+ THE BOY’S NAME WAS SANTIAGO. DUSK WAS FALLING AS the boy arrived + with his herd at an abandoned church. The roof had fallen in long + ago, and an enormous sycamore had grown on the spot where the + sacristy had once stood. + He decided to spend the night there. He saw to it that all the + sheep entered through the ruined gate, and then laid some planks + across it to prevent the flock from wandering away during the night. + There were no wolves in the region, but once an animal had strayed + during the night, and the boy had had to spend the entire next day + searching for it. + He swept the floor with his jacket and lay down, using the book + he had just finished reading as a pillow. He told himself that he + would have to start reading thicker books: they lasted longer, and + made more comfortable pillows. + It was still dark when he awoke, and, looking up, he could see + the stars through the half-destroyed roof. + I wanted to sleep a little longer, he thought. He had had the same + dream that night as a week ago, and once again he had awakened + before it ended. + He arose and, taking up his crook, began to awaken the sheep + that still slept. He had noticed that, as soon as he awoke, most of his + animals also began to stir. It was as if some mysterious energy + bound his life to that of the sheep, with whom he had spent the past + two years, leading them through the countryside in search of food + and water. “They are so used to me that they know my schedule,” he + muttered. Thinking about that for a moment, he realized that it + could be the other way around: that it was he who had become + accustomed to their schedule. + But there were certain of them who took a bit longer to awaken. + The boy prodded them, one by one, with his crook, calling each by + name. He had always believed that the sheep were able to + understand what he said. So there were times when he read them + parts of his books that had made an impression on him, or when he + would tell them of the loneliness or the happiness of a shepherd in + the fields. Sometimes he would comment to them on the things he + had seen in the villages they passed. + But for the past few days he had spoken to them about only one + thing: the girl, the daughter of a merchant who lived in the village + they would reach in about four days. He had been to the village only + once, the year before. The merchant was the proprietor of a dry + goods shop, and he always demanded that the sheep be sheared in + his presence, so that he would not be cheated. A friend had told the + boy about the shop, and he had taken his sheep there. + “I NEED TO SELL SOME WOOL,” THE BOY TOLD THE merchant. + The shop was busy, and the man asked the shepherd to wait + until the afternoon. So the boy sat on the steps of the shop and took + a book from his bag. + “I didn’t know shepherds knew how to read,” said a girl’s voice + behind him. + The girl was typical of the region of Andalusia, with flowing + black hair, and eyes that vaguely recalled the Moorish conquerors. + “Well, usually I learn more from my sheep than from books,” he + answered. During the two hours that they talked, she told him she + was the merchant’s daughter, and spoke of life in the village, where + each day was like all the others. The shepherd told her of the + Andalusian countryside, and related the news from the other towns + where he had stopped. It was a pleasant change from talking to his + sheep. + “How did you learn to read?” the girl asked at one point. + “Like everybody learns,” he said. “In school.” + “Well, if you know how to read, why are you just a shepherd?” + The boy mumbled an answer that allowed him to avoid + responding to her question. He was sure the girl would never + understand. He went on telling stories about his travels, and her + bright, Moorish eyes went wide with fear and surprise. As the time + passed, the boy found himself wishing that the day would never + end, that her father would stay busy and keep him waiting for three + days. He recognized that he was feeling something he had never + experienced before: the desire to live in one place forever. With the + girl with the raven hair, his days would never be the same again. + But finally the merchant appeared, and asked the boy to shear + four sheep. He paid for the wool and asked the shepherd to come + back the following year. + AND NOW IT WAS ONLY FOUR DAYS BEFORE HE WOULD BE back in that same + village. He was excited, and at the same time uneasy: maybe the girl + had already forgotten him. Lots of shepherds passed through, + selling their wool. + “It doesn’t matter,” he said to his sheep. “I know other girls in + other places.” + But in his heart he knew that it did matter. And he knew that + shepherds, like seamen and like traveling salesmen, always found a + town where there was someone who could make them forget the + joys of carefree wandering. + The day was dawning, and the shepherd urged his sheep in the + direction of the sun. They never have to make any decisions, he + thought. Maybe that’s why they always stay close to me. + The only things that concerned the sheep were food and water. + As long as the boy knew how to find the best pastures in Andalusia, + they would be his friends. Yes, their days were all the same, with the + seemingly endless hours between sunrise and dusk; and they had + never read a book in their young lives, and didn’t understand when + the boy told them about the sights of the cities. They were content + with just food and water, and, in exchange, they generously gave of + their wool, their company, and—once in a while—their meat. + If I became a monster today, and decided to kill them, one by + one, they would become aware only after most of the flock had been + slaughtered, thought the boy. They trust me, and they’ve forgotten + how to rely on their own instincts, because I lead them to + nourishment. + The boy was surprised at his thoughts. Maybe the church, with + the sycamore growing from within, had been haunted. It had caused + him to have the same dream for a second time, and it was causing + him to feel anger toward his faithful companions. He drank a bit + from the wine that remained from his dinner of the night before, + and he gathered his jacket closer to his body. He knew that a few + hours from now, with the sun at its zenith, the heat would be so + great that he would not be able to lead his flock across the fields. It + was the time of day when all of Spain slept during the summer. The + heat lasted until nightfall, and all that time he had to carry his + jacket. But when he thought to complain about the burden of its + weight, he remembered that, because he had the jacket, he had + withstood the cold of the dawn. + We have to be prepared for change, he thought, and he was + grateful for the jacket’s weight and warmth. + The jacket had a purpose, and so did the boy. His purpose in life + was to travel, and, after two years of walking the Andalusian terrain, + he knew all the cities of the region. He was planning, on this visit, to + explain to the girl how it was that a simple shepherd knew how to + read. That he had attended a seminary until he was sixteen. His + parents had wanted him to become a priest, and thereby a source of + pride for a simple farm family. They worked hard just to have food + and water, like the sheep. He had studied Latin, Spanish, and + theology. But ever since he had been a child, he had wanted to know + the world, and this was much more important to him than knowing + God and learning about man’s sins. One afternoon, on a visit to his + family, he had summoned up the courage to tell his father that he + didn’t want to become a priest. That he wanted to travel. + “PEOPLE FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD HAVE PASSED through this village, + son,” said his father. “They come in search of new things, but when + they leave they are basically the same people they were when they + arrived. They climb the mountain to see the castle, and they wind up + thinking that the past was better than what we have now. They have + blond hair, or dark skin, but basically they’re the same as the people + who live right here.” + “But I’d like to see the castles in the towns where they live,” the + boy explained. + “Those people, when they see our land, say that they would like + to live here forever,” his father continued. + “Well, I’d like to see their land, and see how they live,” said his + son. + “The people who come here have a lot of money to spend, so + they can afford to travel,” his father said. “Amongst us, the only ones + who travel are the shepherds.” + “Well, then I’ll be a shepherd!” + His father said no more. The next day, he gave his son a pouch + that held three ancient Spanish gold coins. + “I found these one day in the fields. I wanted them to be a part of + your inheritance. But use them to buy your flock. Take to the fields, + and someday you’ll learn that our countryside is the best, and our + women are the most beautiful.” + And he gave the boy his blessing. The boy could see in his + father’s gaze a desire to be able, himself, to travel the world—a + desire that was still alive, despite his father’s having had to bury it, + over dozens of years, under the burden of struggling for water to + drink, food to eat, and the same place to sleep every night of his life. + THE HORIZON WAS TINGED WITH RED, AND SUDDENLY THE sun appeared. + The boy thought back to that conversation with his father, and felt + happy; he had already seen many castles and met many women (but + none the equal of the one who awaited him several days hence). He + owned a jacket, a book that he could trade for another, and a flock of + sheep. But, most important, he was able every day to live out his + dream. If he were to tire of the Andalusian fields, he could sell his + sheep and go to sea. By the time he had had enough of the sea, he + would already have known other cities, other women, and other + chances to be happy. I couldn’t have found God in the seminary, he + thought, as he looked at the sunrise. + Whenever he could, he sought out a new road to travel. He had + never been to that ruined church before, in spite of having traveled + through those parts many times. The world was huge and + inexhaustible; he had only to allow his sheep to set the route for a + while, and he would discover other interesting things. The problem + is that they don’t even realize that they’re walking a new road every + day. They don’t see that the fields are new and the seasons change. + All they think about is food and water. + Maybe we’re all that way, the boy mused. Even me—I haven’t + thought of other women since I met the merchant’s daughter. + Looking at the sun, he calculated that he would reach Tarifa before + midday. There, he could exchange his book for a thicker one, fill his + wine bottle, shave, and have a haircut; he had to prepare himself for + his meeting with the girl, and he didn’t want to think about the + possibility that some other shepherd, with a larger flock of sheep, + had arrived there before him and asked for her hand. + It’s the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life + interesting, he thought, as he looked again at the position of the sun, + and hurried his pace. He had suddenly remembered that, in Tarifa, + there was an old woman who interpreted dreams. + THE OLD WOMAN LED THE BOY TO A ROOM AT THE BACK of her house; it was + separated from her living room by a curtain of colored beads. The + room’s furnishings consisted of a table, an image of the Sacred Heart + of Jesus, and two chairs. + The woman sat down, and told him to be seated as well. Then + she took both of his hands in hers, and began quietly to pray. + It sounded like a Gypsy prayer. The boy had already had + experience on the road with Gypsies; they also traveled, but they + had no flocks of sheep. People said that Gypsies spent their lives + tricking others. It was also said that they had a pact with the devil, + and that they kidnapped children and, taking them away to their + mysterious camps, made them their slaves. As a child, the boy had + always been frightened to death that he would be captured by + Gypsies, and this childhood fear returned when the old woman took + his hands in hers. + But she has the Sacred Heart of Jesus there, he thought, trying to + reassure himself. He didn’t want his hand to begin trembling, + showing the old woman that he was fearful. He recited an Our + Father silently. + “Very interesting,” said the woman, never taking her eyes from + the boy’s hands, and then she fell silent. + The boy was becoming nervous. His hands began to tremble, and + the woman sensed it. He quickly pulled his hands away. + “I didn’t come here to have you read my palm,” he said, already + regretting having come. He thought for a moment that it would be + better to pay her fee and leave without learning a thing, that he was + giving too much importance to his recurrent dream. + “You came so that you could learn about your dreams,” said the + old woman. “And dreams are the language of God. When he speaks + in our language, I can interpret what he has said. But if he speaks in + the language of the soul, it is only you who can understand. But, + whichever it is, I’m going to charge you for the consultation.” + Another trick, the boy thought. But he decided to take a chance. + A shepherd always takes his chances with wolves and with drought, + and that’s what makes a shepherd’s life exciting. + “I have had the same dream twice,” he said. “I dreamed that I + was in a field with my sheep, when a child appeared and began to + play with the animals. I don’t like people to do that, because the + sheep are afraid of strangers. But children always seem to be able to + play with them without frightening them. I don’t know why. I don’t + know how animals know the age of human beings.” + “Tell me more about your dream,” said the woman. “I have to get + back to my cooking, and, since you don’t have much money, I can’t + give you a lot of time.” + “The child went on playing with my sheep for quite a while,” + continued the boy, a bit upset. “And suddenly, the child took me by + both hands and transported me to the Egyptian pyramids.” + He paused for a moment to see if the woman knew what the + Egyptian pyramids were. But she said nothing. + “Then, at the Egyptian pyramids,”—he said the last three words + slowly, so that the old woman would understand—“the child said to + me, ‘If you come here, you will find a hidden treasure.’ And, just as + she was about to show me the exact location, I woke up. Both + times.” + The woman was silent for some time. Then she again took his + hands and studied them carefully. + “I’m not going to charge you anything now,” she said. “But I want + one-tenth of the treasure, if you find it.” + The boy laughed—out of happiness. He was going to be able to + save the little money he had because of a dream about hidden + treasure! + “Well, interpret the dream,” he said. + “First, swear to me. Swear that you will give me one-tenth of + your treasure in exchange for what I am going to tell you.” + The shepherd swore that he would. The old woman asked him to + swear again while looking at the image of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. + “It’s a dream in the language of the world,” she said. “I can + interpret it, but the interpretation is very difficult. That’s why I feel + that I deserve a part of what you find. + “And this is my interpretation: you must go to the Pyramids in + Egypt. I have never heard of them, but, if it was a child who showed + them to you, they exist. There you will find a treasure that will make + you a rich man.” + The boy was surprised, and then irritated. He didn’t need to seek + out the old woman for this! But then he remembered that he wasn’t + going to have to pay anything. + “I didn’t need to waste my time just for this,” he said. + “I told you that your dream was a difficult one. It’s the simple + things in life that are the most extraordinary; only wise men are + able to understand them. And since I am not wise, I have had to + learn other arts, such as the reading of palms.” + “Well, how am I going to get to Egypt?” + “I only interpret dreams. I don’t know how to turn them into + reality. That’s why I have to live off what my daughters provide me + with.” + “And what if I never get to Egypt?” + “Then I don’t get paid. It wouldn’t be the first time.” + And the woman told the boy to leave, saying she had already + wasted too much time with him. + So the boy was disappointed; he decided that he would never + again believe in dreams. He remembered that he had a number of + things he had to take care of: he went to the market for something + to eat, he traded his book for one that was thicker, and he found a + bench in the plaza where he could sample the new wine he had + bought. The day was hot, and the wine was refreshing. The sheep + were at the gates of the city, in a stable that belonged to a friend. + The boy knew a lot of people in the city. That was what made + traveling appeal to him—he always made new friends, and he didn’t + need to spend all of his time with them. When someone sees the + same people every day, as had happened with him at the seminary, + they wind up becoming a part of that person’s life. And then they + want the person to change. If someone isn’t what others want them + to be, the others become angry. Everyone seems to have a clear idea + of how other people should lead their lives, but none about his or + her own. + He decided to wait until the sun had sunk a bit lower in the sky + before following his flock back through the fields. Three days from + now, he would be with the merchant’s daughter. + He started to read the book he had bought. On the very first page + it described a burial ceremony. And the names of the people + involved were very difficult to pronounce. If he ever wrote a book, + he thought, he would present one person at a time, so that the + reader wouldn’t have to worry about memorizing a lot of names. + When he was finally able to concentrate on what he was reading, + he liked the book better; the burial was on a snowy day, and he + welcomed the feeling of being cold. As he read on, an old man sat + down at his side and tried to strike up a conversation. + “What are they doing?” the old man asked, pointing at the people + in the plaza. + “Working,” the boy answered dryly, making it look as if he + wanted to concentrate on his reading. + Actually, he was thinking about shearing his sheep in front of the + merchant’s daughter, so that she could see that he was someone + who was capable of doing difficult things. He had already imagined + the scene many times; every time, the girl became fascinated when + he explained that the sheep had to be sheared from back to front. He + also tried to remember some good stories to relate as he sheared + the sheep. Most of them he had read in books, but he would tell + them as if they were from his personal experience. She would never + know the difference, because she didn’t know how to read. + Meanwhile, the old man persisted in his attempt to strike up a + conversation. He said that he was tired and thirsty, and asked if he + might have a sip of the boy’s wine. The boy offered his bottle, + hoping that the old man would leave him alone. + But the old man wanted to talk, and he asked the boy what book + he was reading. The boy was tempted to be rude, and move to + another bench, but his father had taught him to be respectful of the + elderly. So he held out the book to the man—for two reasons: first, + that he, himself, wasn’t sure how to pronounce the title; and second, + that if the old man didn’t know how to read, he would probably feel + ashamed and decide of his own accord to change benches. + “Hmm…” said the old man, looking at all sides of the book, as if it + were some strange object. “This is an important book, but it’s really + irritating.” + The boy was shocked. The old man knew how to read, and had + already read the book. And if the book was irritating, as the old man + had said, the boy still had time to change it for another. + “It’s a book that says the same thing almost all the other books in + the world say,” continued the old man. “It describes people’s + inability to choose their own Personal Legends. And it ends up + saying that everyone believes the world’s greatest lie.” + “What’s the world’s greatest lie?” the boy asked, completely + surprised. + “It’s this: that at a certain point in our lives, we lose control of + what’s happening to us, and our lives become controlled by fate. + That’s the world’s greatest lie.” + “That’s never happened to me,” the boy said. “They wanted me + to be a priest, but I decided to become a shepherd.” + “Much better,” said the old man. “Because you really like to + travel.” + “He knew what I was thinking,” the boy said to himself. The old + man, meanwhile, was leafing through the book, without seeming to + want to return it at all. The boy noticed that the man’s clothing was + strange. He looked like an Arab, which was not unusual in those + parts. Africa was only a few hours from Tarifa; one had only to cross + the narrow straits by boat. Arabs often appeared in the city, + shopping and chanting their strange prayers several times a day. + “Where are you from?” the boy asked. + “From many places.” + “No one can be from many places,” the boy said. “I’m a shepherd, + and I have been to many places, but I come from only one place— + from a city near an ancient castle. That’s where I was born.” + “Well then, we could say that I was born in Salem.” + The boy didn’t know where Salem was, but he didn’t want to ask, + fearing that he would appear ignorant. He looked at the people in + the plaza for a while; they were coming and going, and all of them + seemed to be very busy. + “So, what is Salem like?” he asked, trying to get some sort of clue. + “It’s like it always has been.” + No clue yet. But he knew that Salem wasn’t in Andalusia. If it + were, he would already have heard of it. + “And what do you do in Salem?” he insisted. + “What do I do in Salem?” The old man laughed. “Well, I’m the + king of Salem!” + People say strange things, the boy thought. Sometimes it’s better + to be with the sheep, who don’t say anything. And better still to be + alone with one’s books. They tell their incredible stories at the time + when you want to hear them. But when you’re talking to people, + they say some things that are so strange that you don’t know how to + continue the conversation. + “My name is Melchizedek,” said the old man. “How many sheep + do you have?” + “Enough,” said the boy. He could see that the old man wanted to + know more about his life. + “Well, then, we’ve got a problem. I can’t help you if you feel + you’ve got enough sheep.” + The boy was getting irritated. He wasn’t asking for help. It was + the old man who had asked for a drink of his wine, and had started + the conversation. + “Give me my book,” the boy said. “I have to go and gather my + sheep and get going.” + “Give me one-tenth of your sheep,” said the old man, “and I’ll tell + you how to find the hidden treasure.” + The boy remembered his dream, and suddenly everything was + clear to him. The old woman hadn’t charged him anything, but the + old man—maybe he was her husband—was going to find a way to + get much more money in exchange for information about something + that didn’t even exist. The old man was probably a Gypsy, too. + But before the boy could say anything, the old man leaned over, + picked up a stick, and began to write in the sand of the plaza. + Something bright reflected from his chest with such intensity that + the boy was momentarily blinded. With a movement that was too + quick for someone his age, the man covered whatever it was with + his cape. When his vision returned to normal, the boy was able to + read what the old man had written in the sand. + There, in the sand of the plaza of that small city, the boy read the + names of his father and his mother and the name of the seminary he + had attended. He read the name of the merchant’s daughter, which + he hadn’t even known, and he read things he had never told anyone. + “I’M THE KING OF SALEM,” THE OLD MAN HAD SAID. + “Why would a king be talking with a shepherd?” the boy asked, + awed and embarrassed. + “For several reasons. But let’s say that the most important is that + you have succeeded in discovering your Personal Legend.” + The boy didn’t know what a person’s “Personal Legend” was. + “It’s what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, + when they are young, knows what their Personal Legend is. + “At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is + possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything + they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time + passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be + impossible for them to realize their Personal Legend.” + None of what the old man was saying made much sense to the + boy. But he wanted to know what the “mysterious force” was; the + merchant’s daughter would be impressed when he told her about + that! + “It’s a force that appears to be negative, but actually shows you + how to realize your Personal Legend. It prepares your spirit and + your will, because there is one great truth on this planet: whoever + you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want + something, it’s because that desire originated in the soul of the + universe. It’s your mission on earth.” + “Even when all you want to do is travel? Or marry the daughter + of a textile merchant?” + “Yes, or even search for treasure. The Soul of the World is + nourished by people’s happiness. And also by unhappiness, envy, + and jealousy. To realize one’s Personal Legend is a person’s only + real obligation. All things are one. + “And, when you want something, all the universe conspires in + helping you to achieve it.” + They were both silent for a time, observing the plaza and the + townspeople. It was the old man who spoke first. + “Why do you tend a flock of sheep?” + “Because I like to travel.” + The old man pointed to a baker standing in his shop window at + one corner of the plaza. “When he was a child, that man wanted to + travel, too. But he decided first to buy his bakery and put some + money aside. When he’s an old man, he’s going to spend a month in + Africa. He never realized that people are capable, at any time in + their lives, of doing what they dream of.” + “He should have decided to become a shepherd,” the boy said. + “Well, he thought about that,” the old man said. “But bakers are + more important people than shepherds. Bakers have homes, while + shepherds sleep out in the open. Parents would rather see their + children marry bakers than shepherds.” + The boy felt a pang in his heart, thinking about the merchant’s + daughter. There was surely a baker in her town. + The old man continued, “In the long run, what people think + about shepherds and bakers becomes more important for them + than their own Personal Legends.” + The old man leafed through the book, and fell to reading a page + he came to. The boy waited, and then interrupted the old man just + as he himself had been interrupted. “Why are you telling me all + this?” + “Because you are trying to realize your Personal Legend. And + you are at the point where you’re about to give it all up.” + “And that’s when you always appear on the scene?” + “Not always in this way, but I always appear in one form or + another. Sometimes I appear in the form of a solution, or a good + idea. At other times, at a crucial moment, I make it easier for things + to happen. There are other things I do, too, but most of the time + people don’t realize I’ve done them.” + The old man related that, the week before, he had been forced to + appear before a miner, and had taken the form of a stone. The miner + had abandoned everything to go mining for emeralds. For five years + he had been working a certain river, and had examined hundreds of + thousands of stones looking for an emerald. The miner was about to + give it all up, right at the point when, if he were to examine just one + more stone—just one more—he would find his emerald. Since the + miner had sacrificed everything to his Personal Legend, the old man + decided to become involved. He transformed himself into a stone + that rolled up to the miner’s foot. The miner, with all the anger and + frustration of his five fruitless years, picked up the stone and threw + it aside. But he had thrown it with such force that it broke the stone + it fell upon, and there, embedded in the broken stone, was the most + beautiful emerald in the world. + “People learn, early in their lives, what is their reason for being,” + said the old man, with a certain bitterness. “Maybe that’s why they + give up on it so early, too. But that’s the way it is.” + The boy reminded the old man that he had said something about + hidden treasure. + “Treasure is uncovered by the force of flowing water, and it is + buried by the same currents,” said the old man. “If you want to learn + about your own treasure, you will have to give me one-tenth of your + flock.” + “What about one-tenth of my treasure?” + The old man looked disappointed. “If you start out by promising + what you don’t even have yet, you’ll lose your desire to work + toward getting it.” + The boy told him that he had already promised to give one-tenth + of his treasure to the Gypsy. + “Gypsies are experts at getting people to do that,” sighed the old + man. “In any case, it’s good that you’ve learned that everything in + life has its price. This is what the Warriors of the Light try to teach.” + The old man returned the book to the boy. + “Tomorrow, at this same time, bring me a tenth of your flock. + And I will tell you how to find the hidden treasure. Good afternoon.” + And he vanished around the corner of the plaza. + THE BOY BEGAN AGAIN TO READ HIS BOOK, BUT HE WAS NO longer able to + concentrate. He was tense and upset, because he knew that the old + man was right. He went over to the bakery and bought a loaf of + bread, thinking about whether or not he should tell the baker what + the old man had said about him. Sometimes it’s better to leave + things as they are, he thought to himself, and decided to say nothing. + If he were to say anything, the baker would spend three days + thinking about giving it all up, even though he had gotten used to + the way things were. The boy could certainly resist causing that + kind of anxiety for the baker. So he began to wander through the + city, and found himself at the gates. There was a small building + there, with a window at which people bought tickets to Africa. And + he knew that Egypt was in Africa. + “Can I help you?” asked the man behind the window. + “Maybe tomorrow,” said the boy, moving away. If he sold just + one of his sheep, he’d have enough to get to the other shore of the + strait. The idea frightened him. + “Another dreamer,” said the ticket seller to his assistant, + watching the boy walk away. “He doesn’t have enough money to + travel.” + While standing at the ticket window, the boy had remembered + his flock, and decided he should go back to being a shepherd. In two + years he had learned everything about shepherding: he knew how + to shear sheep, how to care for pregnant ewes, and how to protect + the sheep from wolves. He knew all the fields and pastures of + Andalusia. And he knew what was the fair price for every one of his + animals. + He decided to return to his friend’s stable by the longest route + possible. As he walked past the city’s castle, he interrupted his + return, and climbed the stone ramp that led to the top of the wall. + From there, he could see Africa in the distance. Someone had once + told him that it was from there that the Moors had come, to occupy + all of Spain. + He could see almost the entire city from where he sat, including + the plaza where he had talked with the old man. Curse the moment I + met that old man, he thought. He had come to the town only to find + a woman who could interpret his dream. Neither the woman nor the + old man was at all impressed by the fact that he was a shepherd. + They were solitary individuals who no longer believed in things, + and didn’t understand that shepherds become attached to their + sheep. He knew everything about each member of his flock: he + knew which ones were lame, which one was to give birth two + months from now, and which were the laziest. He knew how to + shear them, and how to slaughter them. If he ever decided to leave + them, they would suffer. + The wind began to pick up. He knew that wind: people called it + the levanter, because on it the Moors had come from the Levant at + the eastern end of the Mediterranean. + The levanter increased in intensity. Here I am, between my flock + and my treasure, the boy thought. He had to choose between + something he had become accustomed to and something he wanted + to have. There was also the merchant’s daughter, but she wasn’t as + important as his flock, because she didn’t depend on him. Maybe she + didn’t even remember him. He was sure that it made no difference + to her on which day he appeared: for her, every day was the same, + and when each day is the same as the next, it’s because people fail to + recognize the good things that happen in their lives every day that + the sun rises. + I left my father, my mother, and the town castle behind. They + have gotten used to my being away, and so have I. The sheep will get + used to my not being there, too, the boy thought. + From where he sat, he could observe the plaza. People continued + to come and go from the baker’s shop. A young couple sat on the + bench where he had talked with the old man, and they kissed. + “That baker…” he said to himself, without completing the + thought. The levanter was still getting stronger, and he felt its force + on his face. That wind had brought the Moors, yes, but it had also + brought the smell of the desert and of veiled women. It had brought + with it the sweat and the dreams of men who had once left to search + for the unknown, and for gold and adventure—and for the + Pyramids. The boy felt jealous of the freedom of the wind, and saw + that he could have the same freedom. There was nothing to hold + him back except himself. The sheep, the merchant’s daughter, and + the fields of Andalusia were only steps along the way to his Personal + Legend. + The next day, the boy met the old man at noon. He brought six + sheep with him. + “I’m surprised,” the boy said. “My friend bought all the other + sheep immediately. He said that he had always dreamed of being a + shepherd, and that it was a good omen.” + “That’s the way it always is,” said the old man. “It’s called the + principle of favorability. When you play cards the first time, you are + almost sure to win. Beginner’s luck.” + “Why is that?” + “Because there is a force that wants you to realize your Personal + Legend; it whets your appetite with a taste of success.” + Then the old man began to inspect the sheep, and he saw that + one was lame. The boy explained that it wasn’t important, since that + sheep was the most intelligent of the flock, and produced the most + wool. + “Where is the treasure?” he asked. + “It’s in Egypt, near the Pyramids.” + The boy was startled. The old woman had said the same thing. + But she hadn’t charged him anything. + “In order to find the treasure, you will have to follow the omens. + God has prepared a path for everyone to follow. You just have to + read the omens that he left for you.” + Before the boy could reply, a butterfly appeared and fluttered + between him and the old man. He remembered something his + grandfather had once told him: that butterflies were a good omen. + Like crickets, and like grasshoppers; like lizards and four-leaf + clovers. + “That’s right,” said the old man, able to read the boy’s thoughts. + “Just as your grandfather taught you. These are good omens.” + The old man opened his cape, and the boy was struck by what he + saw. The old man wore a breastplate of heavy gold, covered with + precious stones. The boy recalled the brilliance he had noticed on + the previous day. + He really was a king! He must be disguised to avoid encounters + with thieves. + “Take these,” said the old man, holding out a white stone and a + black stone that had been embedded at the center of the + breastplate. “They are called Urim and Thummim. The black + signifies ‘yes,’ and the white ‘no.’ When you are unable to read the + omens, they will help you to do so. Always ask an objective + question. + “But, if you can, try to make your own decisions. The treasure is + at the Pyramids; that you already knew. But I had to insist on the + payment of six sheep because I helped you to make your decision.” + The boy put the stones in his pouch. From then on, he would + make his own decisions. + “Don’t forget that everything you deal with is only one thing and + nothing else. And don’t forget the language of omens. And, above all, + don’t forget to follow your Personal Legend through to its + conclusion. + “But before I go, I want to tell you a little story. + “A certain shopkeeper sent his son to learn about the secret of + happiness from the wisest man in the world. The lad wandered + through the desert for forty days, and finally came upon a beautiful + castle, high atop a mountain. It was there that the wise man lived. + “Rather than finding a saintly man, though, our hero, on entering + the main room of the castle, saw a hive of activity: tradesmen came + and went, people were conversing in the corners, a small orchestra + was playing soft music, and there was a table covered with platters + of the most delicious food in that part of the world. The wise man + conversed with everyone, and the boy had to wait for two hours + before it was his turn to be given the man’s attention. + “The wise man listened attentively to the boy’s explanation of + why he had come, but told him that he didn’t have time just then to + explain the secret of happiness. He suggested that the boy look + around the palace and return in two hours. + “‘Meanwhile, I want to ask you to do something,’ said the wise + man, handing the boy a teaspoon that held two drops of oil. ‘As you + wander around, carry this spoon with you without allowing the oil + to spill.’ + “The boy began climbing and descending the many stairways of + the palace, keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. After two hours, he + returned to the room where the wise man was. + “‘Well,’ asked the wise man, ‘did you see the Persian tapestries + that are hanging in my dining hall? Did you see the garden that it + took the master gardener ten years to create? Did you notice the + beautiful parchments in my library?’ + “The boy was embarrassed, and confessed that he had observed + nothing. His only concern had been not to spill the oil that the wise + man had entrusted to him. + “‘Then go back and observe the marvels of my world,’ said the + wise man. ‘You cannot trust a man if you don’t know his house.’ + “Relieved, the boy picked up the spoon and returned to his + exploration of the palace, this time observing all of the works of art + on the ceilings and the walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all + around him, the beauty of the flowers, and the taste with which + everything had been selected. Upon returning to the wise man, he + related in detail everything he had seen. + “‘But where are the drops of oil I entrusted to you?’ asked the + wise man. + “Looking down at the spoon he held, the boy saw that the oil was + gone. + “‘Well, there is only one piece of advice I can give you,’ said the + wisest of wise men. ‘The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels + of the world, and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.’” + The shepherd said nothing. He had understood the story the old + king had told him. A shepherd may like to travel, but he should + never forget about his sheep. + The old man looked at the boy and, with his hands held together, + made several strange gestures over the boy’s head. Then, taking his + sheep, he walked away. + AT THE HIGHEST POINT IN TARIFA THERE IS AN OLD FORT, built by the + Moors. From atop its walls, one can catch a glimpse of Africa. + Melchizedek, the king of Salem, sat on the wall of the fort that + afternoon, and felt the levanter blowing in his face. The sheep + fidgeted nearby, uneasy with their new owner and excited by so + much change. All they wanted was food and water. + Melchizedek watched a small ship that was plowing its way out + of the port. He would never again see the boy, just as he had never + seen Abraham again after having charged him his one-tenth fee. + That was his work. + The gods should not have desires, because they don’t have + Personal Legends. But the king of Salem hoped desperately that the + boy would be successful. + It’s too bad that he’s quickly going to forget my name, he + thought. I should have repeated it for him. Then when he spoke + about me he would say that I am Melchizedek, the king of Salem. + He looked to the skies, feeling a bit abashed, and said, “I know + it’s the vanity of vanities, as you said, my Lord. But an old king + sometimes has to take some pride in himself.” + HOW STRANGE AFRICA IS, THOUGHT THE BOY. + He was sitting in a bar very much like the other bars he had seen + along the narrow streets of Tangier. Some men were smoking from + a gigantic pipe that they passed from one to the other. In just a few + hours he had seen men walking hand in hand, women with their + faces covered, and priests that climbed to the tops of towers and + chanted—as everyone about him went to their knees and placed + their foreheads on the ground. + “A practice of infidels,” he said to himself. As a child in church, he + had always looked at the image of Saint Santiago Matamoros on his + white horse, his sword unsheathed, and figures such as these + kneeling at his feet. The boy felt ill and terribly alone. The infidels + had an evil look about them. + Besides this, in the rush of his travels he had forgotten a detail, + just one detail, which could keep him from his treasure for a long + time: only Arabic was spoken in this country. + The owner of the bar approached him, and the boy pointed to a + drink that had been served at the next table. It turned out to be a + bitter tea. The boy preferred wine. + But he didn’t need to worry about that right now. What he had + to be concerned about was his treasure, and how he was going to go + about getting it. The sale of his sheep had left him with enough + money in his pouch, and the boy knew that in money there was + magic; whoever has money is never really alone. Before long, maybe + in just a few days, he would be at the Pyramids. An old man, with a + breastplate of gold, wouldn’t have lied just to acquire six sheep. + The old man had spoken about signs and omens, and, as the boy + was crossing the strait, he had thought about omens. Yes, the old + man had known what he was talking about: during the time the boy + had spent in the fields of Andalusia, he had become used to learning + which path he should take by observing the ground and the sky. He + had discovered that the presence of a certain bird meant that a + snake was nearby, and that a certain shrub was a sign that there + was water in the area. The sheep had taught him that. + If God leads the sheep so well, he will also lead a man, he + thought, and that made him feel better. The tea seemed less bitter. + “Who are you?” he heard a voice ask him in Spanish. + The boy was relieved. He was thinking about omens, and + someone had appeared. + “How come you speak Spanish?” he asked. The new arrival was a + young man in Western dress, but the color of his skin suggested he + was from this city. He was about the same age and height as the boy. + “Almost everyone here speaks Spanish. We’re only two hours + from Spain.” + “Sit down, and let me treat you to something,” said the boy. “And + ask for a glass of wine for me. I hate this tea.” + “There is no wine in this country,” the young man said. “The + religion here forbids it.” + The boy told him then that he needed to get to the Pyramids. He + almost began to tell about his treasure, but decided not to do so. If + he did, it was possible that the Arab would want a part of it as + payment for taking him there. He remembered what the old man + had said about offering something you didn’t even have yet. + “I’d like you to take me there if you can. I can pay you to serve as + my guide.” + “Do you have any idea how to get there?” the newcomer asked. + The boy noticed that the owner of the bar stood nearby, + listening attentively to their conversation. He felt uneasy at the + man’s presence. But he had found a guide, and didn’t want to miss + out on an opportunity. + “You have to cross the entire Sahara desert,” said the young man. + “And to do that, you need money. I need to know whether you have + enough.” + The boy thought it a strange question. But he trusted in the old + man, who had said that, when you really want something, the + universe always conspires in your favor. + He took his money from his pouch and showed it to the young + man. The owner of the bar came over and looked, as well. The two + men exchanged some words in Arabic, and the bar owner seemed + irritated. + “Let’s get out of here,” said the new arrival. “He wants us to + leave.” + The boy was relieved. He got up to pay the bill, but the owner + grabbed him and began to speak to him in an angry stream of + words. The boy was strong, and wanted to retaliate, but he was in a + foreign country. His new friend pushed the owner aside, and pulled + the boy outside with him. “He wanted your money,” he said. + “Tangier is not like the rest of Africa. This is a port, and every port + has its thieves.” + The boy trusted his new friend. He had helped him out in a + dangerous situation. He took out his money and counted it. + “We could get to the Pyramids by tomorrow,” said the other, + taking the money. “But I have to buy two camels.” + They walked together through the narrow streets of Tangier. + Everywhere there were stalls with items for sale. They reached the + center of a large plaza where the market was held. There were + thousands of people there, arguing, selling, and buying; vegetables + for sale amongst daggers, and carpets displayed alongside tobacco. + But the boy never took his eye off his new friend. After all, he had all + his money. He thought about asking him to give it back, but decided + that would be unfriendly. He knew nothing about the customs of the + strange land he was in. + “I’ll just watch him,” he said to himself. He knew he was stronger + than his friend. + Suddenly, there in the midst of all that confusion, he saw the + most beautiful sword he had ever seen. The scabbard was embossed + in silver, and the handle was black and encrusted with precious + stones. The boy promised himself that, when he returned from + Egypt, he would buy that sword. + “Ask the owner of that stall how much the sword costs,” he said + to his friend. Then he realized that he had been distracted for a few + moments, looking at the sword. His heart squeezed, as if his chest + had suddenly compressed it. He was afraid to look around, because + he knew what he would find. He continued to look at the beautiful + sword for a bit longer, until he summoned the courage to turn + around. + All around him was the market, with people coming and going, + shouting and buying, and the aroma of strange foods…but nowhere + could he find his new companion. + The boy wanted to believe that his friend had simply become + separated from him by accident. He decided to stay right there and + await his return. As he waited, a priest climbed to the top of a + nearby tower and began his chant; everyone in the market fell to + their knees, touched their foreheads to the ground, and took up the + chant. Then, like a colony of worker ants, they dismantled their + stalls and left. + The sun began its departure, as well. The boy watched it through + its trajectory for some time, until it was hidden behind the white + houses surrounding the plaza. He recalled that when the sun had + risen that morning, he was on another continent, still a shepherd + with sixty sheep, and looking forward to meeting with a girl. That + morning he had known everything that was going to happen to him + as he walked through the familiar fields. But now, as the sun began + to set, he was in a different country, a stranger in a strange land, + where he couldn’t even speak the language. He was no longer a + shepherd, and he had nothing, not even the money to return and + start everything over. + All this happened between sunrise and sunset, the boy thought. + He was feeling sorry for himself, and lamenting the fact that his life + could have changed so suddenly and so drastically. + He was so ashamed that he wanted to cry. He had never even + wept in front of his own sheep. But the marketplace was empty, and + he was far from home, so he wept. He wept because God was unfair, + and because this was the way God repaid those who believed in + their dreams. + When I had my sheep, I was happy, and I made those around me + happy. People saw me coming and welcomed me, he thought. But + now I’m sad and alone. I’m going to become bitter and distrustful of + people because one person betrayed me. I’m going to hate those + who have found their treasure because I never found mine. And I’m + going to hold on to what little I have, because I’m too insignificant to + conquer the world. + He opened his pouch to see what was left of his possessions; + maybe there was a bit left of the sandwich he had eaten on the ship. + But all he found was the heavy book, his jacket, and the two stones + the old man had given him. + As he looked at the stones, he felt relieved for some reason. He + had exchanged six sheep for two precious stones that had been + taken from a gold breastplate. He could sell the stones and buy a + return ticket. But this time I’ll be smarter, the boy thought, + removing them from the pouch so he could put them in his pocket. + This was a port town, and the only truthful thing his friend had told + him was that port towns are full of thieves. + Now he understood why the owner of the bar had been so upset: + he was trying to tell him not to trust that man. “I’m like everyone + else—I see the world in terms of what I would like to see happen, + not what actually does.” + He ran his fingers slowly over the stones, sensing their + temperature and feeling their surfaces. They were his treasure. Just + handling them made him feel better. They reminded him of the old + man. + “When you want something, all the universe conspires in helping + you to achieve it,” he had said. + The boy was trying to understand the truth of what the old man + had said. There he was in the empty marketplace, without a cent to + his name, and with not a sheep to guard through the night. But the + stones were proof that he had met with a king—a king who knew of + the boy’s past. + “They’re called Urim and Thummim, and they can help you to + read the omens.” The boy put the stones back in the pouch and + decided to do an experiment. The old man had said to ask very clear + questions, and to do that, the boy had to know what he wanted. So, + he asked if the old man’s blessing was still with him. + He took out one of the stones. It was “yes.” + “Am I going to find my treasure?” he asked. + He stuck his hand into the pouch, and felt around for one of the + stones. As he did so, both of them pushed through a hole in the + pouch and fell to the ground. The boy had never even noticed that + there was a hole in his pouch. He knelt down to find Urim and + Thummim and put them back in the pouch. But as he saw them lying + there on the ground, another phrase came to his mind. + “Learn to recognize omens, and follow them,” the old king had + said. + An omen. The boy smiled to himself. He picked up the two + stones and put them back in his pouch. He didn’t consider mending + the hole—the stones could fall through any time they wanted. He + had learned that there were certain things one shouldn’t ask about, + so as not to flee from one’s own Personal Legend. “I promised that I + would make my own decisions,” he said to himself. + But the stones had told him that the old man was still with him, + and that made him feel more confident. He looked around at the + empty plaza again, feeling less desperate than before. This wasn’t a + strange place; it was a new one. + After all, what he had always wanted was just that: to know new + places. Even if he never got to the Pyramids, he had already traveled + farther than any shepherd he knew. Oh, if they only knew how + different things are just two hours by ship from where they are, he + thought. Although his new world at the moment was just an empty + marketplace, he had already seen it when it was teeming with life, + and he would never forget it. He remembered the sword. It hurt him + a bit to think about it, but he had never seen one like it before. As he + mused about these things, he realized that he had to choose + between thinking of himself as the poor victim of a thief and as an + adventurer in quest of his treasure. + “I’m an adventurer, looking for treasure,” he said to himself. + HE WAS SHAKEN INTO WAKEFULNESS BY SOMEONE. HE had fallen asleep in + the middle of the marketplace, and life in the plaza was about to + resume. + Looking around, he sought his sheep, and then realized that he + was in a new world. But instead of being saddened, he was happy. + He no longer had to seek out food and water for the sheep; he could + go in search of his treasure, instead. He had not a cent in his pocket, + but he had faith. He had decided, the night before, that he would be + as much an adventurer as the ones he had admired in books. + He walked slowly through the market. The merchants were + assembling their stalls, and the boy helped a candy seller to do his. + The candy seller had a smile on his face: he was happy, aware of + what his life was about, and ready to begin a day’s work. His smile + reminded the boy of the old man—the mysterious old king he had + met. “This candy merchant isn’t making candy so that later he can + travel or marry a shopkeeper’s daughter. He’s doing it because it’s + what he wants to do,” thought the boy. He realized that he could do + the same thing the old man had done—sense whether a person was + near to or far from his Personal Legend. Just by looking at them. It’s + easy, and yet I’ve never done it before, he thought. + When the stall was assembled, the candy seller offered the boy + the first sweet he had made for the day. The boy thanked him, ate it, + and went on his way. When he had gone only a short distance, he + realized that, while they were erecting the stall, one of them had + spoken Arabic and the other Spanish. + And they had understood each other perfectly well. + There must be a language that doesn’t depend on words, the boy + thought. I’ve already had that experience with my sheep, and now + it’s happening with people. + He was learning a lot of new things. Some of them were things + that he had already experienced, and weren’t really new, but that he + had never perceived before. And he hadn’t perceived them because + he had become accustomed to them. He realized: If I can learn to + understand this language without words, I can learn to understand + the world. + Relaxed and unhurried, he resolved that he would walk through + the narrow streets of Tangier. Only in that way would he be able to + read the omens. He knew it would require a lot of patience, but + shepherds know all about patience. Once again he saw that, in that + strange land, he was applying the same lessons he had learned with + his sheep. + “All things are one,” the old man had said. + THE CRYSTAL MERCHANT AWOKE WITH THE DAY, AND FELT the same anxiety + that he felt every morning. He had been in the same place for thirty + years: a shop at the top of a hilly street where few customers + passed. Now it was too late to change anything—the only thing he + had ever learned to do was to buy and sell crystal glassware. There + had been a time when many people knew of his shop: Arab + merchants, French and English geologists, German soldiers who + were always well-heeled. In those days it had been wonderful to be + selling crystal, and he had thought how he would become rich, and + have beautiful women at his side as he grew older. + But, as time passed, Tangier had changed. The nearby city of + Ceuta had grown faster than Tangier, and business had fallen off. + Neighbors moved away, and there remained only a few small shops + on the hill. And no one was going to climb the hill just to browse + through a few small shops. + But the crystal merchant had no choice. He had lived thirty years + of his life buying and selling crystal pieces, and now it was too late + to do anything else. + He spent the entire morning observing the infrequent comings + and goings in the street. He had done this for years, and knew the + schedule of everyone who passed. But, just before lunchtime, a boy + stopped in front of the shop. He was dressed normally, but the + practiced eyes of the crystal merchant could see that the boy had no + money to spend. Nevertheless, the merchant decided to delay his + lunch for a few minutes until the boy moved on. + A CARD HANGING IN THE DOORWAY ANNOUNCED THAT several languages + were spoken in the shop. The boy saw a man appear behind the + counter. + “I can clean up those glasses in the window, if you want,” said + the boy. “The way they look now, nobody is going to want to buy + them.” + The man looked at him without responding. + “In exchange, you could give me something to eat.” + The man still said nothing, and the boy sensed that he was going + to have to make a decision. In his pouch, he had his jacket—he + certainly wasn’t going to need it in the desert. Taking the jacket out, + he began to clean the glasses. In half an hour, he had cleaned all the + glasses in the window, and, as he was doing so, two customers had + entered the shop and bought some crystal. + When he had completed the cleaning, he asked the man for + something to eat. “Let’s go and have some lunch,” said the crystal + merchant. + He put a sign on the door, and they went to a small café nearby. + As they sat down at the only table in the place, the crystal merchant + laughed. + “You didn’t have to do any cleaning,” he said. “The Koran + requires me to feed a hungry person.” + “Well then, why did you let me do it?” the boy asked. + “Because the crystal was dirty. And both you and I needed to + cleanse our minds of negative thoughts.” + When they had eaten, the merchant turned to the boy and said, + “I’d like you to work in my shop. Two customers came in today + while you were working, and that’s a good omen.” + People talk a lot about omens, thought the shepherd. But they + really don’t know what they’re saying. Just as I hadn’t realized that + for so many years I had been speaking a language without words to + my sheep. + “Do you want to go to work for me?” the merchant asked. + “I can work for the rest of today,” the boy answered. “I’ll work all + night, until dawn, and I’ll clean every piece of crystal in your shop. + In return, I need money to get to Egypt tomorrow.” + The merchant laughed. “Even if you cleaned my crystal for an + entire year…even if you earned a good commission selling every + piece, you would still have to borrow money to get to Egypt. There + are thousands of kilometers of desert between here and there.” + There was a moment of silence so profound that it seemed the + city was asleep. No sound from the bazaars, no arguments among + the merchants, no men climbing to the towers to chant. No hope, no + adventure, no old kings or Personal Legends, no treasure, and no + Pyramids. It was as if the world had fallen silent because the boy’s + soul had. He sat there, staring blankly through the door of the café, + wishing that he had died, and that everything would end forever at + that moment. + The merchant looked anxiously at the boy. All the joy he had + seen that morning had suddenly disappeared. + “I can give you the money you need to get back to your country, + my son,” said the crystal merchant. + The boy said nothing. He got up, adjusted his clothing, and + picked up his pouch. + “I’ll work for you,” he said. + And after another long silence, he added, “I need money to buy + some sheep.” + + + +
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. +
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