Life of Pi

who vent their spite on them with walking sticks and umbrellas. In both cases we look at an animal and see a mirror. The obsession with putting ourselves at the centre of everything is the bane not only of theologians but also of zoologists.
     
    I learned the lesson that an animal is an animal, essentially and practically removed from us, twice: once with Father and once with Richard Parker.
     
    It was on a Sunday morning. I was quietly playing on my own. Father called out.
     
    "Children, come here."
     
    Something was wrong. His tone of voice set off a small alarm bell in my head. I quickly reviewed my conscience. It was clear. Ravi must be in trouble again. I wondered what he had done this time. I walked into the living room. Mother was there. That was unusual. The disciplining of children, like the tending of animals, was generally left to Father. Ravi walked in last, guilt written all over his criminal face.
     
    "Ravi, Piscine, I have a very important lesson for you today."
     
    "Oh really, is this necessary?" interrupted Mother. Her face was flushed.
     
    I swallowed. If Mother, normally so unruffled, so calm, was worried, even upset, it meant we were in serious trouble. I exchanged glances with Ravi.
     
    "Yes, it is," said Father, annoyed. "It may very well save their lives."
     
    Save our lives! It was no longer a small alarm bell that was ringing in my head—they were big bells now, like the ones we heard from Sacred Heart of Jesus Church, not far from the zoo.
     
    "But Piscine? He's only eight," Mother insisted.
     
    "He's the one who worries me the most."
     
    "I'm innocent!" I burst out. "It's Ravi's fault, whatever it is. He did it!"
     
    "What?" said Ravi. "I haven't done anything wrong." He gave me the evil eye.
     
    "Shush!" said Father, raising his hand. He was looking at Mother. "Gita, you've seen Piscine. He's at that age when boys run around and poke their noses everywhere."
     
    Me? A run-arounder? An everywhere-nose-poker? Not so, not so! Defend me, Mother, defend me, I implored in my heart. But she only sighed and nodded, a signal that the terrible business could proceed.
     
    "Come with me," said Father.
     
    We set out like prisoners off to their execution.
     
    We left the house, went through the gate, entered the zoo. It was early and the zoo hadn't opened yet to the public. Animal keepers and groundskeepers were going about their work. I noticed Sitaram, who oversaw the orang-utans, my favourite keeper. He paused to watch us go by. We passed birds, bears, apes, monkeys, ungulates, the terrarium house, the rhinos, the elephants, the giraffes.
     
    We came to the big cats, our tigers, lions and leopards. Babu, their keeper, was waiting for us. We went round and down the path, and he unlocked the door to the cat house, which was at the centre of a moated island. We entered. It was a vast and dim cement cavern, circular in shape, warm and humid, and smelling of cat urine. All around were great big cages divided up by thick, green, iron bars. A yellowish light filtered down from the skylights. Through the cage exits we could see the vegetation of the surrounding island, flooded with sunlight. The cages were empty—save one: Mahisha, our Bengal tiger patriarch, a lanky, hulking beast of 550 pounds, had been detained. As soon as we stepped in, he loped up to the bars of his cage and set off a full-throated snarl, ears flat against his skull and round eyes fixed on Babu. The sound was so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the whole cat house. My knees started quaking. I got close to Mother. She was trembling, too. Even Father seemed to pause and steady himself. Only Babu was indifferent to the outburst and to the searing stare that bored into him like a drill. He had a tested trust in iron bars. Mahisha started pacing to and fro against the limits of his cage.
    Father turned to us. "What animal is this?" he bellowed above Mahisha's snarling.
     
    "It's a tiger," Ravi and I answered in unison, obediently pointing out the blindingly obvious.
     
    "Are tigers dangerous?"
     
    "Yes, Father, tigers are dangerous."
     
    "Tigers are very dangerous," Father shouted. "I want you to understand that you are never—under any circumstances—to touch a tiger, to pet a tiger, to put your hands through the bars of a cage, even to get close to a cage. Is that clear? Ravi?"
     
    Ravi nodded vigorously.
     
    "Piscine?"
     
    I nodded even more vigorously.
     
    He kept his eyes on me.
     
    I nodded so hard