Acclaim for Yann Martel's Life of Pi(77)

I heard the words, "Is someone there?"

It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind. A sound without shape or colour sounds strange. To be blind is to hear otherwise.

The words came again, "Is someone there?"

I concluded that I had gone mad. Sad but true. Misery loves company, and madness calls it forth.

"Is someone there?" came the voice again, insistent.

The clarity of my insanity was astonishing. The voice had its very own timbre, with a heavy, weary rasp. I decided to play along.

"Of course someone's there," I replied. "There's always some one there. Who would be asking the question otherwise?"

"I was hoping there would be someone else."

"What do you mean, someone else? Do you realize where you are? If you're not happy with this figment of your fancy, pick another one. There are plenty of fancies to pick from."

Hmmm. Figment. Figment. Wouldn't a fig be good?

"So there's no one, is there?"

"Shush...I'm dreaming of figs."

"Figs! Do you have a fig? Please can I have a piece? I beg you. Only a little piece. I'm starving."

"I don't have just one fig. I have a whole figment."

"A whole figment of figs! Oh please, can I have some? I..."

The voice, or whatever effect of wind and waves it was, faded.

"They're plump and heavy and fragrant," I continued. "The branches of the tree are bent over, they are so weighed down with figs. There must be over three hundred figs in that tree."

Silence.

The voice came back again. "Let's talk about food..."

"What a good idea."

"What would you have to eat if you could have anything you wanted?"

"Excellent question. I would have a magnificent buffet. I would start with rice and sambar. There would be black gram dhal rice and curd rice and—"

"I would have—"

"I'm not finished. And with my rice I would have spicy tamarind sambar and small onion sambar and—"

"Anything else?"

"I'm getting there. I'd also have mixed vegetable sagu and vegetable korma and potato masala and cabbage vadai and masala dosai and spicy lentil rasam and—"

"I see."

"Wait. And stuffed eggplant poriyal and coconut yam kootu and rice idli and curd vadai and vegetable bajji and—"

"It sounds very—"

"Have I mentioned the chutneys yet? Coconut chutney and mint chutney and green chilli pickle and gooseberry pickle, all served with the usual nans, popadoms, parathas and puris, of course."

"Sounds—"

"The salads! Mango curd salad and okra curd salad and plain fresh cucumber salad. And for dessert, almond payasam and milk payasam and jaggery pancake and peanut toffee and coconut burfi and vanilla ice cream with hot, thick chocolate sauce."

"Is that it?"

"I'd finish this snack with a ten-litre glass of fresh, clean, cool, chilled water and a coffee."

"It sounds very good."

"It does."

"Tell me, what is coconut yam kootu?"

"Nothing short of heaven, that's what. To make it you need yams, grated coconut, green plantains, chilli powder, ground black pepper, ground turmeric, cumin seeds, brown mustard seeds and some coconut oil. You saute the coconut until it's golden brown—"

"May I make a suggestion?"

"What?"

"Instead of coconut yam kootu, why not boiled beef tongue with a mustard sauce?"

"That sounds non-veg."

"It is. And then tripe."

"Tripe? You've eaten the poor animal's tongue and now you want to eat its stomach?"

"Yes! I dream of tripes a la mode de Caen—warm—with sweetbread."

"Sweetbread? That sounds better. What is sweetbread?"

"Sweetbread is made from the pancreas of a calf."

"The pancreas!"

"Braised and with a mushroom sauce, it's simply delicious."



Where were these disgusting, sacrilegious recipes coming from? Was I so far gone that I was contemplating setting upon a cow and her young? What horrible crosswind was I caught in? Had the lifeboat drifted back into that floating trash?

"What will be the next affront?"

"Calf's brains in a brown butter sauce!"

"Back to the head, are we?"

"Brain souffle!"

"I'm feeling sick. Is there anything you won't eat?"

"What I would give for oxtail soup. For roast suckling pig stuffed with rice, sausages, apricots and raisins. For veal kidney in a butter, mustard and parsley sauce. For a marinated rabbit stewed in red wine. For chicken liver sausages. For pork and liver pate with veal. For frogs. Ah, give me frogs, give me frogs!"

"I'm barely holding on."

The voice faded. I was trembling with nausea. Madness in the mind was one thing, but it was not fair that it should go to the stomach.

Understanding suddenly dawned on me.

"Would you eat bleeding raw beef?" I asked.

"Of course! I love tartar steak."