The Boatman

The Boatman

A dawn haze hung low over the Hooghly River, shrouding the lush countryside in a blanket of surreal calm. The imposing river, one of many Ganges tributaries, wove across the lowlands and flowed serenely toward the Bay of Bengal. A sonorous voice drifted across the water as a boatman, concealed within the morning mist, sang in Bhatiyali style. His song was one of devotion, love, or possibly loneliness, as he leisurely drifted downstream.

On the bank of the river a man waited, scanning for the boatman. He fidgeted impatiently and checked his watch, oblivious to the awakening Chinsurah township behind him. His outfit of buttoned-up shirt, tailored pants and polished shoes contrasted dramatically with the simple lungi cloth fastened at the waist worn by the locals. Nearby, early-morning worshippers bathed in the shallows of the sacred river and devoutly offered conch shells of water back to the moving current.

The singing boatman slowly emerged from the mist, standing at the helm of his small vessel while allowing the river to guide him. His thin body seemed held together by sinewy muscles accustomed to hard rowing. He had work-worn hands and deep forehead furrows. A lightweight turban rested on his head, functioning both as a cultural emblem and screen against blistering sun and reflected glare. He was probably a Muslim, but could also be Hindu. It didn’t really matter which one, for mostly he was a boatman, as was his father, and his father before him.

The man waiting on the riverbank signaled the boatman as he would a taxi in a busy city. The boatman noticed and drifted slowly toward him, sparingly utilising his oar. With no competing boatmen in sight, he had no need to hurry. The impatient man entreated the boatman to move faster. He had a meeting scheduled on the other side of the Hooghly, at Bhatpara, and was not accustomed to being late for an appointment.

“Could you possibly row any slower?” the man called as the boatman neared. “For goodness sake, I’m Professor Postlewait and I have a meeting with an important Sanskrit pundit at Bhatpara.”

The boatman bobbled his head and smiled broadly, confounding the professor. He couldn’t ascertain if the boatman’s smile was a demeaning sneer or a friendly greeting.

“Bhatpara, yes,” the boatman said. “We go soon.” He proceeded to tether his boat to a boulder at the water’s edge. “I will get my cousin and then just now coming.”

Professor Postlewait shook his head. “We don’t need your cousin. I only want to get across the Hooghly to Bhatpara.”

The boatman sauntered past and walked directly toward a ramshackle teahouse, leaving Professor Postlewait behind, kicking small stones into the river.

After five minutes of waiting Professor Postlewait strode toward the teahouse where he found the boatman sipping a hot drink and laughing with his friends.

“I need to go now!” Professor Postlewait scolded.

“Just now coming,” said the boatman. “My cousin is having breakfast.”

“Forget about your cousin. I want to go across the river. It will only take half an hour there and back.” The professor stood fixed at the doorway of the small hut, surveying the amateur craftsmanship: rusted iron posts and eroded wooden beams supporting plastic and tin sheets of siding. Hard benches and uneven wooden slab tables furnished the makeshift dwelling.

“It’s important that I go now,” he said. “My meeting is due to start very soon. Do you even have any idea of the importance of the Sanskrit center and its function as a significant repository of ancient wisdom?”

“Sanskrit is the language of the gods,” the boatman said. “But I speak only Bengali and sing Bhatiyali songs.”

Professor Postlewait was taken aback. “Do you mean to tell me that after living your whole life in such close proximity to the center for Sanskrit knowledge you have yet to learn even the rudimentary basics of the language?”

“I know only the sacred Hooghly, this town, and Bengali,” the boatman replied. “I’m a boatman, my father was a boatman, and his father was a boatman.”

The professor scanned the boatman, searching for signs of sarcasm, but found none. “Then I must declare that twenty-five percent of your life has been wasted,” the professor said. He retreated from the teahouse, returned to the river, and waited.

After another ten minutes the boatman casually appeared carrying a small box. The professor was ready to step onto the boat but the boatman proceeded to erect a makeshift altar by the bank of the river. He placed his deities carefully down, and lit a ghee wick. He then began waving the lamp in small circles.

“What on earth are you doing?” the professor asked. “Are we going to get moving now?”

“No talk now,” said the boatman. “Just worship for a safe journey.” He turned aside, focusing on his ritual. Professor Postlewait walked up and down impatiently as the boatman offered incense and flowers. Upon completion he carefully packed his deities and paraphernalia back in the tidy box.

“Smell the flower blessing,” he said to the professor, while handing him a marigold. “Now we can go.”

Finally cast off from shore, the professor clung tightly to the small craft as the boatman stood at the stern, rowing smoothly and singing softly. They were no more than thirty meters from shore when Professor Postlewait noticed a movement just below the surface.

“Did you see that boatman!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I believe it was an increasingly rare and endangered Ganges River dolphin.”

“Very big fish,” the boatman replied, unconcerned.

“Much more than just a very big fish,” said the professor. “The Ganges River dolphin used to be very common in these parts, but industrial pollution upstream coupled with significant dam construction has resulted in decimation of their numbers. They are an important piece of this river ecosystem.”

“The big fish is sick from pollution,” said the boatman. “May Mother Ganga bless him.”

“Is that all you can say about the matter?” the professor chided. “You are living beside the Hooghly river, yet you know so little about it.”

“I’m a boatman, my father was a boatman, and his father was a boatman. The river is my life. I row my boat and sing my songs.”

“Then I must declare that a good fifty percent of your life has been wasted. What is the value of life without study and learning?”

The boatman ignored the question and dipped his paddle expertly into the water, directing the small craft to take advantage of the current.

The weather changes quickly in Bengal, especially during monsoon season. The dry morning had been an exception, but clouds began to gather, along with an increasing breeze. Professor Postlewait looked to the sky, noticing the fast moving clouds, but his attention was diverted by something else.

“Look, way up there,” he said while pointing animatedly. “I do believe that bird high up in the sky is an Indian spotted eagle. Do you see them often around here? As far as I know from my study of local bird life the Indian spotted eagle is an endangered species.”

The boatman held his paddle firmly and looked up momentarily. He then resumed paddling.

“Why are you not awed by such a majestic sight?” the professor said. “Surely it’s not every day you get to see one of those great birds in flight.”

“Many birds there are,” said the boatman. “I don’t eat them. The bird will fly until the storm soon comes.”

Professor Postlewait banged his fist tentatively against the deck. “Good god, man, I didn’t say you have to eat it, but that great bird is a Bengali icon. The eagle is the king of all birds.”

“Garuda is the king of all eagles,” said the boatman. “If you see him, please do let me know, but for now sit tight as the storm will hit and we are only half way to Bhatpara.”

The professor was losing patience with the boatman. “I can’t believe you are so entirely ignorant of the wildlife in this region. A simple study will reveal the many wonders to be found in the local area,” he said.

The boatman continued to row with renewed vigor. Increasingly large waves began rocking the small vessel. “I am just a boatman, my father was a boatman, and his father was a boatman,” he said.

“Then seventy-five percent of your life has been uselessly wasted,” Professor Postlewait said, derision in his voice. He brushed spray from his face as the boat rollicked and crashed against the waves.

The boatman leaned forward, pulling hard on the oar, fighting to gain purchase with every stroke. The professor suddenly stood up, looking to the heavens.

“I don’t think I have ever seen a cloud system appear so suddenly. One minute it was nimbostratus, then cumulus and now suddenly cumulonimbus. The eerie green stillness of an impending storm is certainly a sight to behold, don’t you think boatman?”

“I think sitting down is best sir, the storm is coming.”

“Yes, yes of course the storm is coming. That’s what I have been telling you. Do you understand anything at all? The cumulonimbus monsoon cloud is certainly much more eye-catching in the field than in any text book I have ever read. This is so exciting.”

“Danger is here sir. Please sit down,” the boatman said.

“And miss this experience. Are you crazy? The feeling of wind in my hair and the first cooling droplets of rain during monsoon. I don’t even mind getting a little wet. The water spray is invigorating.”

“Soon a lot wet we will be,” said the boatman. “The storm begins, please sit.”

“Are you scared,” said the professor.

“I am a boatman, my father was a boatman, and his father was a boatman,” said the boatman. To be scared a little is to respect the Hooghly and be safe.”

“You may be a boatman, but I’m a scholar,” said Professor Postlewait. “I have learned more about this river from books than you will ever know simply by rowing back and forth.”

Professor Postlewait stood tall and proud as the boat swayed aimlessly. He slipped but grabbed hold of the boatman, before correcting himself and standing again to witness the beauty of nature’s fury. He didn’t notice the large Hooghly tide wave crashing into the bow, which tossed him backwards into the churning waters. He bobbed up, flailing his arms in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. The boatman paddled furiously, but couldn’t bridge the gap between himself and the professor.

“Swim!” called the boatman, his voice barely audible against the now pelting rain and stormy tempest.

“I can’t swim,” yelled Professor Postlewait, his face a mask of despair and fright. He swatted at the water like a deranged madman.

“You must try to swim,” the boatman shouted again.

The professor sputtered and gulped, tossed by the waves. “How can I possibly swim?” he cried. “My life is study, books and knowledge.” He grappled with the water, somehow hoping it would aid buoyancy. “I didn’t have time to learn to swim.”

“Then your life has been one-hundred percent wasted,” said the boatman softly and sadly, as Professor Postlewait sunk beneath the surface one last time. The boatman threw out his anchor, lay down his oar, curled up tightly in a safe nook of his small vessel, and sang a lonely Bhatiyali song while waiting for the storm to recede.