2001 first edition of Life of Pi, published by Alfred A. Knopf
The Golden Rule unites religions
Piscine Molitor Paris after renovation in 2015
Calculation of approximations to the transcendental number Pi by successive generations of Indian Mathematicians
Zebra, Orang-utan, Hyena, and Bengal tiger with Pi in the lifeboat
The
prey-predator relationship goes to work to reduce their numbers and ultimately
Pi is left with the Bengal tiger (who has the unlikely name of Richard Parker,
after a shikari who hunted tigers) with only a tarpaulin to separate them. This
is the ultimate matchup to decide who will be the Alpha male.
There is also the mundane task of assuaging hunger and thirst. Perhaps the most Robinson Crusoe-like part of the story is Pi’s slow education by trial and error, with a great deal of improvisation, on how he went about getting food and drink from the ocean and the sky using various crude implements he devised. Flying fish, turtle-meat, dorados, and the all-important rain-water collection apparatus (an inverted umbrella) provide sustenance.
A gaff – A large iron hook attached to a pole or handle and used to land large
fish
The island – Pi is astonished ‘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’
Meerkats
We are
left with this as the only curiosity to be followed up. They are not rescued,
but wash up unceremoniously on the coast of Mexico and the end fizzles out like
a damp squib with Pi being interviewed by two Japanese on behalf of the
insurers of the vessel that was lost at sea, perhaps in an explosion.
The
film of the novel was made by the well-known director Ang Lee in a 2012
adventure-drama film, whose screenplay was written by David Magee. It stars
Suraj Sharma, Irrfan Khan, Rafe Spall, Tabu and Adil Hussain in lead roles.
%20acts%20as%20Gita%20Patel,%20mother%20of%20Pi%20Patel%20in%20the%20film.png)
As a child, his family moved around a lot. He’s lived in Canada, Costa Rica, France, and Mexico. He was educated at Trinity College School in Ontario and studied philosophy at Trent University in Ontario.
Martel worked at odd jobs as an adult: parking lot attendant in Ottawa, dishwasher in a tree-planting camp in northern Ontario, and a security guard at the Canadian embassy in Paris. He also travelled through Mexico, South America, Iran, Turkey, and India.
He started writing plays and short stories while he was at university, writing that he now labels as “blighted by immaturity and dreadful.” Martel moved to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan with his partner, Alice Kuipers, in 2003 and lives there with his four sons. Though his first language is French, he prefers to write fiction in English.
Yann Martel now lives in Saskatoon, Canada, with his partner, the writer Alice Kuipers and their four children
Martel’s first novel was Self (1996). His other novels are The High Mountains of Portugal, Beatrice and Virgil, and the collection of stories The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, and a collection of letters to Canada's Prime Minister, 101 Letters to a Prime Minister.
He has won a number of literary prizes, including the 2001 Hugh MacLennan Prize for Fiction and the 2002 Asian/Pacific American Award for Literature.
He is best known for writing the novel Life of Pi which won the Man Booker Prize, and became an international bestseller, selling more than 12 million copies worldwide. The movie adaptation of Life of Pi won four Oscars including Best Director for Ang Lee; it also won the Golden Globe Award for the Best Original Score.
Martel
has said that Life of Pi can be summarised in three statements: 1. Life is a story 2.
You can choose your story, and 3. A story with God is the better story. Gordon
Houser suggests that there are two main themes in the book, that all life is
interdependent, and that we live and breathe via belief.
Martel said in a 2002 interview with PBS that he was “looking for a story… that would direct my life.” He spoke of being lonely and needing direction in his life, and he found that writing the novel met this need.
(Extracts from Wikipedia)
The protagonist is Piscine Molitor ‘Pi’ Patel, who explores issues of spirituality and metaphysics from an early age. He
lives with his parents in Pondicherry. His father is the owner of a zoo and the
two boys live an enchanted life in the park, learning about animals and their
habits and natures. Pi' s father takes care to teach them important lessons about animals
and their traits.
Pi is a voracious reader and a very good swimmer, coached by Francis Adirubasamy or Mamaji as he was referred to fondly by the family. In fact Mamaji was responsible for Pi being named Piscine Molitor Patel after a famous Parisian swimming pool , the Piscine Molitor. This leads to excruciating embarrassment for him at school, because the first syllable is close to ‘pissing.’ The endless teasing from his peers led him to adopt Pi as his name, with its mathematical reference!
The author craftily develops the central character of Pi by weaving a fascinating yarn in the first person as stated in the ‘Author's Note.’
When Pi's father decides to move the whole family to Canada, we see them board a ship with selected animals from the zoo, giving it a ‘Noah's Ark’ touch. A shipwreck on the Pacific Ocean leaves a shaken Pi and a few animals as survivors in a lifeboat on the treacherous ocean.
He survives 227 days on the lifeboat with a Bengal tiger, which raises questions about the nature of reality and how it is perceived and told.
The
novel is divided into three parts..
- Pi's early life, upto the age of 16, until the family leaves for Canada.
- His ordeal on the Pacific Ocean, and
- Finally how Pi and Richard Parker (the tiger), are washed ashore in the lifeboat in Mexico.
The novel makes for an interesting read with its wonderfully detailed descriptions of nature, the ordeals of Pi at sea, and the human emotions of a young boy learning the unique skills of survival with a tiger in a narrow space. A fascinating connect develops between Pi and the tiger on the boat and it runs all through the second part.
Life of Pi is an example of magical realism, which is a literary genre that contains fantastical elements in an otherwise realistic world.
Arundhaty
Pi is raised as a Hindu and practices vegetarianism. At the age of fourteen, he investigates Christianity and Islam, and decides to become an adherent of all three religions, much to his parents' dismay (and his religious mentors' frustration). He says he ‘just wants to love God,’ and tries to understand God through the lens of each religion, and comes to recognise the benefits of each viewpoint.
Arun felt this piece seemed relevant today since civil society appears to be much divided by religion: who is better, who should live where, and questioning the right to change one’s faith.
This part of the story shows how inconsequential these things are. It also demonstrates that such conflict can be resolved and it is possible to find a confluence among various religious heads, because there is a common element in the teachings of all religions: to love God and treat your human neighbours well.
Devika enjoyed
reading most of the book. There were certain parts that were gruesome and she couldn’t stomach it, and hence skipped a bit. The detailing was beautiful, and one
could visualise living on the raft with its problems and sometimes the beauty
of it. Devika felt her chosen passage had so much beauty; the underwater life is described to
perfection. It reminded her of one of the exhibits at Pepper House during the last
Biennale, where there was a whole city created in the long room by the artist.
This was of course not an underwater scene but Devika felt the connection.
The exhibit at Pepper House during the Kochi Biennale 2018 which reminded Devika of the underwater description in Life of Pi
Devika loves being in the water and prefers beaches any day to the mountains. Probably it’s in her blood as she's a sailor’s daughter! But she had never imagined underwater life to be so colourful and beautiful. The whole underwater scene is so descriptive that one can imagine different types of fish rushing home after their chores for the day. While watching the movie, Life of Pi, one cannot see the details mentioned in the book which makes it a great read!
The author describes the invasion of one's mind and body by fear, in the most fascinating way, thereby expressing a basic truth.
Joe
Life of Pi is a
fantasy book centred on the voyage of a castaway with a tiger over the Pacific
Ocean for 227 days of extreme survival. There’s plenty of detail of various
animals, birds, and fishes – it’s a book for naturalists and prospective
zoo-keepers. It was made into a 2012 adventure-drama by director Ang Lee and
got several prizes; the film was known for its special effects and simulation
of animals, storms, waves, mysterious islands, and so on. That it encourages
belief in God (as alleged at the beginning) is disputable. But it’s a fantastic
yarn, made believable by the sharp details with which the author describes
events and animal behaviour. One of the words Joe learned was prusten, which has its own
wikipedia entry describing it as “a form of communicative behaviour exhibited
by some members of the family Felidae. Prusten is also referred to as chuffing
or chuffle (verb and noun). It is described as a short, low intensity, non-threatening
vocalization, such as husbands and wives often resort to.”
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prusten
Joe selected the passage because he has an affinity for food and was drawn to the hallucinations that Pi Patel entertained for various South Indian foods like masala dosai, oothappam, idli and so on while stranded in his lifeboat. Later Pi discovers the Norwegian vacuum packed rations stowed in the boat’s locker and finds them delicious, including the cans of ‘crystalline’ water.
KumKum read Life of Pi by Yann Martel, a Canadian author, soon after it won the Man Booker Prize in 2002. However, she did not think it was a great book. The author's prose did not impress her, nor did the story. The question of what genre the book should be recognised as puzzled her. Was it an adventure, or should it be called a fantasy? The book seemed to straddle both territories, which was unsatisfactory.
Reading the book a second time was fun for her. She saw the movie after it was recommended for 11 Oscar prizes, and won 4. Ang Lee, the director of the movie, was a great director, and KumKum liked his interpretation of the book on screen. Richard Parker, an animated tiger, was adorable in the movie.
KumKum
was aware of the beauty of Kerala's hill station Munnar, and she was enchanted
by the description of Munnar in the book. It was in October 2005 that she got
her first chance to visit. She was astounded by everything she did on that trip
as a tourist, paralleling what Yann Martel recorded in the book as his young
hero’s experiences. Nothing seems to have changed. Although she looked for
them, she missed seeing the three mountaintops described in the book thus: “on
each stood a Godhouse.”
Pamela
Thoughts on God come naturally to those in desperate need of help even though they may not be thinking about religion. Pamela liked the part where Pi’s thoughts stray to his faith and belief. He tells himself, “Yes, so long as God is with me, I will not die. Amen,” – echoing the words of Psalm 23.
After extensive philosophical debate in his own mind, Pi arrives at a mundane reassurance: “It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity.” The phrase ‘life-hungry stupidity’ caught Pamela’s attention. It is instinctive to want to live, to survive and we don't realise it until we come face to face with death. Pi calls it ‘a fierce will to live.’
The portion that Shoba chose is from part 2. The tiger, Richard Parker, has eaten the hyena and Pi fears for his life. Then he looks at the tiger and strangely, is calmed by because it looks at him … not threateningly, but in a pacific manner. He realises that Richard Parker is helping to keep him alive. He did not sink into despair, considering the situation in which he was. Rather than defeat the tiger or get rid of it, he had to tame it. That was his only chance.
Pi describes the various sounds the tiger makes. ‘Prusten’ is the rarest sound of a tiger. The sounds made by a tiger can be guttural. They are compared to autumn leaves rustling, or to a giant door opening on rusty hinges. Tigers can also remain utterly, majestically silent.
The relationship and interaction between Pi and Richard Parker, form the crux of the story. In this part Pi comes to realise that none of the six options he had thought up was going to work.
Zakia chose her passage from Chapter 74 as it was congruent with her own sentiments and convictions. Piscine is reaffirming his Faith as the only thing which is keeping him mentally alive and agile, reminding him of his place in Creation. This vocal and visual affirmation of living in God’s house with God’s cat made him feel safe and secure in his moments of utmost despair. Thus did God’s shining light lift him out of the darkness.
KumKum Ch 17
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.
Arundhaty Ch 23
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?
[And so
they went on and each had a lot to say of each other’s religion.]
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. “
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.”
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.
”
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.
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.”
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.
Kavita Ch 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.
Thomo Ch 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.
Joe Ch 51
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. The edge gave way and nine wax-paper-wrapped
rectangular bars tumbled out. It naturally broke into two. Two nearly square
biscuits, pale in colour and fragrant in smell. Lord, who would have thought?
It was a secret held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the best in the world!
These biscuits were amazingly good. 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!
Pamela Ch 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.
Geetha Ch 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.
Shoba Ch 57
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.
Priya Ch 57
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
CIRCUUU-UUSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! 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.
Devika Ch 59
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.
Zakia Ch 74
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.
Saras Ch 78
There were many skies. 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. 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. 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.
Thanks Saras, Geetha and Joe for putting together all our thoughts in the latest blog.
ReplyDeleteLove the visuals you used to make the blog more interesting.