A Clip in Slow Motion

[It has been twenty years since I wrote this piece and included it in my book "The Remix of Orchids." Looking back, I realize that it has a meandering quality, almost like a vignette. Nonetheless, I hope that you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.]

A Clip in Slow Motion

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Ultimately, it was the captain’s prerogative to decide whether to moor the ship or press ahead. Yet, given the circumstances, he had no choice but to opt for the former. The MV Sentinel, weary from battling a howling gale all day, craved the solace of Hut Bay jetty, as did its exhausted passengers, myself included.

As a survivor of a perilous journey on the Bay of Bengal, I tried to convince myself that the worst was over. However, I couldn’t shake off a persistent feeling of unease. Maybe my optimism was clouding my judgment, or perhaps I was in denial and refusing to acknowledge the turmoil within me.

With every fibre of my being drained, the horrors endured had taken a toll on my psyche. I longed for the tranquillity of the night to gather my shattered thoughts and regain some semblance of composure. A peaceful night’s rest seemed a small price to pay compared to the mental recovery I desperately needed. Only the promise of a clear sky and the assurance of a better tomorrow could begin to revive me from the depths of my despair.

Was it a case of human error? The ship was not supposed to sail when the Met Office had forecast a gale. It was November 19, and the second monsoon of the year was long overdue. Even without a regular forecast, an experienced islander could have smelt it simply by feeling the moisture in the breeze from the northeast. But nobody seemed to have taken care of that, or perhaps everybody was too deeply into matters more critical than that. In their reckoning, it was just another ordinary day, and the ship could take care of herself on her familiar route. Then, was it an oversight? Oh no, it was far worse than a simple oversight—a cruel indifference or even a diabolical deception—we would take ages to forget it! It was a short excursion to deathdom.

Let me recall how horrendous it was. Indeed, it was rather more bone-chilling than horrendous, turning into an encounter with the custodian of the future to wrest our lovely tomorrow. In retrospect, it makes me feel like a winner!

The scene aboard the ship was a pandemonium of chaos and terror. Every aspect of our surroundings seemed to be in a frenzied dance of wind and waves. The ship itself groaned and pitched with each punishing blow from the atrocious weather. The sea churned and roiled beneath us as if in terror of the raging sky above.

Above deck, the air was a suffocating blend of salt and fear, the howling wind obliterating all other sounds. The relentless drumbeat of rain against wood and metal was the only audible reminder of our peril. Towering waves loomed on the horizon, crashing into the ship with bone-shaking force and drenching the deck in a relentless shower of icy spray, each impact a terrifying reminder of our vulnerability.

Below deck, the situation was a living nightmare. Every movement was a battle against the ship’s relentless sway. Attempts to rise from our bunks were met with a disorienting wave of dizziness as if the very laws of gravity had been upended.

There was nowhere to turn for safety in this maelstrom of terror and confusion. The once-sturdy railings and walls now seemed as fragile as paper, a stark reminder of our vulnerability in the face of nature’s fury. Even our fellow passengers, usually a source of comfort, offered little solace, their own struggles mirroring our own. It was a nightmare from which there seemed to be no escape.

The force reverberating through the corridor was enough to wrench open the iron doors, setting off a cacophony of bangs and clangs, each sound more hazardous than the last. Closed doors stubbornly refused to yield, while open ones threatened to slam shut with demonic caprice, exacting a heavy toll on anyone foolish enough to challenge their whims. One unfortunate passenger learned this the hard way, his thumb meeting a grisly fate as it inadvertently met the unforgiving edge of a closing door.

With a sickening thud, the deed was done. The unfortunate soul found himself suddenly bereft of a vital appendage, the victim of a grotesque twist of fate that left him reeling in shock and pain. As the massive door swung open once more, propelled by the same malevolent force that had sealed it shut, the severed digit was flung violently away, leaving a trail of crimson in its wake. It was a stark reminder to him of the irreversible loss he suffered.

For a fleeting moment, the victim was too stunned to comprehend the magnitude of his injury. But as reality crashed down upon him, he crumpled to the ground like a felled tree, his world forever altered by the merciless machinery that had claimed his thumb.

The roaring exterior notwithstanding, there reigned an ominous silence inside the dining hall. The atmosphere was strange; the near-total absence of human contribution to making the ambience was conspicuous. The silence was more debilitating than deafening, which scared anybody who dared to break it. Even though a good many passengers had bought their lunch coupons in advance at the time of their embarkation, they now preferred not to insist on the service. They stuck to their bunks, and it was their way of fighting the bouts of nausea. By lunchtime, the outbreak of seasickness had completely replaced appetite with queasiness, and the lingering odour of spices still emanating from the desolate corner of the kitchen made no sense and only added to the prevalent feeling of disgust.

I was not exactly hungry, but my fear of uncertainty took me to the dining area. A peculiar longing for company, the motivation for human bonding generated by the misery, and the attraction of a human face—maybe any lugubrious human face—made me restless and mobile. The haunting loneliness in my cabin made me feel I was nearing my end—my hated nemesis. I felt a watery grave was preordained, and I was heading towards that unwittingly. A thanatophobic of the first order, I am always afraid of death, and believably, everyone shares my trepidation, even though the world we know consists of mortals and mortals only. Death is, as it were, a legacy handed down to us by our ancestors since time immemorial. Despite that, I was not prepared to visit the kingdom of death all alone.

Reaching the dining place, I inspected the surroundings. Another hungry, brave soul occupied a chair at the corner table. The philosopher in me mumbled: hunger churns and churnings make things afloat. Feeling like a lone traveller floating in the sky involuntarily, I was eager to reconnect to my terrestrial roots. Hunger can make death wait: a half-devoured frog inside the mouth of a snake gladly extends its tongue to catch an insect. What might it explain—dying in company is dying in comfort? Maybe I was just hungry for company, not food, and the hunger now felt so thoroughly unfamiliar and very different! Gingerly and regardfully, I took a few steps towards the table.

Raising his head, the person showed me his oddly anaemic face, and I cannot recollect now if he had greeted me in response to my greetings. Probably, he did not because he was desperately busy taking care of his food tray, which was sonorously shifting away from him on all possible sides according to the dictates of the pitching vessel. A glass half full was also tottering, crying for attention, and the harassed diner had no other hand free to take care of that. The unattended glass toppled in an instant and spilt its contents on the tray as if a child in a tantrum were bursting out to exact his share of attention. It was too much for my brave, hungry friend to endure, so he gave in. There was no more dining to take place. I, who witnessed the precarious condition of my tenacious, hungry co-voyager, did not feel like getting into the predicament myself and chose to proceed further. I went ahead, averting my eyes from the eatables ready to serve. Was I hungry? Seasick? Oh yes, I was both, and more so, completely disorientated.

My paralysing fear notwithstanding, my feet took me to the promenade deck. The splash of saline water drenched me more than the pricking raindrops; the swishing in the air and the roar of the raging sea made me feel like closing my ears. Now, I could not hear my own words. “Bhooon-oon-shooo-oo”, the swirling tempest from all sides rushed into every opening on me—my mouth, my ears, my nostrils, and billions of microscopic pores on my skin that were soon filled with sharp pangs and surges of blind panic. Not a soul on the deck was there who could have shared my concern. Probably, I had stepped into the danger zone. The ferocity of nature had further intensified in the meanwhile, and it was not easy to retract.

A shipping staff spotted me on the deck, precariously wobbling from side to side. He hollered me. I continued to flounder as it was impossible to get a grip on the rail. His words were not audible, though. Probably, he demanded to know if I was determined to commit suicide and, if so, why was it that I was delaying such an act of bravery. He would instead recommend me to do so because the weather was just right for a lovely suicide. The irony was poignant and terrifying, but more than that, it reflected the staffer’s genuine feelings for somebody as reckless as me.

As our voyage for the day ended and we had reached Little Andaman, the MV Sentinel finally dropped anchor at Hut Bay. The sun dipped below the horizon as evening descended. Despite its reputation as a sluggish vessel, our trusty ship had admirably navigated the waters—this time, it took an entire day from dawn till dusk to cover fewer than one hundred kilometres. But as the adage goes, better late than never. The ship had weathered the storm and now lay poised for a night of well-deserved rest.

With the ferocity of the wind subsiding and the relentless rain tapering off into a modicum of weather activity, a sense of calm settled over the scene. It was as if nature had heeded our prayers, offering respite from the tempestuous journey. As I stood on the deck, gazing out at the tranquil waters, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of kinship with the legendary mariners of the olden days—Sindbad of the Arabian Nights or the intrepid merchants of the ancient Kalingan kingdoms. It was a moment of quiet reflection, tinged with the promise of new beginnings and the optimism that comes with a fresh start.

Yet there was the Ten-Degree Channel to navigate. It was one of the rare occasions when the MV Sentinel was going to cross the channel by day. Otherwise, passing through this strip of the waterway by night is the norm, given its terrifying turbulence all year round! But now, it would be a daytime event when the MV Sentinel would sail across it. I was eager to see the channel and realise what it meant and what difference it would make to the passengers on board. Islanders tell scary stories about the disturbed waters of this channel and the sea monsters inhabiting it. Still, the previous day’s experience was so close and unforgettable that it turned me into an impulsive optimist. Thanks to my phlegmatic temperament, the idea of crossing the channel no longer sent shudders down my spine, nor did it raise any goosebumps in my body. I was so keen and enthusiastic about the upcoming hours.

The ship resumed its voyage in the early morning hours, stirring to life while most of us still lingered in the embrace of sleep. As the first rays of dawn pierced the horizon, they heralded the arrival of a new day—a day bathed in warm sunlight and tempered by gentle breezes. The tumultuous rocking and rolling of the vessel had gradually subsided, replaced by a steady rhythm that instilled a sense of calm and reassurance among the weary passengers.

With the worst of the journey behind us, a collective smile graced our faces, and the camaraderie of shared experience blossomed on deck. No longer burdened by the solitude of our individual struggles, we found solace in each other’s company, swapping stories, sharing laughter, and basking in the simple pleasures of the open sea. The once-daunting expanse of water now seemed inviting, its vastness a testament to the boundless possibilities ahead.

Though the ship still swayed gently with the motion of the waves, it was nothing compared to the trials we had endured the previous day. In our minds, we had already ascended to the ranks of seasoned voyagers, ready to embrace whatever challenges lay ahead with courage and resilience.

Car Nicobar was in sight by late afternoon. There was murmur: disembarkation was not to occur at night, as the ship anchored a couple of kilometres away from the shore, and offshore disembarkation at night was considered unsafe. Then, there was a protest followed by a sweet compromise; much to the delight of homesick islanders, only the passengers were to descend while the cargo could wait for the next day.

Climbing down the vessel on an adjustable hanging ladder lowered and controlled from the deck, purchasing one’s steps carefully on something unsteady and remotely controlled, and jumping from the ultimate step of the ladder onto the cast-iron-hard surface of the pitching pontoon—they were all matters of tremendous practice. A novice could still have done that on one pre-condition: he must be allowed to get drunk and jump with his eyes closed.

The pontoon’s upward movement on the swelling wave was to be understood as the right moment to jump onto it. It never allowed any wavering since the pontoon remained in that ideal position for a maximum duration of less than a minute. A jump after the big roller wave had passed beneath the pontoon, causing it to plummet several feet, was sure to gravitate the jumper onto the surface of the pontoon with a nasty fall.

Sometimes, a miss such as this was sufficient to plunge the author of mistake into the sea full of current—the rest depended on whether he knew swimming and, if so, whether he knew swimming in an ocean full of undercurrent.

Added to this was the rush, and no one was ready to allow the person in front the luxury of deciding his steps. All were expected to surge forward along the momentum generated by inertia and, at the same time, act in tandem with the random rhythm of the sea flowing eternally with stealth undercurrent. The passengers were not a band of capable creatures only; the cluster comprised old housemakers, infants in arms, and wizened senior citizens. And there were pigs, too—the lovely pampered pigs, fattened by coconut meals of abundance—that were happy to ride piggyback on their human masters, leaving the entire worry of living and loving to them.

I thanked God my destination was not Car Nicobar. Even then, I watched the disembarkation with bated breath. It afforded me an opportunity to watch from a distance and appreciate their version of the ubiquitous struggle for existence. I considered God had been quite merciful to send me to the plains by birth, an accident that made me blissfully unaware of the other side of the picture—those mid-sea vagaries of life. Now, the activities around me have made me an experienced person; henceforward, I should demand less from life. But what was this experience for? Would anybody in my pack understand this if I recount it later? I sighed. The warm air of my exhalation mingled with the damp ambience of the Bay of Bengal off the Teetop coast of Car Nicobar.

My thoughts were interrupted by a familiar sound as if something had plunged into the water. Glancing around, I noticed a moulded luggage box drifting farther and farther into the water. It resembled a formidable paper boat, floating gracefully towards a distant destination in search of playmates! Spectators nearby reacted with excitement, empathy, and disapproval, their responses being spontaneous and varied. However, no one tried to retrieve it, perhaps due to the darkness and the limited visibility provided by the vessel’s light.

The unfortunate owner saw it going away from sight, getting smaller until the darkness surrounding the vessel had devoured it. I was surprised to mark a remarkable trace of sangfroid on the face of the loser. How soon he forgot the loss and concentrated on matters not yet lost! I saw a faint light from a distance—an island brimming with robust life crafted by souls like that valiant loser, which encouraged me. If I had to disembark here, I wouldn’t have created any fuss. I could have simply hopped off the ladder, joined in the fun, and made my way to the cool shade of the coconut groves beyond the water.

Retreating to my cabin, I reflected on everything I witnessed. A night of beauty sleep was waiting for me in my cabin. The anchored ship was stable and calm. The sky had patchy clouds, but the Great Bear constellation was distinctly visible through the porthole of my beautiful cabin. I switched off the lights to allow darkness to inundate the interior. The cabin no longer haunted me. Solitude could be so delightful! Given a choice, I would not welcome sleep; I would instead plead with her to defer her hypnotic spell on me. But the nocturnal bliss made her duty-bound. Soon, I snuggled up to her loving care.

 

‘Which story would you relish tonight,’ she asked me.

 

‘Anything sweet’ was my answer. I had completely surrendered myself to her, which was a marvellous feeling.

 

‘Then listen to a story of a Nicobari girl. I know you would like it,’ her eyes gleamed with a cherubic smile.

 

I blushed. Feeling curious, I asked her how she knew of my infatuation. She smiled again and said she had been watching me all day, amused at my timidity. She had marked me going up to the vivacious Nicobari beauties and retracting my steps every so often. She chided me lovingly for my gutlessness.

Then she started her story. She was slow, and she was sweet. She was rhythmic, and she was poignant. She was warm, exciting, and lively; she was everything that I fancied. Oh, she was life in herself. I was the protagonist, and she assumed the role of that Nicobari girl. She took me along the farthest she could venture, showing me everything she had—her glowing buttery skin, her hourglass perfect body, all her hidden beauty spots, and all those special spots of must-visit where her skin was the thinnest of thin, where I could feel her warm blood flowing like sylvan rivulets...

The next day, I woke up early and strolled to the deck. The drizzle had started. The disembarking of the cargo had also begun. There were more pontoons at work now than in the previous evening. Both the derricks were in action. The heavy merchandise, rations, small packets—almost everything was in cargo, and they were for the islanders. The consignments also comprised gunny bags of the small-timer vegetable vendors, and their commodities lacked their essential freshness. There would still be takers for those stale objects of sustenance on the island, and they would be the folks from the mainland on government duty or private missions who would not expect the Nicobaris to sell them their vegetables. They knew the Nicobaris themselves had little on their lands to offer others. The mainlanders were dreaded and discouraged; only persons with genuine jobs were permitted. I realised that some human beings even need sanctuaries in which to live.

The group of lumpers engaged in unloading jobs consisted of Nicobari males. They were robust, agile, and cheerful, and the drizzle did not bother them. The younger lot were busy enacting mock copulation, munching tiny real raw fish, and engaging in half-hearted bouts of friendly wrestling—all staged on the cramped surface of the overloaded pontoons. Passengers viewing from the deck were amused but did not encourage the performers because they knew everything was spoofed. The wheat flour spilt and smeared their body; however, no sooner had the white powder made them look ghostly than the raindrops washed them clean and sparkling. They were having an unending bathing session, and when they found the chill wind bothering them, they took a plunge to swim a few meters for quick warmth. Indeed, the sea was warmer than the uncharitable northeast wind.

The crowd on the deck had swelled. All were not the old passengers; a new batch of them had already joined. They were all Nicobaris, visiting the neighbouring islands to meet their friends. They looked fresh and smelt of talcum powder. Some reeked of coconut toddy, alcohol, and sweat. But all of them were smiling, and their vibes were for both the familiars and the strangers. Even girls were giggling between their suggestive dimples. They were willing to reveal that much only.

I was about to move when I heard a plop, similar in magnitude to the one I had listened to the previous evening, when a passenger lost his moulded luggage box to the sea. I looked at it; it was not a box but a gunny bag of ladies’ fingers. Remaining positioned on the deck, the owner was supervising the trans-shipment of his bags, and he was not disposed to leave his merchandise to drift away as a piece of flotsam from the wreckage. He ordered a willing Nicobari lad to salvage the bag, and the boy took it as a challenge. There was no prior bargain regarding the remuneration—it was a job taken up just like that.

He jumped but was soon caught in the undercurrent that had surfaced near him. Others who marked it before it was too late jumped with ropes to his rescue before the current could drown that reckless soul into the abyssal depth. But the boy proved himself. He just swam in favour of the current with the gunny bag of vegetables, went as far as the current could take him before changing the course, and when the dreaded current pushed him sideways, he came back safe and sound. But he was to receive reprimands from his colleagues, and he enjoyed the compassionate reprimands from those who loved him and the victory against nature he risked achieving.

 

‘The Nicobaris are great swimmers,’ commented a fellow passenger, who was also watching the episode.

‘Yes, undoubtedly they are,’ I said in response.

‘But they’re very suspicious too, almost non-cooperating on their island. You can’t get anything from them,’ he sought to share additional information, treating me as a newcomer.

‘Why is it so?’ I feigned ignorance. It seemed to me the gentleman had some real grudge against them.

My query encouraged him as a trace of a smile played across his lips, and then he responded.

‘It’s simple. They’re suspicious that we might take their lands and women,’ the gentleman started leaving.

I left the place, too. Intense hunger seized me, and I realised, to my dismay, that it was too late to approach the dining saloon for breakfast. Now, it was time to rummage around in baggage. I was lucky my emergency stock of salted biscuits had not run out.

While munching the biscuits, I reflected on what the gentleman told me. I could not take the entire version seriously, but there was no difficulty in believing fifty per cent of what he said. We would not be able to take the Nicobari’s lands; for that matter, nobody on earth would ever, lands being so solid and fixed. The mainland would always have plenty of them for us. But it would be a different story if a willing Nicobari girl appeared, as in my dream of the previous night, and favoured me with her sweet company. I would see it as a great affirmation of my personal charm, as I would gain admiration within my circle when seen with a Nicobari beauty.

The voyage would be complete in time. A day’s delay is no delay; anything that arrives ultimately can be the icing on the cake. I understood the logic. Life is a game of optimism—a cult of acceptance, nay a gimmick to balance the acceptance and defiance delicately. Accept everything, but believe it if you must. Where is the need to know so much and be so perfect? How funny it is to defy anything and everything and wait until we are coaxed into accepting! We say we look for the reason. How ambivalent it is, indeed!

Somebody told me there would be yet another channel on our way to Campbell Bay—the Sombrero Channel—and assured me it would not be as ferocious as the Ten-Degree Channel. But how would it matter? I accepted the statement with equanimity. I had seen the Ten-Degree Channel, and I would also see the Sombrero Channel and the valiant inhabitants along the route. The navigators were experienced; they had amply proved that they were like honest neighbours who could be relied upon through and through. The rain had stopped, and it was the turn of the sun to smile. But with the bit of experience that I had amassed and with my success in retrieving a tomorrow from the vault of the future, I wore a self-satisfied mien.

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A. N. Nanda

First written -14-6-2004

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