A story?”
“Yes.”
“Of what use is a story? I’m hungry.”
“It’s a story about food.”
“Words have no calories.”
“Seek food where food is to be found.”
“That’s an idea.”

Silence. A famishing silence.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Here. And you?”
“Here.”
I heard a splashing sound as an oar dipped into water. I reached for one of the oars I had
salvaged from the wrecked raft. It was so heavy. I felt with my hands and found the closest oarlock. I
dropped the oar in it. I pulled on the handle. I had no strength. But I rowed as best I could.
“Let’s hear your story,” he said, panting.
“Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and
fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it.”
He stopped rowing. “What a beautiful story!”
“Thank you.”
“I have tears in my eyes.”
“I have another element,” I said.
“What is it?”
“The banana fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it—and afterwards that person
felt better.”
“It takes the breath away!” he exclaimed.
“Thank you.”
A pause.
“But you don’t have any bananas?”
“No. An orang-utan distracted me.”
“A what?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Any toothpaste?”
“No.”
“Delicious on fish. Any cigarettes?”
“I ate them already.”
“You ate them?”
“I still have the filters. You can have them if you like.”
“The filters? What would I do with cigarette filters without the tobacco? How could youeat
cigarettes?”
“What should I have done with them? I don’t smoke.”
“You should have kept them for trading.”
“Trading? With whom?”
“With me!”
“My brother, when I ate them I was alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific.”
“So?”
“So, the chance of meeting someone in the middle of the Pacific with whom to trade my
cigarettes did not strike me as an obvious prospect.”
“You have to plan ahead, you stupid boy! Now you have nothing to trade.”
“But even if I had something to trade, what would I trade it for? What do you have that I would
want?”
“I have a boot,” he said.
“A boot?”

“Yes, a fine leather boot.”
“What would I do with a leather boot in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific? Do you think I go
for hikes in my spare time?”
“You could eat it!”
“Eat a boot? What an idea.”
“You eat cigarettes—why not a boot?”
“The idea is disgusting. Whose boot, by the way?”
“How should I know?”
“You’re suggesting I eat a complete stranger’s boot?”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m flabbergasted. A boot. Putting aside the fact that I am a Hindu and we Hindus consider
cows sacred, eating a leather boot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot might exude in
addition to all the filth it might step in while shod.”
“So no boot for you.”
“Let’s see it first.”
“No.”
“What? Do you expect me to trade something with you sight unseen?”
“We’re both blind, may I remind you.”
“Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitiful salesman are you? No wonder you’re
starved for customers.”
“That’s right. I am.”
“Well, the boot?”
“It’s a leather boot.”
“What kind of leather boot?”
“The regular kind.”
“Which means?”
“A boot with a shoelace and eyelets and a tongue. With an inner sole. The regular kind.”
“What colour?”
“Black.”
“In what condition?”
“Worn. The leather soft and supple, lovely to the touch.”
“And the smell?”
“Of warm, fragrant leather.”
“I must admit—I must admit—it sounds tempting!”
“You can forget about it.”
“Why?”
Silence.
“Will you not answer, my brother?”
“There’s no boot.”
“No boot?”
“No.”
“That makes me sad.”
“I ate it.”
“You ate the boot?”
“Yes.”

“Was it good?”
“No. Were the cigarettes good?”
“No. I couldn’t finish them.”
“I couldn’t finish the boot.”
“Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and
fragrant. Then it fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it and afterwards that person felt
better.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all I’ve said and done. I’m a worthless person,” he burst out.
“What do you mean? You are the most precious, wonderful person on earth. Come, my brother,
let us be together and feast on each other’s company.”
“Yes!”
The Pacific is no place for rowers, especially when they are weak and blind, when their
lifeboats are large and unwieldy, and when the wind is not cooperating. He was close by; he was far
away. He was to my left; he was to my right. He was ahead of me; he was behind me. But at last we
managed it. Our boats touched with a bump even sweeter-sounding than a turtle’s. He threw me a
rope and I tethered his boat to mine. I opened my arms to embrace him and to be embraced by him.
My eyes were brimming with tears and I was smiling. He was directly in front of me, a presence
glowing through my blindness.
“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, “my heart is with you, but I must urgently
suggest we repair to another part of my humble ship.”
“You’re damn right your heart is with me!” he said. “And your liver and your flesh!”
I could feel him moving off the tarpaulin onto the middle bench and, fatally, bringing a foot down
to the floor of the boat.
“No, no, my brother! Don’t! We’re not—”
I tried to hold him back. Alas, it was too late. Before I could say the wordalone, I was alone
again. I heard the merest clicking of claws against the bottom of the boat, no more than the sound of a
pair of spectacles falling to the floor, and the next moment my dear brother shrieked in my face like
I’ve never heard a man shriek before. He let go of me.
This was the terrible cost of Richard Parker. He gave me a life, my own, but at the expense of
taking one. He ripped the flesh off the man’s frame and cracked his bones. The smell of blood filled
my nose. Something in me died then that has never come back to life.

CHAPTER 91

I climbed aboard my brother’s boat. With my hands I explored it. I found he had lied to me. He had a
little turtle meat, a dorado head, and even—a supreme treat—some biscuit crumbs. And he had water.
It all went into my mouth. I returned to my boat and released his.
Crying as I had done did my eyes some good. The small window at the top left of my vision
opened a crack. I rinsed my eyes with sea water. With every rinsing, the window opened further. My
vision came back within two days.
I saw such a vision that I nearly wished I had remained blind. His butchered, dismembered body
lay on the floor of the boat. Richard Parker had amply supped on him, including on his face, so that I
never saw who my brother was. His eviscerated torso, with its broken ribs curving up like the frame
of a ship, looked like a miniature version of the lifeboat, such was its blood-drenched and horrifying
state.
I will confess that I caught one of his arms with the gaff and used his flesh as bait. I will further
confess that, driven by the extremity of my need and the madness to which it pushed me, I ate some of
his flesh. I mean small pieces, little strips that I meant for the gaff’s hook that, when dried by the sun,
looked like ordinary animal flesh. They slipped into my mouth nearly unnoticed. You must
understand, my suffering was unremitting and he was already dead. I stopped as soon as I caught a
fish.
I pray for his soul every day.

CHAPTER 92

I made an exceptional botanical discovery. But there will be many who disbelieve the following
episode. Still, I give it to you now 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 a day of quiet sunshine and gentle breeze. I
had slept a short while, a diluted sleep that had brought no rest and no dreams. I turned over to my
other side, expending as little energy as possible in doing so. I opened my eyes.
In the near distance I saw trees. I did not react. I was certain it was an illusion that a few blinks
would make disappear.
The trees remained. In fact, they grew to be a forest. They were part of a low-lying island. I

pushed myself up. I continued to disbelieve my eyes. But it was a thrill to be deluded in such a high-
quality way. The trees were beautiful. They were like none I had ever seen before. They had a pale

bark, and equally distributed branches that carried an amazing profusion of leaves. These leaves were
brilliantly green, a green so bright and emerald that, next to it, vegetation during the monsoons was
drab olive.
I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act like lumberjacks. But the trees would not fall.
I looked down. I was both satisfied and disappointed with what I saw. The island had no soil.
Not that the trees stood in water. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a dense mass of
vegetation, as sparkling green as the leaves. Who had ever heard of land with no soil? With trees
growing out of pure vegetation? I felt satisfaction because such a geology confirmed that I was right,
that this island was a chimera, a play of the mind. By the same token I felt disappointment because an
island, any island, however strange, would have been very good to come upon.
Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. To take 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 my favourite colour.
The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a
beach, there being neither sand nor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, since the waves
that fell upon the island simply vanished into its porosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards
inland, the island sloped to the sea and, forty or so yards into it, fell off precipitously, disappearing
from sight into the depths of the Pacific, surely the smallest continental shelf on record.
I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last I refrained from putting a strain on it;
when the lifeboat nudged the island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabric of the island
seemed to be an intricate, tightly webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker
than two fingers. 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 was green. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshine food colouring and
flashing neon lights. A green to get drunk on. “Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land,”
pursued the 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 were sharks. There were none. I turned on my
stomach, and holding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. My foot entered the sea. It was
pleasingly cool. The island lay just a little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. I
expected the bubble of illusion to burst at any second.
It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met the rubbery resistance of something flexible but
solid. I put more weight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weight on my foot. Still I did

not sink. Still I did not believe.
Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It came to my olfactory sense, full and fresh,
overwhelming: the smell of vegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing but salt-water-bleached
smells, this reek of vegetable organic matter was intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only
thing that sank was my mind; my thought process became disjointed. My leg began to shake.
“My God! My God!” I whimpered.
I fell overboard.
The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave me the strength to pull myself forward
onto the island. I babbled incoherent thanks to God and collapsed.
But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted to get to my feet. Blood rushed away
from my head. The ground shook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought I would
faint. I steadied myself. All I seemed able to do was pant. I managed to sit up.
“Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!” I shouted.
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and
soothing that strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be
a variety of marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was
wet and as of something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In
cross-section it consisted of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly
green, and an inner wall midway between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the
two tubes that resulted was very plain: the centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that
surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to
my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance 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 tube was bitterly salty—but the outer was
not only edible, it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a
dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at
hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are
never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple
trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I
tore at the algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing
the sweet outer into my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to
work harder and faster than it had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge,
which seemed a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of
how steep the rise from the shore was. The island was low-lying, as I’ve said. The rise was gentle, to
a height 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 managed to 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 I hadn’t fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them. But my will was strong. I was
determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree’s dappled,
shimmering shade and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as
large or as tall as the ones inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the

elements, it was a little scraggly and not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a
tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when you’ve been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that
tree’s glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty. Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the
ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah’s works. The tree
did indeed grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of
soil. Either there was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a
commensal or a parasite. The trunk was about the width of a man’s chest. The bark was greyish green
in colour, thin and smooth, and soft enough that I could mark it with my fingernail. The cordate leaves
were large and broad, and ended in a single point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness
of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it 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 I know was that it was beautiful
and green and lush with leaves.
I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at
the island, too. He seemed to want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after much snarling and
pacing, he leapt from the boat. I brought the orange whistle to my mouth. But he didn’t have
aggression on his mind. Simple balance was enough of a challenge; he was as wobbly on his feet as I
was. When he advanced, he crawled close to the ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn
cub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge and disappeared into the interior of the island.
I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, in a general way, bathing in bliss. I felt
nauseous when I exerted myself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground was shifting beneath me
and that I was going to fall over, even when I was sitting still.
I started worrying about Richard Parker in the late afternoon. Now that the setting, the territory,
had changed, I wasn’t sure how he would take to me if he came upon me.
Reluctantly, strictly for safety’s sake, I crawled back to the lifeboat. However Richard Parker
took possession of the island, the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searched for
something to moor the lifeboat to. Evidently the algae covered the shore thickly, for it was all I could
find. Finally, I resolved the problem by driving an oar, handle first, deep into the algae and tethering
the boat to it.
I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body was spent from taking in so much food,
and there was the nervous tension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the day ended, I
hazily remember hearing Richard Parker roaring in the distance, but sleep overcame me.
I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my lower belly. I thought it was a
cramp, that perhaps I had poisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker
was aboard. He had returned while I was sleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet.
I found his return puzzling but thought no further about it—the cramp was quickly getting worse. I was
doubled over with pain, shaking with it, when a process, normal for most but long forgotten by me, set
itself into motion: defecation. It was very painful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most
refreshing sleep I had had since the night before the Tsimtsum sank.
When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. I crawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous
way. My eyes feasted once more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I had such a plentiful
breakfast that I dug a big hole.

Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours before jumping off the boat. When he did, mid-
morning, as soon as he landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in the water and seemed very

tense. He hissed and clawed the air with a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His

anxiety passed, and noticeably surer-footed than the previous day, he disappeared another time over
the ridge.
That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy. The only way I could make the ground stop
moving was to close my eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. I fell instantly. The
ground rushed up to me before I could move a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with such
tightly woven, rubbery vegetation, was an ideal place to relearn how to walk. I could fall any which
way, it was impossible to hurt myself.
The next day, after another restful night on the boat—to which, once again, Richard Parker had
returned—I was able to walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach the tree. I could feel my
strength increasing by the hour. With the gaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. I
plucked off some leaves. They were soft and unwaxed, but they tasted bitter. Richard Parker was
attached to his den on the lifeboat—that was my explanation for why he had returned another 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 the bow, 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
gallop couldn’t possibly be the same listless, bedraggled tiger who was my companion in misfortune?
But it was. It was Richard Parker and he was coming my way at high speed. He looked purposeful.
His powerful neck rose above his lowered head. His coat and his muscles shook at every step. I
could hear the drumming of his heavy body against the ground.
I have read that there are two fears that cannot be trained out of us: the startle reaction upon
hearing an unexpected noise, and vertigo. I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapid and direct
approach of a known killer.
I fumbled for the whistle. When he was twenty-five feet from the lifeboat I blew into the whistle
with all my might. A piercing cry split the air.
It had the desired effect. Richard Parker braked. But he clearly 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 hair on him was raised. His claws were full out. He was
in a state of extreme agitation. I feared that the defensive wall of my whistle blows was about to
crumble and that he would attack me.
Instead, Richard Parker did the most unexpected thing: he jumped into the sea. I was astounded.
The very thing I thought he would never do, he did, and with might and resolve. He energetically
paddled his way to the stern of the lifeboat. I thought of blowing again, but instead opened the locker
lid and sat down, retreating to the inner sanctum of my territory.
He surged onto the stern, quantities of water pouring off him, making my end of the boat pitch up.
He balanced on the gunnel and the stern bench for a moment, assessing me. My heart grew faint. I did
not think I would be able to blow into the whistle again. I looked at him blankly. He flowed down to
the floor of the lifeboat and disappeared under the tarpaulin. I could see parts of him from the edges
of the locker lid. I threw myself upon the tarpaulin, out of his sight—but directly above him. I felt an
overwhelming urge to sprout wings and fly off.
I calmed down. I reminded myself forcefully that this had been my situation for the last long
while, to be living with a live 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 growling in his sleep. He was loud enough about it to have woken me up.
In the morning, as usual, he went over the ridge.

I decided that as soon as I was strong enough I would go exploring the island. It seemed quite
large, if the shoreline was any indication; left and right it stretched on with only a slight curve,
showing the island to have a fair girth. I spent the day walking—and falling—from the shore to the
tree and back, in an attempt to restore my legs to health. At every fall I had a full meal of algae.
When Richard Parker returned as the day was ending, a little earlier than the previous day, I was
expecting him. I sat tight and did not blow the whistle. He came to the water’s edge and in one mighty
leap reached the side of the lifeboat. He entered his territory without intruding into mine, only causing
the boat to lurch to one side. His return to form was quite terrifying.
The next morning, after giving Richard Parker plenty of advance, I set off to explore the island. I
walked up to the ridge. I reached it easily, proudly moving one foot ahead of the other in a gait that
was spirited if still a little awkward. Had my legs been weaker, they would have given way beneath
me when I saw what I saw beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I
saw a great green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of
evenly scattered, identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between
them, the whole arrangement giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look
what I would conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousands of meerkats. The landscape was
covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, 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 read about them. They were in the books and
in the literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words,
a carnivorous burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender and weasel-like
in build, with a pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four
toes and long, non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with
black or brown bands on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles
around its 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 other things,
scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When it is on the lookout, the meerkat has the
peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing itself tripod-like with
its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle and gazing in
the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their faces,
and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor’s office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover
their genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats—more, a million—
turning to me and standing at attention, as if saying, “Yes, sir?” Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches
up eighteen inches at most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their
unlimited multitude. I stood rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror,
the chaos would be indescribable. But their interest in me was short-lived. After a few seconds, they
went back to doing what they had been doing before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the
algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings bending down at the same time reminded me of
prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or
showed the least tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked

one up. I did nothing of the sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats
in the world, one of the strangest, most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless
noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping, twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and
the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and went like a flock of birds, at times very loud,
swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest meerkats fell silent while others, further off,
started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind.
But the answer—that they were harmless—was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around
which they were densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
They took to my barging without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt
warm, furry bodies against my ankles as I looked into a pond.
All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size—roughly forty feet in
diameter. I expected shallowness. I saw nothing but deep, clear water. The ponds seemed bottomless,
in fact. And as far down as I could see, their sides consisted of green algae. Evidently the layer atop
the island was very substantial.
I could see nothing that accounted for the meerkats’ fixed curiosity, and I might have given up on
solving the mystery had squeaking and barking not erupted at a pond nearby. Meerkats were jumping
up and down in a state of great ferment. Suddenly, by the hundreds, they began diving into the pond.
There was much pushing and shoving as the meerkats behind vied to reach the pond’s edge. The
frenzy was collective; even tiny meerkittens were making for the water, barely being held back by
mothers and guardians. I stared in disbelief. These were not standard Kalahari Desert meerkats.
Standard Kalahari Desert meerkats do not behave like frogs. These meerkats were most definitely a
subspecies that had specialized in a fascinating and surprising way.
I made for the pond, bringing my feet down gingerly, in time to see meerkats swimming—
actually swimming—and bringing to shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were
dorados that would have been unqualified feasts on the lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It was
incomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such fish.
It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of the pond, displaying real feats of teamwork,
that I noticed something curious: every fish, without exception, was already dead. Freshly dead. The
meerkats were bringing ashore dead fish they had not killed.
I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wet meerkats. I touched the water. It was
cooler than I’d expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water from below. I cupped a
little water in my hand and brought it to my 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 will quickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fish doing in a
freshwater pond? How had they got there?
I went to another pond, making my way through the meerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the
same. And again with a fourth pond.
They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantities of fresh water come from, I asked
myself. The answer was obvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuously desalinated
sea water, which was why its core was salty while its outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was
oozing the fresh water out. I did not ask myself why the algae did this, or how, or where the salt went.
My mind stopped asking such questions. I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found it hard 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 the edge of the pond. The effect of bathing in pure, clean, salt-free water was more than I can put

into words. After such a long time at sea, my skin was like a hide and my hair was long, matted and as
silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soul had been corroded by salt. So, under the gaze of a
thousand meerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every salt crystal that had tainted me.
The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all of them turning in the same direction at
exactly the same time. I pulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed
what I had suspected, that these meerkats had gone for so many generations without predators that any
notion of flight distance, of flight, of plain fear, had been genetically weeded out of them. He was
moving through them, blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another,
blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the
spot, as if crying, “My turn! My turn! My turn!” I would see this scene time and again. Nothing
distracted the meerkats from their little lives of pond staring and algae nibbling. Whether Richard
Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder of roaring, or
slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness ruled.
He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is

separate from the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many—his pent-
up hunting instinct was lashing out with a vengeance.

He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment.
The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won’t describe
what the accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle
remains, looked like. The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn’t dare step onto the
floor of the boat for fear of leaving a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had
to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I
could not clean up with the gaff—the smells and the smears—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 ate during the night.
I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and
walking and running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and
unselfconscious, a source of euphoria. My skin healed. My pains 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 I saw seemed to
indicate that the shore was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the
same ridge, the same incline from ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here
and there. Exploring the shore revealed one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island
itself, varied in height and density depending on the weather. On very hot days, the algae’s weave
became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the climb to the ridge became steeper and
the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting several days triggered it. But it
was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with exposing less of the algae’s
surface to the sun’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 shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This
loosening was brought on by overcast weather and, faster still, by heavy seas.
I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted
staying on it during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant

waves charging the island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos—
only to see each one melt away as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was
Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only
a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the
ponds were the only indications that some great force was passing through. And pass through it did: in
the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and went on their way. It was the
strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the resulting minor earthquakes,
did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the elements did not
exist.
Harder to understand was the island’s complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down
ecology. The air of the place carried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind. The trees
sheltered no birds. The plains hid no rodents, no grubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave
rise to no other trees, no shrubs, no grasses, no flowers. The ponds harboured no freshwater fish. The
seashore teemed with no weeds, no crabs, no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the
single, notable exception of the meerkats, there was not 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 day when I ate so much algae at the base of a
small tree that I exposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the
algae, but rather joined it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbiotic
relationship with the algae, in a giving-and-taking that was to their mutual advantage, or, simpler still,
were an integral part of the algae. I would guess that the latter was the case because the trees did not
seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that an independent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it
has entered upon, would give up on so essential a part of life as reproduction. The leaves’ appetite
for the sun, as testified by their abundance, their breadth and their super-chlorophyll greenness, made
me suspect that the trees had primarily an energy-gathering function. But this is conjecture.
There is one last observation I would like to make. It is based on intuition rather than hard
evidence. It is this: that the island 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 of leviathan proportions. And it is my hunch that the ponds reached down to the sides of this
huge, buoyant mass and opened onto the ocean, which explained the otherwise inexplicable presence
in them of dorados and other fish of the open seas.
It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lost the algae that I took away.
Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint of stuffing himself with meerkats, his
weight went up, his fur began to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look of old. He kept up
his habit of returning to the lifeboat at the end of every day. I always made sure I was there before
him, copiously marking my territory with urine so that he didn’t forget who was who and what was
whose. But he left at first light and roamed further afield than I did; the island being the same all over,
I generally stayed within one area. I saw very little of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw
how he raked the trees with his forepaws—great deep gouges in the trunks, they were. And I began to
hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chilling as the depths of
an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female was not in itself what
troubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enough on the island to be thinking about
producing young. I worried that in this new condition he might not tolerate another male in his
territory, his night territory in particular, especially if his insistent cries went unanswered, as surely
they would.

One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walking vigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I
passed a tree—and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us were startled. He hissed and
reared up on his hind legs, towering over me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stood frozen to
the spot, paralyzed with fear and shock. He dropped back 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 paces and repeated the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not a
menace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breath and stopped trembling, I brought the
whistle to my mouth and started running after him. He had already gone a good distance, but he was
still within sight. My running was powerful. He turned, saw me, crouched—and then bolted. I blew
into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its sound would travel as far and wide as the cry of a
lonely tiger.
That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I came to the conclusion that I had to step into
the circus ring again.
The major difficulty in training animals is that they operate either by instinct or by rote. The
shortcut of intelligence to make new associations that are not instinctive is minimally available.
Therefore, imprinting in an animal’s mind the artificial connection that if it does a certain action, say,
roll over, it will get a treat can be achieved only by mind-numbing repetition. It is a slow process that
depends as much on luck as on hard work, all the more so when the animal is an adult. I blew into the
whistle till my lungs hurt. I pounded my chest till it was covered with bruises. I shouted “Hep! Hep!
Hep!”—my tiger-language command to say “Do!”—thousands of times. I tossed hundreds of meerkat
morsels at him that I would gladly have eaten myself. The training of tigers is no easy feat. They are
considerably less flexible in their mental make-up than other animals that are commonly trained in
circuses and zoos—sea lions and chimpanzees, for example. But I don’t want to take too much credit
for what I managed to do with Richard Parker. My good fortune, the fortune that saved my life, was
that he was not only a young adult but a pliable young adult, an omega animal. I was afraid that
conditions on the island might play against me, that with such an abundance of food and water and so
much space he might become relaxed and confident, less open to my influence. But he remained tense.
I knew him well enough to sense it. At night in the lifeboat he was unsettled and noisy. I assigned this
tension to the new environment of the island; any change, even positive, will make an animal tense.
Whatever the cause, the strain he was under meant 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 thin branches. It was a simple routine of four
jumps. Each one earned him part of a meerkat. As he lumbered towards me, I first held the hoop at the
end of my left arm, some three feet off the ground. When he had leapt through it, and as he finished his
run, I took hold of the hoop with my right hand and, my back to him, commanded him to return and
leap through it again. For the third jump I knelt on the ground and held the hoop over my head. It was
a nerve-racking experience to see him come my way. I never lost the fear that he would not jump but
attack me. Thankfully, he jumped every time. After which I got up and tossed the hoop so that it rolled
like a wheel. Richard Parker was supposed to follow it and go through it one last time before it fell
over. He was never very good at this last part of the act, either because I failed to throw the hoop
properly or because he clumsily ran into it. But at least he followed it, which meant he got away from
me. He was always filled with amazement when the hoop fell over. He would look at it intently, as if
it were some great fellow animal he had been running with that had collapsed unexpectedly. He
would stay next to it, sniffing it. I would throw him his last treat and move away.
Eventually I quit the boat. It seemed absurd to spend my nights in such cramped quarters with an

animal who was becoming roomy in his needs, when I could have an entire island. I decided the safe
thing to do would be to sleep in a tree. Richard Parker’s nocturnal practice of sleeping in the lifeboat
was never a law in my mind. It would not be a good idea for me to be outside my territory, sleeping
and defenceless on the ground, the one time he decided to go for a midnight stroll.
So one day I left the boat with the net, a rope and some blankets. I sought out a handsome tree on
the edge of the forest and threw the rope over the lowest branch. My fitness was such that I had no
problem pulling myself up by my arms and climbing the tree. I found two solid branches that were
level and close together, and I tied the net to them. I returned at the end of the day.
I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattress when I detected a commotion among
the meerkats. I looked. I pushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every direction and as far as
the horizon. It was unmistakable. The meerkats were abandoning the ponds—indeed, the whole plain
—and rapidly making for the forest. An entire nation of meerkats was on the move, their backs arched
and their feet a blur. I was wondering what further surprise these animals held in store for me when I
noticed with consternation that the ones from the pond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were
climbing up the trunk. The trunk was disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats. I thought
they were coming to attack me, that here was the reason why Richard Parker slept in the lifeboat:
during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless, but at night, under their collective weight, they
crushed their enemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To survive for so long in a lifeboat
with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound meerkats struck me as 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 in the tree. It became laden with them. They even took over my bed. And the same
as far as the eye could see. They were climbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turning
brown, an autumn that came in a few minutes. Collectively, as they scampered by in droves to claim
empty trees deeper into the forest, they made more noise than a stampeding herd of elephants.
The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated.
From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitory with meerkats—will I be believed
when I say that life can take the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so that I 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 fur blanket. Some meerkittens had
discovered the warmer parts of my body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck—and it
must have been their mother who had settled herself so contentedly on the side of my head—while
others had wedged themselves in my groin area.
They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as they had invaded it. It was the same with
every tree around. The plain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their day started filling the
air. The tree looked empty. And I felt empty, a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with the
meerkats.
I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied the lifeboat of useful items and made myself a
nice treetop bedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I received from meerkats climbing over
me. My only complaint would be that animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me.
One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chattering and shaking. I sat up and looked in the
direction they were looking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The land was robbed of its
colour. Everything glowed strangely in shades of black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver
shapes were moving in it, emerging from below and breaking the black surface of the water.

Fish. Dead fish. They were floating up from deep down. The pond—remember, forty feet across
—was filling up with all kinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black but silver. 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 meerkats were in a fury of excitement, shrieking
like tropical birds. The hysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. I wondered
whether I was about to see the sight of fish being hauled up trees.
Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None even made the first motions of going down.
They did no more than loudly express their frustration.
I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbing about all those dead fish.
I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over the meerkats’ racket. At first light I was
stirred from my slumber by the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawning and stretching,
I looked down at the pond that had been the source of such fire and fluster the previous night.
It was empty. Or nearly. But it wasn’t the work of the meerkats. They were just now diving in to
get what was left.
The fish had disappeared. I was confounded. Was I looking at the wrong pond? No, for sure it
was that one. Was I certain 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 entire pond in one night.
It was a complete mystery. No amount of staring into the pond and at its deep green walls could
explain to me what had happened to the fish. The next night I looked, but no new fish came into the
pond.
The answer to the mystery came sometime later, from deep within the forest.
The trees were larger in the centre of the forest and closely set. It remained clear below, there
being no underbrush of any kind, but overhead the canopy was so dense that the sky was quite blocked
off, or, another way of putting it, the sky was solidly green. The trees were so near one another that
their branches grew into each other’s spaces; they touched and twisted around each other so that it
was hard to tell where one tree ended and the next began. I noted that they had clean, smooth trunks,
with none of the countless tiny marks on their bark made by climbing meerkats. I easily guessed the
reason why: the meerkats could travel from one tree to another without the need to climb up and
down. I found, as proof of this, many trees on the perimeter of the heart of the forest whose bark had
been practically shredded. These trees were without a doubt the gates into a meerkat arboreal city
with more bustle in it than Calcutta.
It was here that I found the tree. It wasn’t the largest in the forest, or in its dead centre, or
remarkable in any other way. It had good level branches, that’s all. It would have made an excellent
spot from which to see the sky or take in the meerkats’ nightlife.
I can tell you exactly what day I came upon the tree: it was the day before I left the island.
I noticed the tree because it seemed to have fruit. Whereas elsewhere the forest canopy was
uniformly green, these fruit stood out black against green. The branches holding them were twisted in
odd ways. I looked intently. An entire island covered in barren trees—but for one. And not even all
of one. The fruit grew from only one small part of the tree. I thought that perhaps I had come upon the
forest equivalent of a queen bee, and I wondered whether this algae would ever cease to amaze me
with its botanical strangeness.
I wanted to try the fruit, but the tree was too high. So I returned with a rope. If the algae was
delicious, what would its fruit be like?
I looped the rope around the lowest limb of the tree and, bough by bough, branch by branch,

made my way to the small, precious orchard.
Up close the fruit were dull green. They were about the size and shape of oranges. Each was at
the centre of a number of twigs that were tightly curled around it—to protect it, I supposed. As I got
closer, I could see another purpose to these curled twigs: support. The fruit had not one stem, but
dozens. Their surfaces were studded with stems that connected them to the surrounding twigs. These
fruit must surely be heavy and juicy, I thought. I got close.
I reached with a hand and took hold of one. I was disappointed at how light it felt. It weighed
hardly anything. I pulled at it, plucking it from all its stems.
I made myself comfortable on a sturdy branch, my back to the trunk of the tree. Above me stood a
shifting roof of green leaves that let in shafts of sunlight. All round, for as far as I could see, hanging
in the air, were the twisting and turning roads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran through
the trees. I was keenly curious. I examined the fruit.
Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it I might have lived for years—why, for the
rest of my life—on that island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to return to the lifeboat and to
the suffering and deprivation I had endured on it—nothing! What reason could I have to leave the
island? Were my physical needs not met here? Was there not 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 island floated and moved, might it not move in the right direction?
Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that brought me to land? In the meantime, did I not have
these delightful meerkats to keep me company? And wasn’t Richard Parker still in need of improving
his fourth jump? The thought of leaving the island had not crossed my mind once since I had arrived.
It had been many weeks now—I couldn’t say how many exactly—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 of leaves glued together in a ball. The
dozens of stems were dozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf to peel off.
After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stems and were flatly glued to the ball. I
used my fingernails to catch their 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—but I 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, soft leaf 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 heart of a green oyster.
A human tooth.
A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finely pierced with holes.
The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at the other 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 tooth missing.
Understanding dawned upon me.
I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. I simply shuddered and left the tree.
I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They were all 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 the ground, it instantly made for the tree.
With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next to me. There it began to lick its paws
vigorously. It seemed much discomforted. 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 knots in it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom of the tree, I
brought my feet to within an inch of the ground. I hesitated.
I let go.
At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot up through my feet. I shrieked. I thought I
would fall over. I managed to take hold of the rope and pull myself off the ground. I frantically rubbed
the soles of my feet against the tree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to my branch. I
soaked my feet in the bucket of water next to my bed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and
killed two meerkats and tried to soothe the pain with their blood and innards. Still my feet burned.
They burned all night. I couldn’t sleep for it, and from the anxiety.
The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearance of the fish in the pond. The island
attracted saltwater fish into its subterranean tunnels—how, I don’t know; perhaps fish ate the algae as
gluttonously as I did. They became trapped. Did they lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea
close off? Did the water change salinity so subtly that it was too late by the time the fish realized it?
Whatever the case, they found themselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up to the
surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the meerkats. At night, by some chemical process unknown to
me but obviously inhibited by sunlight, the predatory algae turned highly acidic and the ponds became
vats of acid that digested the fish. This was why Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. This
was why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I had never seen anything but algae on the
island.
And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me.
How much time had he—or was it she?—spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn
hours in the arboreal city with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed?
How much hope come to nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much
loneliness endured? 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. The person must have died in the tree.
Was it illness? Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has
food, water and shelter? The trees were carnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safe
enough to stay in for the night while the rest of the island seethed. But once the person had died and
stopped moving, the tree must have slowly wrapped itself around the body and digested it, the very
bones leached of nutrients until they vanished. 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 in my 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. I preferred to set off and perish in

search of my own kind than to live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual death on this
murderous island. I filled my stores with fresh water and I drank like a camel. I ate algae throughout
the day until my stomach could take no more. I killed and skinned as many meerkats as would fit in the
locker and on the floor of the lifeboat. I reaped dead fish from the ponds. With the hatchet I hacked off
a large mass of algae and worked a rope through it, which I tied to the boat.
I could not abandon Richard Parker. To leave him would mean to kill him. He would not survive
the first night. Alone in my lifeboat at sunset I would know that he was burning alive. Or that he had
thrown himself in the sea, where he would drown. I waited for his return. I knew he would not be
late.
When he was aboard, I pushed us off. For a few hours the currents kept us near the island. The
noises of the sea bothered me. And I was no longer used to the rocking motions of the boat. The night
went by slowly.
In the morning the island was gone, as was the mass of algae we had been towing. As soon as
night had fallen, the algae 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 nothing but grief, ache and endurance.
High calls low and low calls high. I tell you, if you were in such dire straits as I was, you too
would elevate your thoughts. The lower you are, the higher your mind will want to soar. It was
natural that, bereft and desperate as I was, in the throes of unremitting suffering, I should turn to God.

CHAPTER 94

When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weak I barely had the strength to be happy about
it. We had great difficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. I streamed the sea anchors
—what was left of them—full open to keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them as soon
as we began riding a crest. In this way, streaming and tripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It
was dangerous. But we caught one wave at just the right point and it carried us a great distance, past
the high, collapsing walls of water. I tripped the anchors a last time and we were pushed in the rest 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 that so close to deliverance, in two feet
of water, I would drown. I looked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave me one of my
last images of Richard Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so
immeasurably vital, stretched in the air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water,
his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to
the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his mind and spun around. He passed directly in
front of me on his way to the right. He didn’t look at me. He ran a hundred yards or so along the shore
before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several times. At the edge of the
jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He would flatten his
ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing of the
sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle.
Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful, fierce thing0that kept me alive, moved
forward and disappeared forever from my0life.
I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only
of my family, but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn’t. This
beach, so soft, firm and vast, was like the cheek of God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering
with pleasure and 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 noses and mouths. I
wondered what was wrong with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat
onto the sand. They carried me away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they
wrenched from my hand and threw away.
I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I
was. Nor was it the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was
weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. 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. For example—I wonder—could you tell my jumbled story in exactly one
hundred chapters, not one more, not one less? I’ll tell you, that’s one thing I hate about my nickname,
the way that number runs on forever. It’s important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can
you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you should have said but never did, and your heart is
heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this day. I wish so much that I’d had one last
look at him in the lifeboat, that I’d provoked him a little, so that I was on his mind. I wish I had said
to him then—yes, I know, to a tiger, but still—I wish I had said, “Richard Parker, it’s over. We have
survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn’t have done it
without you. 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 your life; now
you will know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He
is not your friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is
certain. You will always be with me, in my 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, and there some women gave me a bath and
scrubbed me so hard that I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinned and not a very
dirty white boy. I tried to explain. They nodded and smiled and kept on scrubbing me as if I were the
deck of a ship. I thought they were going to skin me alive. But they gave me food. Delicious food.
Once I started eating, I couldn’t stop. I thought I would never stop being hungry.
The next day a police car came and brought me to a hospital, and there my story ends.
I was overwhelmed by the generosity of those who rescued me. Poor people gave me clothes
and food. Doctors and nurses cared for me as if I were a premature baby. Mexican and Canadian
officials opened all doors for me so that from the beach in Mexico to the home of my foster mother to
the classrooms of the University of Toronto, there was only one long, easy corridor I had to walk
down. To all these people I would like to extend my heartfelt thanks.

PART THREE
Benito Juárez Infirmary, Tomatlán, Mexico

CHAPTER 95

Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now
retired, told me that he and his junior colleague at the time, Mr. Atsuro Chiba, were in Long
Beach, California—the American western seaboard’s main container port, near L.A.—on
unrelated business when they were advised that a lone survivor of the Japanese ship Tsimtsum,
which had vanished without a trace in Pacific international waters several months before, was
reported to have landed near the small town of Tomatlán, on the coast of Mexico. They were
instructed by their department to go down to contact the survivor and see if any light could be
shed on the fate of the ship. They bought a map of Mexico and looked to see where Tomatlán was.
Unfortunately for them, a fold of the map crossed Baja California over a small coastal town
named Tomatán, printed in small letters. Mr. Okamoto was convinced he read Tomatlán. Since it
was less than halfway down Baja California, he decided the fastest way to get there would be to
drive.
They set of in their rented car. When they got to Tomatán, eight hundred kilometres south of
Long Beach, and saw that it was not Tomatlán, Mr. Okamoto decided that they would continue to
Santa Rosalia, two hundred kilometres further south, and catch the ferry across the Gulf of
California to Guaymas. The ferry was late and slow. And from Guaymas it was another thirteen
hundred kilometres to Tomatlán. The roads were bad. They had a flat tire. Their car broke down
and the mechanic who fixed it surreptitiously cannibalized the motor of parts, putting in used
parts instead, for the replacement of which they had to pay the rental company and which resulted
in the car breaking down a second time, on their way back. The second mechanic overcharged
them. Mr. Okamoto admitted to me that they were very tired when they arrived at the Benito
Juárez Infirmary in Tomatlán, which is not at all in Baja California but a hundred kilometres
south of Puerto Vallarta, in the state of Jalisco, nearly level with Mexico City. They had been
travelling non-stop for forty-one hours. “We work hard,” Mr. Okamoto wrote.
He and Mr. Chiba spoke with Piscine Molitor Patel, in English, for close to three hours,
taping the conversation. What follows are excerpts from the verbatim transcript. I am grateful to
Mr. Okamoto for having made available to me a copy of the tape and of his final report. For the
sake of clarity I have indicated who is speaking when it is not immediately apparent. Portions
printed in a dif erent font were spoken in Japanese, which I had translated.

CHAPTER 96

“Hello, Mr. Patel. My name is Tomohiro Okamoto. I am from the Maritime Department in the
Japanese Ministry of Transport. This is my assistant, Atsuro Chiba. We have come to see you about
the sinking of the ship Tsimtsum, of which you were a passenger. Would it be possible to talk to you
now?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. It is very kind of you. Now, Atsuro-kun, you’re new at this, so pay attention and
seek to learn.”
“Yes, Okamoto-san.”
“Is the tape recorder on?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Good. Oh, I’m so tired! For the record, today is February 19th,1978. Case file number
250663, concerning the disappearance of the cargo ship Tsimtsum. Are you comfortable, Mr.
Patel?”
“Yes, I am. Thank you. And you?”
“We are very comfortable.”
“You’ve come all the way from Tokyo?”
“We were in Long Beach, California. We drove down.”
“Did you have a good trip?”
“We had a wonderful trip. It was a beautiful drive.”
“I had a terrible trip.”
“Yes, we spoke to the police before coming here and we saw the lifeboat.”
“I’m a little hungry.”
“Would you like a cookie?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Here you go.”
“Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. It’s only a cookie. Now, Mr. Patel, we were wondering if you could tell us
what happened to you, with as much detail as possible.”
“Yes. I’d be happy to.”

C
H
A
P
T
E
R
9
7

T
he
s
t
o
r
y.

CHAPTER 98

Mr. Okamoto: “Very interesting.”
Mr. Chiba: “What a story.”
“He thinks we’re fools. 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: “He’s already had plenty and most he hasn’t even eaten. They’re right there
beneath his bedsheet.”
“Just give him another one. We have to humour him. 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 of bananas.”
“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 bananas right here.”
Mr. Chiba: “Where did those come from? What else does he have under his bedsheet?”
Mr. Okamoto: “Damn it. 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: “What do we do?”
Mr. Okamoto: “I feel this is going to be another very long day.”
[Sound of a chair being pushed back. Distant sound of 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: “Are they floating?”
[Distantly] “They’re floating.”
“So, are they floating?”
[Distantly] “They’re floating.”
“What did I tell you?”
Mr. Okamoto: “Yes, yes. But it would take a lot of bananas to hold up an orang-utan.”
“It did. There was close to a ton. It still makes me sick when I think of all those bananas floating
away and going to waste when they were mine for the picking.”
“It’s a pity. Now, about—”
“Could I have my bananas back, please?”

Mr. Chiba: “I’ll get them.”
[Sound of a chair being pushed back]
[Distantly] “Look at that. They really do float.”
Mr. Okamoto: “What about this algae island you say you came 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 your feelings, but you don’t really expect us

to believe you, do you? Carnivorous trees? A fish-eating algae that produces fresh water? 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 the dark?”
“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 and Darwin. Have scientists finished
coming upon new plants? In the 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 than two feet tall. You can carry them in
your arms. They can be very old. My uncle has one that is over three hundred years old.”
“Three-hundred-year-old trees that are two feet tall that you can carry in your arms?”
“Yes. They’re very delicate. They need a lot of attention.”
“Whoever heard of such trees? They’re botanically impossible.”
“But I assure you they exist, Mr. Patel. My uncle—”
“I believe what I see.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Just a moment, please. Atsuro, with all due respect for your uncle who lives in
the country near 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. Where were we?”
Pi Patel: “With the tall, full-sized trees firmly rooted to the ground I was telling you about.”
“Let us put them aside for now.”
“It might be hard. I never tried pulling them out and carrying them.”

“You’re a funny man, Mr. Patel. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Pi Patel: “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Mr. Chiba: “Ha! Ha! Ha! It wasn’t that funny.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Just keep laughing. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Mr. Chiba: “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
Mr. Okamoto: “Now about the tiger, we’re not sure about it either.”
“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: “There goes our lunch.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Getting back to the tiger ...”
Pi Patel: “Terrible business. Delicious sandwiches.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Yes, they look good.”
Mr. Chiba: “I’m hungry.”
“Not a trace of it has been found. That’s a bit hard to believe, isn’t it? There are no tigers in the
Americas. If there were a wild tiger out there, don’t you think the police would have heard about it by
now?”
“I should tell you about the black panther that escaped from the 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 and forbidding species to wild animals. We fill
them with fear. They avoid us as much as possible. It took centuries to still the fear in some pliable
animals—domestication it’s called—but most cannot get over their fear, and I doubt they ever will.
When wild animals fight us, it is out of sheer desperation. They fight when they feel they have no
other way out. It’s a very last resort.”
“In a lifeboat? Come on, Mr. Patel, it’s just too hard to believe!”
“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 a closely held secret among Indian zookeepers that in 1971 Bara the polar
bear escaped from the Calcutta Zoo. She was never heard from again, not by police or hunters or
poachers or anyone else. We suspect she’s living freely on the banks of the Hugli River. Beware if
you go to Calcutta, my good sirs: if you have sushi on the breath you may pay a high price! If you took
the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it, 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
mind that feral giraffes and feral hippos have been living in Tokyo for generations without being seen
by a soul. You should compare one day the things that stick to the soles of your shoes as you walk

down the street with what you see lying at the bottom of the cages in the Tokyo Zoo—then look up!
And you expect to find a tiger in a Mexican jungle! It’s laughable, just plain laughable. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“There may very well be feral giraffes and feral hippos living in Tokyo and a polar bear living
freely in Calcutta. We just don’t believe there was a tiger living in your lifeboat.”
“The arrogance of big-city folk! You grant your metropolises all the animals of Eden, but you
deny my hamlet the merest Bengal 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 to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to
believe, ask any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard
to believe?”
“We’re just being reasonable.”
“So am I! I applied my reason at every moment. Reason is excellent for getting food, clothing
and shelter. Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be
excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater.”
“Calm down, Mr. Patel, calm down.”
Mr. Chiba: “The bathwater? Why is he talking about bathwater?”
“How can I be calm? You should have seen Richard Parker!”
“Yes, yes.”
“Huge. Teeth like this! Claws like scimitars!”
Mr. Chiba: “What are scimitars?”
Mr. Okamoto: “Chiba-san, instead of asking stupid vocabulary questions, why don’t you
make yourself useful? This boy is a tough nut to crack. Do something!”
Mr. Chiba: “Look! A chocolate bar!”
Pi Patel: “Wonderful!”
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “Like he hasn’t already stolen our whole lunch. Soon he’ll be demanding
tempura.”
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “We are losing sight of the point of this investigation. We are here because of the
sinking of a cargo ship. You are the sole survivor. And you were only a passenger. You bear no
responsibility for what happened. We—”
“Chocolate is so good!”
“We are not seeking to lay criminal charges. You are an innocent victim of a tragedy at sea. We
are only trying to determine why and how the Tsimtsum sank. We thought you might help us, Mr.
Patel.”
[Silence]
“Mr. Patel?”
[Silence]
Pi Patel: “Tigers exist, lifeboats exist, oceans exist. Because the three have never come together
in your narrow, limited experience, you refuse to believe that they might. Yet the plain fact is that the
Tsimtsum brought them together and then sank.”
[Silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “What about this Frenchman?”

“What about him?”
“Two blind people in two separate lifeboats meeting up in the Pacific—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.”
“I knew we should have taken the day off. 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 do you 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. They must 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!”
“Atsuro, shut up!”
“I’m very sorry, Okamoto-san. It’s the fatigue.”
“You’re bringing our service into disrepute!”
“Very sorry, Okamoto-san.”
Mr. Okamoto: “They could be bones from another small animal.”
“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 are common in India.”
“Mongooses as shipboard pests?”
“Why not?”
“Who swam in the stormy Pacific, several of them, to the lifeboat? That’s a little hard to believe,
wouldn’t you say?”
“Less hard to believe than some of the things we’ve heard in the last two hours. Perhaps the
mongooses were already aboard 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 an expert.”

“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 meerkat bones or mongoose bones.”
“Find yourself a forensic zoologist.”
“All right, Mr. Patel! You win. We cannot explain the presence of meerkat bones, if that is what
they are, in the lifeboat. But that is not our concern here. We are here because a Japanese cargo ship
owned by Oika Shipping Company, flying the Panamanian flag, sank in the Pacific.”
“Something I never forget, not for a minute. I lost my whole family.”
“We’re sorry about that.”
“Not as much as I am.”
[Long silence]
Mr. Chiba: “What do we do now?”
Mr. Okamoto: “I don’t know.”
[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, we would 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 have an element ofinvention 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 or Japanese—already something of an
invention? Isn’t just looking upon this world already something of an invention?”
“Uhh ...”
“The world isn’t just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding
something, we bring something to it, no? Doesn’t that make life a story?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! You are very intelligent, Mr. Patel.”

Mr. Chiba: “What is he talking about?”
“I have no idea.”
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’t surprise you. That will confirm what you
already know. That won’t make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An
immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality.”
“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 the sinking of the Tsimtsum.”
“Give me a minute, please.”
“Of course. I think we’re finally getting somewhere. Let’s hope he speaks some sense.”
[Long silence]
“Here’s another story.”
“Good.”
“The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface
and then vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was
the hardest swim of my life. I didn’t seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I
was rapidly losing strength. I wouldn’t have made it if the cook hadn’t thrown me a lifebuoy and
pulled me in. I climbed aboard and collapsed.
“Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was
already aboard, as was the sailor.
“He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn’t been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and
water to last us for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to 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 calling us idiots and fools for not
joining him in the feast. We were offended and disgusted, but we didn’t show it. We were very polite
about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in
refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the
rat. He cut it up and dried it in the 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 jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no
facial hair at all and a clear, shining complexion. His features—the broad face, the flattened nose, the
narrow, pleated eyes—looked so elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering
was terrible. He spoke no English, not a single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke
only Chinese. We couldn’t understand a word he said. He must have felt very lonely. When he wept,
Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very, very sad. He suffered and we
couldn’t do anything about it.
“His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with
pain. We set his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg
became infected. Though we drained it of pus every day, 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 he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at
the thigh, it would involve no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear
his evil whisper. He would do the job to save the sailor’s life, he said, but we would have to hold
him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic. We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the
cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked
the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother and I let go and moved away. We thought that
if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought he would lie calmly. He didn’t. He sat
up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He screamed and we stared,
transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of
the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at the limb,
as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop
the bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him
warm. I thought it was all for nothing. I couldn’t believe a human being could survive so much pain,
so much butchery. Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and
uneven. He had fits of agitated delirium. I expected him to die during the night.
“He clung to life. At dawn he was still alive. He went in and out of consciousness. Mother gave
him water. I caught sight of the amputated leg. It cut my breath short. In the commotion it had been
shoved aside and forgotten in the dark. It had seeped a liquid and looked thinner. I took a life jacket
and used 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 whole point.’
“He seemed to regret his last words even as they were coming out, for his voice faded quickly.
He turned away.
“‘The whole point?’ Mother asked. ‘What do you mean by that?’
“He pretended to be busy.
“Mother’s voice rose. ‘Are you telling us that we cut this poor 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 more food or we’ll die.’
“Mother returned his glare. ‘Our supplies are not running out! We have plenty of food and water.
We have package upon package of biscuits to tide us over till our rescue.’ She took hold of the plastic
container in which we put the open rations of biscuits. It was unexpectedly light in her hands. The few
crumbs in it rattled. ‘What!’ She opened it. ‘Where are the biscuits? The container was full last
night!’
“The cook looked away. As did I.
“‘You selfish monster!’ screamed Mother. ‘The only reason we’re running out of food is
because you’re gorging yourself on it!’
“‘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 so hungry. 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 to go out of her. Without saying another
word she went back to nursing 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 for the sailor’s comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered, ‘I’m sorry,
Mother, I’m sorry.’ My eyes were brimming with tears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were
too. But she didn’t look at me. Her eyes were gazing upon some memory in mid-air.
“‘We’re all alone, Piscine, all alone,’ she said, in a tone that broke every hope in my body. I
never felt so lonely in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat two weeks
already and it was taking its toll on us. It was getting harder to believe that Father and Ravi had
survived.
“When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg by the ankle over the water to drain it.
Mother brought her hand over the sailor’s eyes.
“He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquid from his leg. The cook promptly
butchered him. The leg had made for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to hold on to the
fishing hook; it simply dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster. He cut up
everything, including the sailor’s skin and every inch of his intestines. He even prepared his genitals.
When he had finished with his torso, he moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother
and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother shrieked at the cook, ‘How can you do this, you monster?
Where is your humanity? Have you no decency? What did the poor boy do to you? You monster! You
monster!’ The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity.
“‘At least cover his face, for God’s sake!’ cried my mother. It was unbearable to have that
beautiful face, so noble and serene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threw himself upon the
sailor’s head and before our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited.
“When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcass overboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh
and pieces of organs were lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled in horror. We tried
not to look at them. The smell would not go away.
“The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped him in the face, a full hard slap that
punctuated the air with a sharp crack. It was something shocking coming from my mother. And it was
heroic. It was an act of outrage and pity and grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poor
sailor. It was to salvage his dignity.

“I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without moving or saying a word as Mother looked
him straight in the face. I noticed how he did not meet her eyes.
“We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. I was filled with a mix of rapt
admiration and abject fear.
“Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw him do it. He tried to be discreet, but she
saw him bring his hand to 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
she had expected him to be mortified, to spit it out and break down and apologize, she was wrong. He
kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth.
‘Tastes like pork,’ he muttered. Mother expressed her indignation and disgust by violently turning
away. He ate another strip. ‘I feel stronger already,’ he muttered. He concentrated on his fishing.
“We each had our end of the lifeboat. It’s amazing how willpower can build walls. Whole days
went by as if he weren’t there.
“But we couldn’t ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with
his hands and he knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a
raft to help with the fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I
could. He was very short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
“Mother and I didn’t eat any of the sailor’s body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in
weakness to us, but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong
vegetarian, brought herself to eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got
over her revulsion. It came easier to me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
“When your life has been given a reprieve, it’s impossible not to feel some warmth for the one
to whom you owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a
great big dorado. It made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours.
Mother and the cook talked in a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the
boat was nearly good. At such times I looked at him with—yes—with tenderness. With love. I
imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man even when he was in a good mood, but we
pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would come upon an island. That was
our main hope. We exhausted our 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 around us. I never thought we would get
around it.
“He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn’t hold on to
a turtle. Because of me 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 landed in
the water. I scrambled aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was
fighting an adult man. He was mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She
shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next
it was up—it was red. It went up and down repeatedly. I couldn’t see her. She was at the bottom of
the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his head and looked at me. He hurled something my
way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash. I
held my mother’s head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of blood, her tress trailing like a tail.
Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark’s long grey shadow cut across its path and it vanished. I
looked up. I couldn’t see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared when he threw
my mother’s body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.

“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 this boy’s head.”
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “Please excuse me for asking, but did the cook 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 early morning 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-rate rust-bucket sinks, unless it has the luck
of carrying oil, lots of it, enough to kill entire ecosystems, no one cares and no one hears about it.
You’re on your own.”
“When Oika realized that something was wrong, it was too late. You were too far out for air
rescue. Ships in the area were told to be on the lookout. They reported seeing nothing.”
“And while we’re on the subject, the ship wasn’t the only thing that was third-rate. The crew
were a sullen, unfriendly lot, hard at work when officers were around but doing nothing when they
weren’t. They didn’t speak a word of English and they were of no help to us. Some of them stank of
alcohol by mid-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 of them 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 they didn’t have the keys?”
“I don’t know. They probably used crowbars.”
Mr. Chiba: “Why would they do that? Why would anyone want to release a dangerous wild
animal from its cage?”
“I don’t know. Can anyone fathom the workings of a drunken man’s mind? All I can tell you is
what happened. The animals were out of their cages.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Excuse me. You have doubts about the fitness of the crew?”
“Grave doubts.”
“Did you witness any of the officers being under the influence of alcohol?”
“No.”

“But you saw some of the crew being under the influence of alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“Did the officers act in what seemed to you a competent and professional manner?”
“They had little to do with us. They never came close to the animals.”
“I mean in terms of running the ship.”
“How should I know? Do you think we had tea with them every day? They spoke English, but
they were no better than the crew. They made us feel unwelcome in the common room and hardly said
a word to us during meals. They went on in Japanese, as if we weren’t there. We were just a lowly
Indian family with a bothersome cargo. We ended up eating on our own in Father and Mother’s cabin.
‘Adventure beckons!’ said Ravi. That’s what made it tolerable, our sense of adventure. We spent
most of our time shovelling excrement and rinsing cages and giving feed while Father played the vet.
So long as the animals were all right, we were all right. I don’t know if the officers 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 the ship 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 leaving Manila?”
“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 a properly 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 than twenty 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 was bad enough to scare me witless, that’s
all I know for sure.”
“You said the weather improved quickly. The ship sank and right 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. Everything was 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: “Now what?”
Mr. Okamoto: “We give up. The explanation for the sinking of the Tsimtsum is at the
bottom of the Pacific.”
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “Yes, that’s it. Let’s go. Well, Mr. Patel, I think we have all we need. We thank
you very much for your cooperation. You’ve been very, very helpful.”
“You’re welcome. But before you go, I’d like to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977.”
“Yes.”
“And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human survivor of theTsimtsum, on February
14th, 1978.”
“That’s right.”
“I told you two stories that account for the 227 days in between.”
“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. You must take my word for it.”
“I guess so.”

“In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and I suffer.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can’t prove the question either
way, which story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without
animals?”
Mr. Okamoto: “That’s an interesting question ...”
Mr. Chiba: “The story with animals.”
Mr. Okamoto: “Yes. The story with animals is the better story.”
Pi Patel: “Thank you. And so it goes with God.”
[Silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “You’re welcome.”
Mr. Chiba: “What did he just say?”
Mr. Okamoto: “I don’t know.”
Mr. Chiba: “Oh look—he’s crying.”
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: “We’ll be careful when we drive away. We don’t want to run into Richard
Parker.”
Pi Patel: “Don’t worry, you won’t. He’s hiding somewhere you’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 about what 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 the best, 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: “I’m starving. Let’s go eat. You can turn that off.”

CHAPTER 100

Mr. Okamoto, in his letter to me, recalled the interrogation as having been “dif icult and
memorable.” He remembered Piscine Molitor Patel as being “very thin, very tough, very bright.”
His report, in its essential part, ran as follows:
Sole survivor could shed no light on reasons for sinking of Tsimtsum. Ship appears to
have sunk very quickly, which would indicate a major hull breach. Important quantity of
debris would support this theory. But precise reason of breach impossible to determine.
No major weather disturbance reported that day in quadrant. Survivor’s assessment of
weather impressionistic and unreliable. At most, weather a contributing factor. Cause
was perhaps internal to ship. Survivor believes he heard an explosion, hinting at a major
engine problem, possibly the explosion of a boiler, but this is speculation. Ship
twenty-nine years old (Erlandson and Skank Shipyards, Malmö, 1948), refitted in 1970.
Stress of weather combined with structural fatigue a possibility, but conjecture. No
other ship mishap reported in area on that day, so ship-ship collision unlikely. Collision
with debris a possibility, but unverifiable. Collision with a floating mine might explain
explosion, but seems fanciful, besides highly unlikely as sinking started at stern, which
in all likelihood would mean that hull breach was at stern too. Survivor cast doubts on
fitness of crew but had nothing to say about of icers. Oika Shipping Company claims all
cargo absolutely licit and not aware of any of icer or crew problems.
Cause of sinking impossible to determine from available evidence. Standard
insurance claim procedure for Oika. No further action required. Recommend that case
be closed.
As an aside, story of sole survivor, Mr. Piscine Molitor Patel, Indian citizen, is an
astounding story of courage and endurance in the face of extraordinarily dif icult and
tragic circumstances. In the experience of this investigator, his story is unparalleled in
the history of shipwrecks. Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea
as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger.
</p>
       
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