The Sandbank Fairy

A little while ago the sun was bright everywhere. Suddenly darkness had dropped like a sack. Rain was falling upon the river. Clouds massed black across the sky. Tonight was the night of the full moon. Yet no moon would be seen, I thought.
 
The wind came from the river toward the fields, carrying with it large drops of rain. On the boat’s planks the riverwater splintered like waves. At noon when I boarded, I had crossed a hundred yards of mud. Now the mud was gone. The brick-paved high road’s embankment lay half submerged. The river’s waves were now vast, heaving.
 
Hasan Ali pressed into my hand a long country bidi. As I raised it to light, he said, “Not from here—brought from Pabna. Smoke it, it will warm the body.”
 
At the prow of Hasan Ali’s boat, four men could huddle together. In the afternoon, Firoz, the younger one, had stretched a plastic cover overhead. But if the prow was covered, inside it became stifling. On top of that, Sadananda’s wife had set a kettle of tea on the brazier.
 
On the planks, gamcha tied at his waist, Sadananda hauled the net. Among the family he was the eldest. Firoz stood waist-deep in water, helping drag the net toward the boat. With a bucket he splashed riverwater upon the mesh.
 
The rain did not touch my body, yet everything felt drenched. The hope with which I had boarded this boat at noon—I feared it would not be fulfilled.
 
Hasan Ali carried the perpetual smell of fishermen: raw, fish-scaly, damp. I asked him, “Will we go to the sandbank tonight?” Hasan replied, “When the storm passes, we will. How long can the rain last? It’s tapering now.”
 
Indeed, the rain had tapered. The clean white-blue net slid swiftly through Sadananda’s hands and fell into the boat’s hollow. Silver hilsa flashed like liquid moon. The boat shimmered in their light. The living hilsa, landing on the planks, seemed to become sheets of silver. In my mind I thought: here then is the true river-fairy. The river’s own mermaid are these fish.
 
“Last year I fell into the back-eddy beyond the sandbank. The oar slipped, both hands came loose. That current is dangerous. My head poked through the hatch, I saw only sky,” Hasan Ali recalled, eyes toward the roof, then turned to Sadananda. “We’ll go to the bank, Sadar?” he called.
 
The decision lay with Sadananda. For five years in Chilchar I had seen him. He was no sorcerer. If sorcerer there was, it was Hasan Miya.
 
In off-season, Hasan worked as a ferryman, rowing people across. I remembered him from my own school-going days. In the mid-river currents I had never fallen, yet from his words I sensed the river’s secrets. Since then, in passing, I had always noticed the sandbank—straight in the middle. They called it Garparī. Old men of Chilchar said: on full-moon nights, when the tide ebbs and the bank rises, fairies dance upon it. Whoever sees the fairy-dance becomes long-lived. Desires fulfilled. But—yes. To see the fairy one must have courage. Should a fishing boat be sighted, the fairies are said to rise skyward, vanishing into the ocean’s dark blue. Fishermen are their foes—slayers of fish. The fairies incite midnight riots in the fish-shoals. If a fisher lands on their bank, they snap his neck. For this belief, fishers do not approach the bank unless in dire need.
 
“What say you? Everyone else has folded their nets. Hilsa fetches poor price this year. If the rain does not stop, we will not move,” Sadananda declared to Hasan.
 
Hasan looked at me, then rose with a glass of tea in hand. “Babu came with such hope. If we’re not to go, why take his money?”
 
Yes, I had given money—fifty rupees—to see the Sandbank Fairy. A desire nursed long. When the fishing fleets landed, I would gaze at the golden hilsa, but never had I seen them alive in their river. I had vowed: once, on a full-moon night, I would go upon the river. To see the gleam of their scales under moonlight. To see the mermaids of hilsa.
 
By day, the sandbank shimmered from afar. Then too it seemed mysterious. Daytime, sand-diggers risked their lives there. Hasan had told me once how a crocodile snatched a man by the leg. When the tide rose, the sandbank vanished. Inexperienced boats struck it and capsized.
 
But Sadananda dismissed it: “All trickery, brother. I’ve gone many times with my oar at night. Even left my wife once there—thought perhaps the fairy would show. But no, nothing. Nothing. My boat is blessed. Strong in frame, twenty-six hands in length. No boat in this reach has such luck.”
 
I sipped my tea. At the prow, Firoz stitched torn netting. On the planks sat Sadananda and Hasan Ali. The rain had thickened, yet still the sky was full of cloud. Midnight was the hour of the boatmen. A drowsy languor hung over all. I thought: tonight there will be no hope. Under these clouds, how could the Sandbank Fairy descend?
 
Inside the prow sat the woman. Slender frame, face veiled. Sadananda’s wife—so I had heard. In her movements I sensed neither youth nor beauty. Fingers of hands and feet were eroded, water-scarred. To men, her body could hold no lure. My mind at that hour was fixed only upon the moon. The fairy’s moon of the sandbank.
 
Two hours later the boat was dozing upon the great river. Rain was gone. In the sky, a few clouds remained, but the gentle wind chased them swiftly. At intervals, the full moon revealed itself. That was hope enough. Between two distant shores the boat drifted deep into the river’s womb. Darkness settled in folds upon the water. Lights appeared now and then across the river. Other fishermen’s boats could be seen. In the mid-current they called out to one another, or slipped silently past.
 
Inside the prow, tea simmered again on the brazier. From here the fish-market could almost be imagined. Firoz the boy rested on the planks. Sadananda stayed within the prow’s shade. The boat was longer than most; his household stood upon it with wife and all. Hasan laughed and said, “His Begum is a fisherwoman. Many fisherwomen there are in these parts. But—ha—if my children were alive, my wife could never have done such work. Only women without fear of death, and unable to live without men, take to the water.” He pinched a laugh. In the glow I saw his mouth had no teeth.
 
My state by then was wretched. Since I had come this far, I must see it. Without setting foot on the sandbank, the fairy could never be glimpsed. And if to see the fairy meant the crocodile should seize my leg—then so be it. Such was my nature always. I saw life in my own way: through fear and through reverence. If an idea lodged in my head, it would not leave. The Sandbank Fairy was such. I had even brought a camera, to seize her. I was that madman who would keep watch three nights on a platform in the Sundarbans to glimpse the Royal Bengal Tiger. I could never turn from the summons of river and jungle.
 
As long as I had come to Chilchar I had heard the marvels of the Sandbank Fairy. I never believed much in such tales. Yet to walk in the fields, under full-moon light—ah, that delight! A strange radiance spread over the world. And if in the middle of the river such a bank of sand shone? How much more beauteous it would be. Ghosts did not frighten me. Only crocodiles.
 
Hasan Ali was telling of his family: wife, sons, his brother-in-law Firoz. Sadananda spoke of his boat. Of the gathering of the Shabar boats. Of the market price of fish. Of the fisher’s life—its price, its sorrow, its occasional delight.
 
Much had changed. Much had not. Suddenly, without our noticing, Sadananda’s boat bumped upon the sandbank. He peered from the cabin, and, like a father instructing his son, declared: “Human character has soured in this dark age. Likewise the gods, the apsaras, the demons—their character too is ruined. Amulets no longer work. People have lost belief. And the fairy of the sandbank—she too is gone. What remains is bare sand and crocodiles.”
 
Dark night. Torchlight, camera, stick in hand, I stepped upon the bank. Around me only blackness. Sometimes the moon slipped from cloud, its gleam rippling on the water. Far away fishermen’s lanterns bobbed. Nets splashed faintly. The sand beneath was wet. Once on shore, I could no longer see the boat. Cloud veiled the sky again. Out of the dark Sadananda’s voice: “Shall Firoz go with you? Alone you may fear.”
 
“No need,” I replied. Within me was a small comfort: scientists said at this season crocodiles did not swim upriver. Their menace was in winter. In the sea, of course, year-round. But beasts—so I always believed—if man did not frighten them, they would fear man. So torchlight in hand, I pressed deeper into the sandbank.
 
I did not notice when the clouds were gone. Suddenly the world blazed with light. Such a vision! To taste this joy, I had come all this way. Such magical moonlight I had never seen. The sandbank glittered like a plate of silver. My heart swelled in exultation. Two kilometers across, the entire bank lay revealed. At its edges the river drew clear lines. Distant boats and nets cast pale silhouettes. Upon the sand, my own shadow stretched sharp in the moonlight—an uncanny reflection.
 
Before such immense grandeur of nature I bowed, whispering prayer. The Sandbank Fairy had fled from my mind. I had not noticed—part of the bank lay in darkness, part ablaze. The moon played hide-and-seek with splendor. Suddenly—footsteps upon sand!
 
All the hairs on my body rose. I turned—and there, running across the bank, was a woman entirely naked. Nearly half a kilometer distant. She crossed the lit sand and plunged into shadow. Yet I saw her clearly. The Sandbank Fairy. My body quivered. I rubbed my eyes. Not dream! Terror and forbidden desire burned together. In full moonlight I dashed forward. The low man, with his forbidden hunger. If I could see her closer, they said, destiny itself would change. Once, her long hair streamed in the moonwind, her body shaped like heroines of legend. She was dusky-skinned. And then darkness swallowed her again. Toward the river she fled—perhaps to its edge. Then gone, dissolved into the river’s breast.
 
Did she glance back once? In the far dark I could not be sure. Was it illusion? I fumbled out my camera and ran. To frame the fairy-tale. And at that instant—the lights of the world were snuffed. The moon hid wholly behind cloud. Blackness absolute. Not even myself could I see.
 
Half an hour I wandered lost. At last Hasan Ali’s call reached me. I did not believe in fairy-tales or the supernatural. Yet my whole body thrilled. Never had I known such strangeness. Back aboard, I sat frozen. The tide lifted the boat, drifted it into the river’s belly. Hasan asked: “Did you see something? The Fairy of the Sandbank?” I gave no reply.
 
Sadananda steered toward the shoal of fish. I sat on the planks, gazing into the dead eyes of hilsa just caught in the net. The oil-lamp flickered within the prow. All around, limitless dark. Sadananda said, “The hilsa is the true fairy of this river. Look at her beauty.” Indeed, even in darkness the hilsa shone.
 
As I looked into the prow, I startled. Sadananda’s wife had lifted her veil, and was staring at me. In her eyes the sheen of the dead hilsa. Upon her lips an ambiguous smile. Bajā woman she might be, but her face was fair. When she cast her veil aside, I laughed inwardly.