Gun Island

by Amitav Ghosh

Genres: Literary Fiction; Historical Fiction; Magical Realism; Action & Adventure

Synopsis

Named a Best Book of Fall by Vulture, Chicago Review of Books and Amazon

From the award-winning author of the bestselling epic Ibis trilogy comes a globetrotting, folkloric adventure novel about family and heritage

Bundook. Gun. A common word, but one that turns Deen Datta’s world upside down.

A dealer of rare books, Deen is used to a quiet life spent indoors, but as his once-solid beliefs begin to shift, he is forced to set out on an extraordinary journey; one that takes him from India to Los Angeles and Venice via a tangled route through the memories and experiences of those he meets along the way. There is Piya, a fellow Bengali-American who sets his journey in motion; Tipu, an entrepreneurial young man who opens Deen’s eyes to the realities of growing up in today’s world; Rafi, with his desperate attempt to help someone in need; and Cinta, an old friend who provides the missing link in the story they are all a part of. It is a journey that will upend everything he thought he knew about himself, about the Bengali legends of his childhood, and about the world around him.

Amitav Ghosh‘s Gun Island is a beautifully realized novel that effortlessly spans space and time. It is the story of a world on the brink, of increasing displacement and unstoppable transition. But it is also a story of hope, of a man whose faith in the world and the future is restored by two remarkable women.

Release date: September 10, 2019

Publisher: Farrar, Straus and Giroux

Print pages: 320

Sample

Calcutta


The strangest thing about this strange journey was that it was launched by a word – and not an unusually resonant one either but a banal, commonplace coinage that is in wide circulation, from Cairo to Calcutta. That word is bundook, which means ‘gun’ in many languages, including my own mother tongue, Bengali (or Bangla). Nor is the word a stranger to English: by way of British colonial usages it found its way into the Oxford English Dictionary, where it is glossed as ‘rifle’.

But there was no rifle or gun in sight the day the journey began; nor indeed was the word intended to refer to a weapon. And that, precisely, was why it caught my attention: because the gun in question was a part of a name – ‘Bonduki Sadagar’, which could be translated as ‘the Gun Merchant’.

The Gun Merchant entered my life not in Brooklyn, where I live and work, but in the city where I was born and raised – Calcutta (or Kolkata, as it is now formally known). That year, as on many others, I was in Kolkata through much of the winter, ostensibly for business. My work, as a dealer in rare books and Asian antiquities, requires me to do a good deal of on-site scouting and since I happen to possess a small apartment in Kolkata (carved out of the house that my sisters and I inherited from our parents) the city has become a second base of operations for me.

But it wasn’t just work that brought me back every year: Kolkata was also sometimes a refuge, not only from the bitter cold of a Brooklyn winter, but from the solitude of a personal life that had become increasingly desolate over time, even as my professional fortunes prospered. And the desolation was never greater than it was that year, when a very promising relationship came to a shockingly abrupt end: a woman I had been seeing for a long time had cut me off without explanation, blocking me on every channel that we had ever used to communicate. It was my first brush with ‘ghosting’, an experience that is as humiliating as it is painful.

Suddenly, with my sixties looming in the not-too-distant future, I found myself more alone than ever. So, I went to Calcutta earlier than usual that year, timing my arrival to coincide with the annual migration that occurs when the weather turns cold in northern climes and great flocks of ‘foreign-settled’ Calcuttans, like myself, take wing and fly back to overwinter in the city. I knew that I could count on catching up with a multitude of friends and relatives; that the weeks would slip by in a whirl of lunches, dinner parties and wedding receptions. And the thought that I might, in the midst of this, meet a woman with whom I might be able to share my life was not, I suppose, entirely absent from my mind (for this has indeed happened to many men of my vintage).

But of course nothing like that came to pass even though I lost no opportunity to circulate and was introduced to a good number of divorcees, widows and other single women of an appropriate age. There were even a couple of occasions when I felt the glow of faint embers of hope … but only to discover, as I had many times before, that there are few expressions in the English language that are less attractive to women than ‘Rare Book Dealer’.

So the months slipped by in a cascade of disappointments and the day of my return to Brooklyn was almost at hand when I went to the last of my social engagements of the season: the wedding reception of a cousin’s daughter.

I had just entered the venue – a stuffy colonial-era club – when I was accosted by a distant relative, Kanai Dutt.

I had not seen Kanai in many years, which was not entirely a matter of regret for me: he had always been a glib, vain, precocious know-it-all who relied on his quick tongue and good looks to charm women and get ahead in the world. He lived mainly in New Delhi and had thrived in the hothouse atmosphere of that city, establishing himself as a darling of the media: it was by no means uncommon to turn on the television and find him yelling his head off on a talkshow. He knew everyone, as they say, and was often written about in magazines, newspapers and even books.

The thing that most irritated me about Kanai was that he always found a way of tripping me up. This occasion was no exception; he began by throwing me a curveball in the shape of my childhood nickname, Dinu (which I had long since abandoned in favour of the more American-sounding ‘Deen’).

‘Tell me, Dinu,’ he said, after a cursory handshake, ‘is it true that you’ve set yourself up as an expert on Bengali folklore?’

The almost audible sneer rattled me. ‘Well,’ I spluttered, ‘I did some research on that kind of thing a long time ago. But I gave it up when I left academia and became a book dealer.’

‘But you did get a PhD, didn’t you?’ he said, with barely concealed derision. ‘So you are technically an expert.’

‘I would hardly call myself that…’

He cut me short without apology. ‘So tell me then, Mr Expert,’ he said. ‘Have you ever heard of a figure called Bonduki Sadagar?’

He had clearly been intending to surprise me and he succeeded: the name ‘Bonduki Sadagar’ (‘Gun Merchant’) was so new to me that I was tempted to think that Kanai had made it up.

‘What do you mean by “figure”?’ I said. ‘You mean some kind of folk hero?’

‘Yes – like Dokkhin Rai, or Chand Sadagar…’

He went on to name a few other well-known characters from Bengali folklore: Satya Pir, Lakhindar and the like. Such figures are not quite gods and nor are they merely saintly mortals: like the shifting mudflats of the Bengal delta, they arise at the conjuncture of many currents. Sometimes shrines are built to preserve their memory; and almost always their names are associated with a legend. And since Bengal is a maritime land seafaring is often a prominent feature of such tales.

The most famous of these stories is the legend of a merchant called Chand – ‘Chand Sadagar’ – who is said to have fled overseas in order to escape the persecution of Manasa Devi, the goddess who rules over snakes and all other poisonous creatures.

There was a time in my childhood when the merchant Chand and his nemesis, Manasa Devi, were as much a part of my dream-world as Batman and Superman would become after I had learnt English and started to read comic books. Back then there was no television in India and the only way to entertain children was to tell them stories. And if the storytellers happened to be Bengali, sooner or later they were sure to circle back to the tale of the Merchant, and the goddess who wanted him as her devotee.

The story’s appeal is, I suppose, not unlike that of the Odyssey, with a resourceful human protagonist being pitted against vastly more powerful forces, earthly and divine. But the legend of the merchant Chand differs from the Greek epic in that it does not end with the hero being restored to his family and patrimony: the Merchant’s son, Lakhindar, is killed by a cobra on the night of his wedding and it is the boy’s virtuous bride, Behula, who reclaims his soul from the underworld and brings the struggle between the Merchant and Manasa Devi to a fragile resolution.

I don’t remember when I first heard the story, or who told it to me, but constant repetition ensured that it sank so deep into my consciousness that I wasn’t even aware that it was there. But some stories, like certain life forms, possess a special streak of vitality that allow them to outlive others of their kind – and since the story of the Merchant and Manasa Devi is very old it must, I suppose, possess enough of this quality to ensure that it can survive extended periods of dormancy. In any event, when I was a twenty-something student, newly arrived in America and casting about for a subject for a research paper, the story of the Merchant thawed in the permafrost of my memory and once again claimed my full attention.

As I began to read the Bangla verse epics that narrate the Merchant’s story (there are many) I discovered that the legend’s place in the culture of eastern India was strangely similar to the pattern of its life in my own mind. The origins of the story can be traced back to the very infancy of Bengal’s memory: it was probably born amidst the original, autochthonous people of the region and was perhaps sired by real historical figures and events (to this day, scattered across Assam, West Bengal and Bangladesh, there are archaeological sites that are linked, in popular memory, to the Merchant and his family). And in public memory too the legend seems to go through cycles of life, sometimes lying dormant for centuries only to be suddenly rejuvenated by a fresh wave of retellings, in some of which the familiar characters appear under new names, with subtly changed plot lines.

A few of these epics are regarded as classics of Bengali literature and it was one such that became the subject of my research thesis: a six-hundred-page poem in early Bangla. This text was conventionally agreed to have been composed in the fourteenth century – but of course nothing is more grating to an aspiring scholar than a conventional opinion, so in my thesis I argued, citing internal evidence (such as a mention of potatoes), that the poem did not find its final form until much later. It was probably completed by other hands, I claimed, in the seventeenth century, well after the Portuguese had introduced New World plants to Asia.

From there I went on to argue that the life cycles of the story – its periodic revivals after long intervals of dormancy – were related to times of upheaval and disruption, such as the seventeenth century was in those parts of India where Europeans established their first colonies.

It was this last part of the thesis, I think, that most impressed my examiners (not to speak of the journal that subsequently published the article in which I summed up my arguments). What amazes me in retrospect is not the youthful hubris that allowed me to make these arguments but rather the obtuseness that prevented me from recognizing that the conclusions I had reached in relation to the legend might apply also to the history of its existence in my own memory. I never asked myself whether the legend might have surfaced in my mind because I was myself then living through the most turbulent years of my life: it was a period in which I was still trying to recover from the double shock of the death of a woman I had been in love with, and my subsequent move, by grace of a providential scholarship, from the strife-torn Calcutta of my youth to a bucolic university town in the American Midwest. When at last that time passed it left me determined never to undergo that kind of turmoil again. I spared no effort to live a quiet, understated, uneventful life – and so well did I succeed that on that day, at the wedding reception in Kolkata when the Sadagar entered my life anew, in the guise of the Gun Merchant, it never occurred to me that the carefully planned placidity of my life might once again be at an end.

‘Are you sure you have the right name?’ I said to Kanai, dismissively. ‘Maybe you misheard it or something?’

But Kanai stood his ground, insisting that he had used the phrase ‘Gun Merchant’ advisedly. ‘I’m sure you know,’ he said, in his maddeningly superior way, ‘that the figure of a Merchant crops up under many different names in our folklore. Sometimes the stories are linked to certain places – and my feeling is that the legend of Bonduki Sadagar is one of those, a local tale.’

‘Why?’

‘Because his legend is tied,’ said Kanai, ‘to a shrine – a dhaam – in the Sundarbans.’

‘The Sundarbans!’ The idea that there might be a shrine hidden inside a tiger-infested mangrove forest was so far-fetched that I burst into laughter. ‘Why would anyone build a dhaam in a swamp?’

‘Maybe,’ said Kanai coolly, ‘because every merchant who’s ever sailed out of Bengal has had to pass through the Sundarbans – there’s no other way to reach the sea. The Sundarbans are the frontier where commerce and the wilderness look each other directly in the eye; that’s exactly where the war between profit and Nature is fought. What could be a better place to build a shrine to Manasa Devi than a forest teeming with snakes?’

‘But has anyone ever seen this shrine?’ I asked.

‘I haven’t been there myself,’ said Kanai. ‘But my aunt Nilima has.’

‘Your aunt? You mean Nilima Bose?’

‘Yes, exactly,’ said Kanai. ‘It was she who told me about Bonduki Sadagar and the dhaam. She heard that you were in Kolkata and she asked me to tell you that she would be glad if you could go and see her. She’s in her late eighties now and bedridden, but her mind is as sharp as ever. She wants to talk to you about the shrine: she thinks you’ll find it interesting.’

I hesitated. ‘I don’t know that I’ll have the time,’ I said. ‘I’m heading back to New York very soon.’

He shrugged. ‘It’s up to you.’ Pulling out a pen he scribbled a name and a number on a card and handed it to me.

I peered at the card, expecting to see his aunt’s name. But that was not what he had written.

‘Piya Roy?’ I said. ‘Who’s that?’

‘She’s a friend,’ he said. ‘A Bengali American, teaches somewhere in Oregon. She comes here for the winter, like you, and usually stays with my aunt. She’s here now and she’ll make arrangements if you decide to visit. Give her a call: I think you’ll find it worth your while – Piya’s an interesting woman.’

* * *

Kanai’s aunt’s name added heft to what had so far seemed a tall tale. A story that came from Nilima Bose could not be scoffed at: wooed by politicians, revered by do-gooders, embraced by donors and celebrated by the press, she was a figure whose credibility was beyond question.

Born into a wealthy Calcutta legal dynasty, Nilima had defied her family by marrying an impoverished schoolteacher. This was way back in the early 1950s; after the marriage Nilima had moved with her husband to Lusibari, a small town on the edge of the Sundarbans. A few years later she had founded a women’s group that had since grown into the Badabon Trust, one of India’s most reputed charitable organizations. The trust now ran an extended network of free hospitals, schools, clinics and workshops.

In recent years I had kept track of Nilima’s doings mainly through a chat group for members of the extended family: my personal acquaintance with her dated back to my adolescence, when I had crossed paths with her at a few family gatherings. The last of these had occurred so long ago that I was surprised – and more than a little flattered – to learn that Nilima remembered me. Under the circumstances, I told myself, it would be rude if I didn’t at least call the number that Kanai had given me.

I dialled the number next morning and was answered by an unmistakably American voice. Piya had evidently been expecting my call for her opening words were: ‘Hello – is that Mr Datta?’

‘Yes – but please call me Deen, it’s short for Dinanath.’

‘And I’m Piya, which is short for Piyali,’ she said, sounding both brisk and friendly. ‘Kanai said you might call. Nilima-di’s been asking about you. Do you think you might be able to come see her?’

There was something about her voice – a forthrightness combined with a certain element of gravity – that arrested me. I remembered what Kanai had said – ‘Piya’s an interesting woman’ – and was suddenly very curious about her. The excuses I had prepared slipped from my mind and I said: ‘I’d very much like to come. But it would have to be soon because I’m leaving for the US in a couple of days.’

‘Hold on then,’ she said. ‘Let me have a word with Nilima-di.’

It took her a few minutes to come back on line. ‘Could you come this morning?’

I had made many plans for that morning but suddenly they didn’t seem to matter. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I can be there in an hour, if that’s okay.’

* * *

The address that Piya gave me was of Nilima’s ancestral home in Ballygunge Place, one of Kolkata’s poshest neighbourhoods. Although I had not visited the house in many years I remembered it well, from childhood visits with my parents.

I discovered now, on stepping out of the Ola cab that had brought me to Ballygunge Place, that the old house was long gone; like many other grand Calcutta mansions it had been torn down and replaced with a modern apartment block that was large enough to accommodate everyone who had a claim to the ancestral property.

The new building was unusually stylish and the lift that took me up to Nilima’s floor was decorated with elegant ‘designer’ touches, as were the front doors of every apartment that I passed on the way. Nilima’s door was the only exception in that it had no embellishments except a sign that said NILIMA BOSE, BADABON TRUST.

I rang the bell and the door was opened by a slim, small woman with close-cropped hair that was just beginning to turn grey at the edges. Her clothes – jeans and a T-shirt – accentuated the boyishness of her build; everything about her was spare and streamlined except her eyes, which were large and seemed even more so because the whites stood out sharply against her dark, silky complexion. Her face was devoid of make-up and she wore no ornamentation of any kind. But on one of her nostrils there was a pinprick that suggested that she had once sported a nose stud.

‘Hello, Deen,’ she said as we shook hands. ‘I’m Piya. Come on in – Nilima-di’s waiting for you.’

Stepping inside I discovered that the apartment was divided into two sections: the outer part, which served as an office for the trust, was filled with the glow of computer screens. A dozen earnest-looking young men and women were hard at work there; they spared us scarcely a glance as we walked through to the rear where lay Nilima’s living quarters.

Opening a door Piya ushered me into a tidy, sunlit room. Nilima was lying on a comfortable-looking bed, propped up by a few pillows and half covered by a bed-sheet. Always tiny, she seemed to have shrunk in size since I had last seen her. But her face, round and dimpled, with steel-rimmed eyeglasses, was just as I remembered, down to the sparkle in her eye.

Piya found me a chair and pushed it close to the bed. ‘I’ll leave you two alone now,’ she said, giving Nilima’s hand an affectionate squeeze. ‘Don’t tire yourself out, Nilima-di.’

‘I won’t, dear,’ Nilima said, in English. ‘I promise.’

A fond smile appeared on her face as she watched Piya leave the room. ‘Such a sweet girl,’ she said, switching to Bangla. ‘And strong too. I don’t know what I would do without Piya.’

Nilima’s Bangla, I noticed, had acquired the earthy tones of a rural dialect, presumably that of the Sundarbans. Her English, by contrast, still retained the rounded syllables of her patrician upbringing.

‘It’s Piya who keeps the trust going nowadays,’ Nilima continued. ‘It was a lucky day for us when she came to the Sundarbans.’

‘Does she spend a lot of time out there?’ I said.

‘Oh yes, when she’s in India she’s mostly in the Sundarbans.’

Nilima explained that it was Piya’s research, in marine biology, that had first brought her to the Sundarbans. Nilima had given her a place to stay and supported her work, and over the following years Piya’s involvement with the trust had deepened steadily.

‘She spends every vacation with us,’ said Nilima. ‘Summer and winter, she comes whenever she can.’

‘Oh, really?’ I said, trying not to sound unduly inquisitive. ‘Doesn’t she have a family, then?’

Shooting me a shrewd glance, Nilima said: ‘She’s not married, if that’s what you mean –’ at which I dropped my eyes and tried to look disinterested.

‘But Piya does have a family of sorts,’ Nilima continued. ‘She’s adopted the wife and son of a Sundarbans villager who died while assisting with her research. Piya’s done everything possible to help the wife, Moyna, in bringing up the boy.’ She checked herself: ‘Or at least she’s tried…’

Then she sighed and shook her head, as if to recall why she had asked me to come. ‘I mustn’t ramble on,’ she said. ‘I know you’re pressed for time.’

Truth to tell I was so eager to know more about Piya that I wouldn’t at all have minded if she had rambled on in this vein. But since I couldn’t very well say so, I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the small voice recorder that I usually take with me when I’m scouting for antiquities.

‘Are you planning to record this?’ said Nilima in surprise.

‘It’s just a habit,’ I said. ‘I’m a compulsive note-taker and record-keeper. Please forget about the gadget – it’s not important.’

* * *

Nilima knew the exact date on which she had first heard of the Gun Merchant. She had entered it that very day in an account book that bore the label ‘Cyclone Relief Accounts, 1970’. The book had recently been retrieved for her from the archives of the Badabon Trust. Flipping it open, she showed me the entry: at the top of a page, in Bangla script, were the words ‘Bonduki Sadagarer dhaam’ – ‘the Gun Merchant’s shrine’. Below was the date ‘November 20, 1970’.

Eight days earlier – on November 12, 1970, to be precise – a Category 4 cyclone had torn through the Bengal delta, hitting both the Indian province of West Bengal and the state that was then called East Pakistan (a year later it would become a new nation, Bangladesh). Storms had no names in this region back then but the 1970 cyclone would later come to be known as the Bhola cyclone.

In terms of casualties the Bhola cyclone was the greatest natural disaster of the twentieth century; its toll is conservatively estimated at three hundred thousand lives lost but the actual number may have been as high as half a million. Most of those casualties were in East Pakistan where political tensions had long been simmering. West Pakistan’s laggardly response to the disaster played a critical part in triggering the war of independence that resulted in the creation of Bangladesh.

In West Bengal it was the Sundarbans that absorbed the impact of the cyclone. Lusibari, the island where Nilima and her husband lived, suffered a great deal of damage: a large chunk of the island was ripped away by the storm surge, houses and all.

The damage to Lusibari was, however, a pale shadow of what was visited on the islands and settlements to its south. But Nilima did not learn of this till several days later. She was told about it by a young fisherman of her acquaintance, Horen Naskar: he had been out at sea, fishing, and had witnessed the devastation with his own eyes.

Horen’s account prompted Nilima to assemble a team of volunteers to collect and distribute emergency supplies. With Horen at the helm of a hired boat, Nilima and her team had ferried supplies to some of the villages near the coast.

On each outing they saw horrific sights: hamlets obliterated by the storm surge; islands where every tree had been stripped of its leaves; corpses floating in the water, half eaten by animals; villages that had lost most of their inhabitants. The situation was aggravated by a steady flow of refugees from East Pakistan. For several months people had been coming across the border, into India, in order to escape the political turmoil on the other side; now the flow turned into a flood, bringing many more hungry mouths into a region that was already desperately short of food.

One morning, Horen steered the boat to a part of the Sundarbans where the mighty Raimangal River ran along the border, with different countries on its two shores. Nilima usually avoided this stretch of river: it was notoriously frequented by smugglers and its currents were so powerful that boats were often inadvertently swept across the border.

Not without some difficulty Horen managed to keep the boat close to the Indian side, and in a while they came to a sandbank where a village had once stood: nothing was left of the settlement but a few bent poles; every last dwelling had been swept away by the wave that followed the cyclone.

Spotting a few people on the riverbank, Nilima asked Horen to pull in. From the look of the place, she assumed that many of the hamlet’s inhabitants had been killed or wounded – but on enquiring, she received an unexpected answer. She learnt that no one from that hamlet had suffered any bodily harm; they had even managed to salvage their belongings and stocks of food.

To what did the village owe its good fortune?

The answer startled Nilima: her informants told her that the miracle was due to Manasa Devi, the goddess of snakes, who, they said, was the protector of a nearby shrine.

Shortly before the storm’s arrival, as the skies were turning dark, the shrine’s bell had begun to ring. The villagers had rushed there, taking whatever food and belongings they could carry. Not only had the shrine’s walls and roof kept them safe from the storm, it had continued to shelter them afterwards, even providing them with clean, fresh water from its well – a rare amenity in the Sundarbans.

Nilima had asked to see the shrine and was led to it by the villagers. It was a good distance from the sandbank, situated on a slight elevation, in the middle of a sandy clearing that was surrounded by dense stands of mangrove.

Of the structure itself Nilima retained only a vague memory – there were hundreds of people milling around and their belongings were stacked everywhere. All she could recall was a set of high walls and a curved roof with the profile of an upturned boat: its shape had reminded her of the famous temples of Bishnupur.

Nilima had asked whether there was a custodian or caretaker that she could speak to. In a while, a middle-aged Muslim man, with a greying beard and white skull cap, had emerged from the interior. Nilima learnt that he was a majhi, a boatman, and that he was originally from the other side of the Raimangal River. As a boy he had occasionally worked for the people who then tended the shrine: they were a family of Hindu gayans (or ballad singers) who had kept alive the epic poem (or panchali) that narrated the legend of the shrine, passing it down orally through many generations. But over the years the family had dwindled to one last remaining member, and it was he who had asked him, the boatman, to take care of the shrine after his passing. That was a long time ago, a decade before the partitioning of the Indian subcontinent in 1947; the boatman had been looking after the dhaam ever since; it had become his home and he now lived there with his wife and son.

Nilima had asked if it was strange for him, as a Muslim, to be looking after a shrine that was associated with a Hindu goddess. The boatman had answered that the dhaam was revered by all, irrespective of religion: Hindus believed that it was Manasa Devi who guarded the shrine, while Muslims believed that it was a place of jinns, protected by a Muslim pir, or saint, by the name of Ilyas.

But who had built the shrine, and when?

The boatman had been reluctant to answer. He did not know the legend well, he said, and could only remember a few snatches of the poem.

Wasn’t there a written version of the poem? Nilima asked. No, said the boatman; it was the Gun Merchant’s express desire that the poem never be written down but only passed on from mouth to mouth. Unfortunately the boatman had never memorized the poem and remembered only a few verses.

At Nilima’s insistence the boatman had recited a couple of lines and the words had lodged themselves in Nilima’s memory, perhaps because they sounded like nonsense verse (a genre of which she was very fond).

Kolkataey tokhon na chhilo lok na makan

Banglar patani tokhon nagar-e-jahan

Calcutta had neither people nor houses then

Bengal’s great port was a city-of-the-world.

* * *

Nilima cast me a glance and laughed, a little awkwardly, as though she were embarrassed to bring such a piece of silliness to my notice.

‘It doesn’t make any sense, does it?’ she said.

‘Not immediately,’ I said. ‘But go on.’

Nilima had continued to question the boatman and he had responded by becoming increasingly reticent, pleading ignorance on the one hand, yet insisting on the other that it was impossible for most people to make sense of the legend. But Nilima had persisted and had succeeded in getting him to divulge the general outline of the story. It proved to be quite similar to the legend of the merchant Chand.

Like Chand, the Gun Merchant was said to have been a rich trader who had angered Manasa Devi by refusing to become her devotee. Plagued by snakes and pursued by droughts, famines, storms, and other calamities, he had fled overseas to escape the goddess’s wrath, finally taking refuge in a land where there were no serpents, a place called ‘Gun Island’ – Bonduk-dwip.

Here Nilima stopped to ask me whether I had ever heard of a place of that name.

I shook my head: ‘No, never,’ I said. ‘It must be one of those fairy-tale countries that crop up in folk tales.’

Nilima nodded. There were some other such places in the story, she said, but she couldn’t recall their names.

But not even on Gun Island had the Merchant been able to conceal himself from Manasa Devi. One day she had appeared to him out of the pages of a book and had warned him that