Life of Pi

There's a barking. A small mongrel mutt, black and brown, races up to me, panting and sniffing. He jumps up against my legs. "Or a dog," I add.
     
    "He's friendly. Tata, down!"
     
    Tata ignores him. I hear "Hello." Only this greeting is not short and forceful like Nick's. It's a long, nasal and softly whining Hellooooooooo, with the ooooooooo reaching for me like a tap on the shoulder or a gentle tug at my pants.
     
    I turn. Leaning against the sofa in the living room, looking up at me bashfully, is a little brown girl, pretty in pink, very much at home. She's holding an orange cat in her arms. Two front legs sticking straight up and a deeply sunk head are all that is visible of it above her crossed arms. The rest of the cat is hanging all the way down to the floor. The animal seems quite relaxed about being stretched on the rack in this manner.
     
    "And this is your daughter," I say.
     
    "Yes. Usha. Usha darling, are you sure Moccasin is comfortable like that?"
     
    Usha drops Moccasin. He flops to the floor unperturbed.
     
    "Hello, Usha," I say.
     
    She comes up to her father and peeks at me from behind his leg.
     
    "What are you doing, little one?" he says. "Why are you hiding?"
     
    She doesn't reply, only looks at me with a smile and hides her face.
     
    "How old are you, Usha?" I ask.
     
    She doesn't reply.
    Then Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel, bends down and picks up his daughter.
     
    "You know the answer to that question. Hmmm? You're four years old. One, two, three, four."
     
    At each number he softly presses the tip of her nose with his index finger. She finds this terribly funny. She giggles and buries her face in the crook of his neck.
     
    This story has a happy ending.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    PART    TWO
     
    The Pacific Ocean
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER    37
     
    The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then vanished. Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart. From the lifeboat I saw something in the water.
     
    I cried, "Richard Parker, is that you? It's so hard to see. Oh, that this rain would stop! Richard Parker? Richard Parker? Yes, it is you!"
     
    I could see his head. He was struggling to stay at the surface of the water.
     
    "Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu, how good to see you, Richard Parker! Don't give up, please. Come to the lifeboat. Do you hear this whistle? TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! You heard right. Swim, swim! You're a strong swimmer. It's not a hundred feet."
     
    He had seen me. He looked panic-stricken. He started swimming my way. The water about him was shifting wildly. He looked small and helpless.
     
    "Richard Parker, can you believe what has happened to us? Tell me it's a bad dream. Tell me it's not real. Tell me I'm still in my bunk on the Tsimtsum and I'm tossing and turning and soon I'll wake up from this nightmare. Tell me I'm still happy. Mother, my tender guardian angel of wisdom, where are you? And you, Father, my loving worrywart? And you, Ravi, dazzling hero of my childhood? Vishnu preserve me, Allah protect me, Christ save me, I can't bear it! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"
     
    I was not wounded in any part of my body, but I had never experienced such intense pain, such a ripping of the nerves, such an ache of the heart.
     
    He would not make it. He would drown. He was hardly moving forward and his movements were weak. His nose and mouth kept dipping underwater. Only his eyes were steadily on me.
     
    "What are you doing, Richard Parker? Don't you love life? Keep swimming then! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! Kick with your legs. Kick! Kick! Kick!"
     
    He stirred in the water and made to swim.
     
    "And what of my extended family—birds, beasts and reptiles? They too have drowned. Every single thing I value in life has been destroyed. And I am allowed no explanation? I am to suffer hell without any account from heaven? In that case, what is the purpose of reason, Richard Parker? Is it no more than to shine at practicalities—the getting of food, clothing and shelter? Why can't reason give greater answers? Why can we throw a question further than we can pull in an answer? Why such a vast net if there's so little fish to catch?"
     
    His head was barely above water. He was looking up, taking in the sky one last time. There was a lifebuoy in the boat with a rope tied to it. I took hold of it and waved it in the air.
     
    "Do you see this