Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Overview unavailable.
Life of Pi Introduction
- Identifies the work as a novel by author Yann Martel
- Includes the primary title 'Life of Pi'
- Features a specific section titled 'Author's Note'
- Establishes the foundational front matter for the literary work
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
life of pi
A NOVEL
author's note
The Hunger of Failure
- The author describes the quiet failure of his second novel, which was ignored by the public and critics alike.
- Seeking to cure his restlessness and stretch his limited funds, he travels to India to write a new book set in Portugal.
- He reflects on the nature of fiction as a selective transformation of reality, questioning the need for geographical accuracy.
- Despite careful research and lively characters, his new manuscript fails to find the essential spark required to become a real story.
- The narrative captures the specific misery of a writer realizing that a promising project has 'sputtered, coughed and died.'
Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team.
This book was born as I was hungry. Let me explain. In the spring of 1996, my second book, a novel, came
out in Canada. It didn't fare well. Reviewers were puzzled, or damned it with faint praise. Then readers
ignored it. Despite my best efforts at playing the clown or the trapeze artist, the media circus made no
difference. The book did not move. Books lined the shelves of bookstores like kids standing in a row to play
baseball or soccer, and mine was the gangly, unathletic kid that no one wanted on their team. It vanished
quickly and quietly.
The fiasco did not affect me too much. I had already moved on to another story, a novel set in Portugal in
1939. Only I was feeling restless. And I had a little money.
So I flew to Bombay. This is not so illogical if you realize three things: that a stint in India will beat the
restlessness out of any living creature; that a little money can go a long way there; and that a novel set in
Portugal in 1939 may have very little to do with Portugal in 1939.
I had been to India before, in the north, for five months. On that first trip I had come to the subcontinent
completely unprepared. Actually, I had a preparation of one word. When I told a friend who knew the country
well of my travel plans, he said casually, "They speak a funny English in India. They like words like
bamboozle." I remembered his words as my plane started its descent towards Delhi, so the word bamboozle
was my one preparation for the rich, noisy, functioning madness of India. I used the word on occasion, and
truth be told, it served me well. To a clerk at a train station I said, "I didn't think the fare would be so
expensive. You're not trying to bamboozle me, are you?" He smiled and chanted, "No sir! There is no
bamboozlement here. I have quoted you the correct fare."
This second time to India I knew better what to expect and I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill
station and write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at a table on a large veranda, my notes spread out in
front of me next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries
of monkeys would fill my ears. The weather would be just right, requiring a light sweater mornings and
evenings, and something short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand, for the sake of greater truth, I would
turn Portugal into a fiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selective transforming of reality? The
twisting of it to bring out its essence? What need did I have to go to Portugal?
The lady who ran the place would tell me stories about the struggle to boot the British out. We would agree on
what I was to have for lunch and supper the next day. After my writing day was over, I would go for walks in
the rolling hills of the tea estates.
Unfortunately, the novel sputtered, coughed and died. It happened in Matheran, not far from Bombay, a small
hill station with some monkeys but no tea estates. It's a misery peculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is
good, as are your sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life they practically need birth certificates. The
plot you've mapped out for them is grand, simple and gripping. You've done your research, gathering the
facts-historical, social, climatic, culinary-that will give your story its feel of authenticity. The dialogue zips
along, crackling with tension. The descriptions burst with colour, contrast and telling detail. Really, your story
can only be great. But it all adds up to nothing. In spite of the obvious, shining promise of it, there comes a
moment when you realize that the whisper that has been pestering you all along from the back of your mind is
speaking the flat, awful truth: it won't work. An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a real story,
Page 1
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Failed Novelist's Discovery
- The narrator describes the crushing realization that his meticulously researched and technically proficient novel is emotionally dead and lacks the necessary spark of life.
- In a gesture of finality and despair, he mails his failed manuscript to a fictitious address in Siberia with a fake return address in Bolivia.
- While traveling through southern India to escape his failure, he reflects on the modest colonial history of Pondicherry, a former French enclave.
- In a Pondicherry coffee house, an elderly man interrupts the narrator's departure with the provocative claim that he has a story that will make him believe in God.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
station and write my novel. I had visions of myself sitting at a table on a large veranda, my notes spread out in
front of me next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries
of monkeys would fill my ears. The weather would be just right, requiring a light sweater mornings and
evenings, and something short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand, for the sake of greater truth, I would
turn Portugal into a fiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selective transforming of reality? The
twisting of it to bring out its essence? What need did I have to go to Portugal?
The lady who ran the place would tell me stories about the struggle to boot the British out. We would agree on
what I was to have for lunch and supper the next day. After my writing day was over, I would go for walks in
the rolling hills of the tea estates.
Unfortunately, the novel sputtered, coughed and died. It happened in Matheran, not far from Bombay, a small
hill station with some monkeys but no tea estates. It's a misery peculiar to would-be writers. Your theme is
good, as are your sentences. Your characters are so ruddy with life they practically need birth certificates. The
plot you've mapped out for them is grand, simple and gripping. You've done your research, gathering the
facts-historical, social, climatic, culinary-that will give your story its feel of authenticity. The dialogue zips
along, crackling with tension. The descriptions burst with colour, contrast and telling detail. Really, your story
can only be great. But it all adds up to nothing. In spite of the obvious, shining promise of it, there comes a
moment when you realize that the whisper that has been pestering you all along from the back of your mind is
speaking the flat, awful truth: it won't work. An element is missing, that spark that brings to life a real story,
Page 1
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux of it. The
discovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leaves you with an aching hunger.
From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. I mailed them to a fictitious address in Siberia, with a
return address, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk had stamped the envelope and thrown it into a
sorting bin, I sat down, glum and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy? What other bright ideas do you have for
your life?" I asked myself.
Well, I still had a little money and I was still feeling restless. I got up and walked out of the post office to
explore the south of India.
I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those who asked me what I did, doctors being the current
purveyors of magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had a bus accident around the next bend, and
with all eyes fixed on me I would have to explain, amidst the crying and moaning of victims, that I meant in
law; then, to their appeal to help them sue the government over the mishap, I would have to confess that as a
matter of fact it was a Bachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of what meaning such a bloody tragedy
could have, I would have to admit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. I stuck to the humble,
bruised truth.
Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "A writer? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times the
stories were little more than anecdotes, short of breath and short of life.
I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tiny self-governing Union Territory south of Madras, on the coast of
Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is an inconsequent part of India-by comparison, Prince Edward Island is
a giant within Canada-but history has set it apart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that most modest of
colonial empires, French India. The French would have liked to rival the British, very much so, but the only
Raj they managed to get was a handful of small ports. They clung to these for nearly three hundred years.
They left Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings, broad streets at right angles to each other,
street names such as rue de la Marine and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis, caps, for the policemen.
I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It's one big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fans
whirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. The place is furnished to capacity with identical square
tables, each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where you can, with whoever is at a table. The coffee
is good and they serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man
with great shocks of pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to him that Canada was cold and that
French was indeed spoken in parts of it and that I liked India and so on and so forth-the usual light talk
between friendly, curious Indians and foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work with a widening of the
eyes and a nodding of the head. It was time to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiter's eye to get the
bill.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Was this a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does
your story take place two thousand years ago in a remote corner of the Roman Empire?" I asked.
A Tall Order in Pondicherry
- The narrator discards his failed novel by mailing the manuscript to fictitious addresses, feeling creatively and emotionally defeated.
- While traveling through southern India, the narrator reflects on the 'bruised truth' of his identity as a writer rather than a more 'magical' profession like medicine.
- The narrator arrives in Pondicherry, a unique former French colony characterized by its distinct architecture and colonial history.
- In a local coffee house, the narrator meets an elderly man who claims to have a story that will make him believe in God.
- The mysterious man asserts that the story is contemporary, beginning in India and concluding in the narrator's home country of Canada.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux of it. The
discovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leaves you with an aching hunger.
From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. I mailed them to a fictitious address in Siberia, with a
return address, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk had stamped the envelope and thrown it into a
sorting bin, I sat down, glum and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy? What other bright ideas do you have for
your life?" I asked myself.
Well, I still had a little money and I was still feeling restless. I got up and walked out of the post office to
explore the south of India.
I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those who asked me what I did, doctors being the current
purveyors of magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had a bus accident around the next bend, and
with all eyes fixed on me I would have to explain, amidst the crying and moaning of victims, that I meant in
law; then, to their appeal to help them sue the government over the mishap, I would have to confess that as a
matter of fact it was a Bachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of what meaning such a bloody tragedy
could have, I would have to admit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. I stuck to the humble,
bruised truth.
Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "A writer? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times the
stories were little more than anecdotes, short of breath and short of life.
I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tiny self-governing Union Territory south of Madras, on the coast of
Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is an inconsequent part of India-by comparison, Prince Edward Island is
a giant within Canada-but history has set it apart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that most modest of
colonial empires, French India. The French would have liked to rival the British, very much so, but the only
Raj they managed to get was a handful of small ports. They clung to these for nearly three hundred years.
They left Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings, broad streets at right angles to each other,
street names such as rue de la Marine and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis, caps, for the policemen.
I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It's one big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fans
whirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. The place is furnished to capacity with identical square
tables, each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where you can, with whoever is at a table. The coffee
is good and they serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man
with great shocks of pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to him that Canada was cold and that
French was indeed spoken in parts of it and that I liked India and so on and so forth-the usual light talk
between friendly, curious Indians and foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work with a widening of the
eyes and a nodding of the head. It was time to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiter's eye to get the
bill.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Was this a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does
your story take place two thousand years ago in a remote corner of the Roman Empire?" I asked.
"No."
Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it take place in seventh-century Arabia?"
"No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a few years back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in the
very country you come from."
Page 2
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"And it will make me believe in God?"
"Yes."
"That's a tall order."
"Not so tall that you can't reach."
A Story for God
- The narrator abandons a failed novel in India, mailing his notes to fictitious addresses as a symbolic act of creative surrender.
- While traveling through southern India, the narrator reflects on the 'bruised truth' of his identity as a writer rather than a more 'magical' profession like medicine.
- The narrator arrives in Pondicherry, a unique former French colony, and visits a local coffee house where he meets an elderly man named Francis Adirubasamy.
- Adirubasamy claims to have a story so powerful it will make the narrator believe in God, spanning from Pondicherry to Canada.
- Intrigued and skeptical, the narrator commits to hearing the tale, marking the beginning of a significant narrative journey.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
regardless of whether the history or the food is right. Your story is emotionally dead, that's the crux of it. The
discovery is something soul-destroying, I tell you. It leaves you with an aching hunger.
From Matheran I mailed the notes of my failed novel. I mailed them to a fictitious address in Siberia, with a
return address, equally fictitious, in Bolivia. After the clerk had stamped the envelope and thrown it into a
sorting bin, I sat down, glum and disheartened. "What now, Tolstoy? What other bright ideas do you have for
your life?" I asked myself.
Well, I still had a little money and I was still feeling restless. I got up and walked out of the post office to
explore the south of India.
I would have liked to say, "I'm a doctor," to those who asked me what I did, doctors being the current
purveyors of magic and miracle. But I'm sure we would have had a bus accident around the next bend, and
with all eyes fixed on me I would have to explain, amidst the crying and moaning of victims, that I meant in
law; then, to their appeal to help them sue the government over the mishap, I would have to confess that as a
matter of fact it was a Bachelor's in philosophy; next, to the shouts of what meaning such a bloody tragedy
could have, I would have to admit that I had hardly touched Kierkegaard; and so on. I stuck to the humble,
bruised truth.
Along the way, here and there, I got the response, "A writer? Is that so? I have a story for you." Most times the
stories were little more than anecdotes, short of breath and short of life.
I arrived in the town of Pondicherry, a tiny self-governing Union Territory south of Madras, on the coast of
Tamil Nadu. In population and size it is an inconsequent part of India-by comparison, Prince Edward Island is
a giant within Canada-but history has set it apart. For Pondicherry was once the capital of that most modest of
colonial empires, French India. The French would have liked to rival the British, very much so, but the only
Raj they managed to get was a handful of small ports. They clung to these for nearly three hundred years.
They left Pondicherry in 1954, leaving behind nice white buildings, broad streets at right angles to each other,
street names such as rue de la Marine and rue Saint-Louis, and kepis, caps, for the policemen.
I was at the Indian Coffee House, on Nehru Street. It's one big room with green walls and a high ceiling. Fans
whirl above you to keep the warm, humid air moving. The place is furnished to capacity with identical square
tables, each with its complement of four chairs. You sit where you can, with whoever is at a table. The coffee
is good and they serve French toast. Conversation is easy to come by. And so, a spry, bright-eyed elderly man
with great shocks of pure white hair was talking to me. I confirmed to him that Canada was cold and that
French was indeed spoken in parts of it and that I liked India and so on and so forth-the usual light talk
between friendly, curious Indians and foreign backpackers. He took in my line of work with a widening of the
eyes and a nodding of the head. It was time to go. I had my hand up, trying to catch my waiter's eye to get the
bill.
Then the elderly man said, "I have a story that will make you believe in God."
I stopped waving my hand. But I was suspicious. Was this a Jehovah's Witness knocking at my door? "Does
your story take place two thousand years ago in a remote corner of the Roman Empire?" I asked.
"No."
Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it take place in seventh-century Arabia?"
"No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a few years back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in the
very country you come from."
Page 2
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"And it will make me believe in God?"
"Yes."
"That's a tall order."
"Not so tall that you can't reach."
My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I ordered two coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was
Francis Adirubasamy. "Please tell me your story," I said.
"You must pay proper attention," he replied.
"I will." I brought out pen and notepad.
"Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?" he asked.
A Story to Believe
- An elderly man named Francis Adirubasamy promises the narrator a story from Pondicherry that will make him believe in God.
- The narrator tracks down the story's protagonist, Mr. Patel, in Toronto to conduct interviews and review his personal diaries.
- Official documents and tapes from the Japanese Ministry of Transport are used to verify the extraordinary events of the narrative.
- The author acknowledges the importance of arts funding, arguing that without it, society sacrifices imagination for crude reality.
- The section establishes the framing device of the novel, blending fictional memoir with a journalistic research process.
The voice that answered had an Indian lilt to its Canadian accent, light but unmistakable, like a trace of incense in the air.
Was he some sort of Muslim evangelist? "Does it take place in seventh-century Arabia?"
"No, no. It starts right here in Pondicherry just a few years back, and it ends, I am delighted to tell you, in the
very country you come from."
Page 2
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"And it will make me believe in God?"
"Yes."
"That's a tall order."
"Not so tall that you can't reach."
My waiter appeared. I hesitated for a moment. I ordered two coffees. We introduced ourselves. His name was
Francis Adirubasamy. "Please tell me your story," I said.
"You must pay proper attention," he replied.
"I will." I brought out pen and notepad.
"Tell me, have you been to the botanical garden?" he asked.
"I went yesterday."
"Did you notice the toy train tracks?"
"Yes, I did"
"A train still runs on Sundays for the amusement of the children. But it used to run twice an hour every day.
Did you take note of the names of the stations?"
"One is called Roseville. It's right next to the rose garden."
"That's right. And the other?"
"I don't remember."
"The sign was taken down. The other station was once called Zootown. The toy train had two stops: Roseville
and Zootown. Once upon a time there was a zoo in the Pondicherry Botanical Garden."
He went on. I took notes, the elements of the story. "You must talk to him," he said, of the main character. "I
knew him very, very well. He's a grown man now. You must ask him all the questions you want."
Later, in Toronto, among nine columns of Patels in the phone book, I found him, the main character. My heart
pounded as I dialed his phone number. The voice that answered had an Indian lilt to its Canadian accent, light
but unmistakable, like a trace of incense in the air. "That was a very long time ago," he said. Yet he agreed to
meet. We met many times. He showed me the diary he kept during the events. He showed me the yellowed
newspaper clippings that made him briefly, obscurely famous. He told me his story. All the while I took notes.
Nearly a year later, after considerable difficulties, I received a tape and a report from the Japanese Ministry of
Transport. It was as I listened to that tape that I agreed with Mr. Adirubasamy that this was, indeed, a story to
make you believe in God.
It seemed natural that Mr. Patel's story should be told mostly in the first person, in his voice and through his
eyes. But any inaccuracies or mistakes are mine.
I have a few people to thank. I am most obviously indebted to Mr. Patel. My gratitude to him is as boundless
Page 3
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
as the Pacific Ocean and I hope that my telling of his tale does not disappoint him. For getting me started on
the story, I have Mr. Adirubasamy to thank. For helping me complete it, I am grateful to three officials of
exemplary professionalism: Mr. Kazuhiko Oda, lately of the Japanese Embassy in Ottawa; Mr. Hiroshi
Watanabe, of Oika Shipping Company; and, especially, Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Japanese Ministry of
Transport, now retired. As for the spark of life, I owe it to Mr. Moacyr Scliar. Lastly, I would like to express
my sincere gratitude to that great institution, the Canada Council for the Arts, without whose grant I could not
have brought together this story that has nothing to do with Portugal in 1939. If we, citizens, do not support
our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing
and having worthless dreams.
PART ONE
Toronto and Pondicherry
CHAPTER I
Sloths and Spiritual Recovery
- The author acknowledges several individuals and the Canada Council for the Arts for their support in bringing the story to fruition.
- The narrator describes how academic study and religious practice helped him recover from a period of profound suffering and sadness.
- At the University of Toronto, the narrator pursued a double major in religious studies and zoology, focusing on Kabbalist theory and the physiology of sloths.
- The three-toed sloth is characterized as a profoundly indolent and sensory-deprived creature that exists in a state of perpetual, quiet introspection.
- The narrator argues that failing to support artists leads to a sacrifice of the imagination and a life of worthless dreams.
If we, citizens, do not support our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing and having worthless dreams.
as the Pacific Ocean and I hope that my telling of his tale does not disappoint him. For getting me started on
the story, I have Mr. Adirubasamy to thank. For helping me complete it, I am grateful to three officials of
exemplary professionalism: Mr. Kazuhiko Oda, lately of the Japanese Embassy in Ottawa; Mr. Hiroshi
Watanabe, of Oika Shipping Company; and, especially, Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Japanese Ministry of
Transport, now retired. As for the spark of life, I owe it to Mr. Moacyr Scliar. Lastly, I would like to express
my sincere gratitude to that great institution, the Canada Council for the Arts, without whose grant I could not
have brought together this story that has nothing to do with Portugal in 1939. If we, citizens, do not support
our artists, then we sacrifice our imagination on the altar of crude reality and we end up believing in nothing
and having worthless dreams.
PART ONE
Toronto and Pondicherry
CHAPTER I
My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly wrought me back to life. I have kept up
with what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I
attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors were religious
studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony
theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional
analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour-calm, quiet and
introspective-did something to soothe my shattered self.
There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case being determined by the forepaws of the
animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the
three-toed sloth in situ in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is
indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild
three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic
dishes filled with water. We found them still in place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming
with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves
along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour.
On the ground, it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times
slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour.
The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents
unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloths senses of taste, touch, sight and hearing
a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two
or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it
should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is
not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths
elicited little reaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said
Page 4
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Sloths, Science, and Survival
- The narrator recovers from a period of deep suffering through the dual study of zoology and religious studies at the University of Toronto.
- He finds a spiritual and emotional connection to the three-toed sloth, viewing its extreme indolence and calm demeanor as a form of meditative prayer.
- The sloth's survival is paradoxically ensured by its slowness and lack of sensory acuity, which allow it to blend into the environment and avoid predator notice.
- Reflecting on his academic success and personal losses, the narrator describes life as a beautiful force that death pursues out of a jealous, possessive love.
- Now living in Canada, the narrator expresses a bittersweet affection for his new home while maintaining a lingering nostalgia for the sensory richness of India.
The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessityโit's envy.
My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly wrought me back to life. I have kept up
with what some people would consider my strange religious practices. After one year of high school, I
attended the University of Toronto and took a double-major Bachelor's degree. My majors were religious
studies and zoology. My fourth-year thesis for religious studies concerned certain aspects of the cosmogony
theory of Isaac Luria, the great sixteenth-century Kabbalist from Safed. My zoology thesis was a functional
analysis of the thyroid gland of the three-toed sloth. I chose the sloth because its demeanour-calm, quiet and
introspective-did something to soothe my shattered self.
There are two-toed sloths and there are three-toed sloths, the case being determined by the forepaws of the
animals, since all sloths have three claws on their hind paws. I had the great luck one summer of studying the
three-toed sloth in situ in the equatorial jungles of Brazil. It is a highly intriguing creature. Its only real habit is
indolence. It sleeps or rests on average twenty hours a day. Our team tested the sleep habits of five wild
three-toed sloths by placing on their heads, in the early evening after they had fallen asleep, bright red plastic
dishes filled with water. We found them still in place late the next morning, the water of the dishes swarming
with insects. The sloth is at its busiest at sunset, using the word busy here in the most relaxed sense. It moves
along the bough of a tree in its characteristic upside-down position at the speed of roughly 400 metres an hour.
On the ground, it crawls to its next tree at the rate of 250 metres an hour, when motivated, which is 440 times
slower than a motivated cheetah. Unmotivated, it covers four to five metres in an hour.
The three-toed sloth is not well informed about the outside world. On a scale of 2 to 10, where 2 represents
unusual dullness and 10 extreme acuity, Beebe (1926) gave the sloths senses of taste, touch, sight and hearing
a rating of 2, and its sense of smell a rating of 3. If you come upon a sleeping three-toed sloth in the wild, two
or three nudges should suffice to awaken it; it will then look sleepily in every direction but yours. Why it
should look about is uncertain since the sloth sees everything in a Magoo-like blur. As for hearing, the sloth is
not so much deaf as uninterested in sound. Beebe reported that firing guns next to sleeping or feeding sloths
elicited little reaction. And the sloth's slightly better sense of smell should not be overestimated. They are said
Page 4
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground
clinging to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of
jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry
season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and
looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured
smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one
given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil,
looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits
deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnostics
who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright-reminded
me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded
me of God.
I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking
lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got
every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious
Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are
not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the
University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have
been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of
unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both
unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning
skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've
got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers
and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological
necessity-it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs
at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is
but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I
love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours
me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi,
Jerusalem and Paris.
I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man
nonetheless if he's not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver
screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad
hairdos.
Sloths, Science, and Spiritual Survival
- The narrator describes the three-toed sloth as a creature whose extreme slowness and natural camouflage serve as a highly effective survival strategy against predators.
- The sloth is characterized as a meditative, wise being that the narrator associates with religious devotion and the miracle of life.
- The narrator reflects on his academic success in both zoology and religious studies, noting the contrast between his atheistic scientific peers and his own spiritual leanings.
- Despite past suffering and the loss of academic accolades to a rival, the narrator maintains a philosophical view of life's beauty and death's envious pursuit.
- Now living in Canada, the narrator expresses a deep affection for his new home while acknowledging the lingering nostalgia for his former life in Pondicherry, India.
Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.
to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground
clinging to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of
jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry
season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and
looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured
smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one
given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil,
looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits
deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnostics
who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright-reminded
me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded
me of God.
I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking
lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got
every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious
Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are
not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the
University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have
been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of
unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both
unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning
skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've
got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers
and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological
necessity-it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs
at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is
but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I
love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours
me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi,
Jerusalem and Paris.
I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man
nonetheless if he's not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver
screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad
hairdos.
Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.
Sloths, Science, and Survival
- The three-toed sloth survives predators not through speed, but through extreme lethargy and a symbiotic relationship with algae that provides perfect camouflage.
- The narrator views the sloth as a spiritual being, comparing its stillness to that of a meditating yogi and seeing it as a reflection of the divine.
- Despite academic excellence in both zoology and religious studies, the narrator reflects on the bitterness of losing a prestigious medal to a boisterous peer.
- The narrator contemplates the relationship between life and death, suggesting that death pursues life out of a jealous, possessive love for its beauty.
- Now living in Canada, the narrator expresses a deep affection for his new home while maintaining a nostalgic longing for the sensory richness of India.
The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessityโit's envy.
to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground
clinging to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of
jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry
season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and
looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured
smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one
given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil,
looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits
deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnostics
who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright-reminded
me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded
me of God.
I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking
lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got
every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious
Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are
not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the
University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have
been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of
unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both
unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning
skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've
got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers
and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological
necessity-it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs
at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is
but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I
love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours
me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi,
Jerusalem and Paris.
I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man
nonetheless if he's not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver
screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad
hairdos.
Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.
Page 5
Sloths, Science, and Spiritual Survival
- The narrator describes the three-toed sloth's extreme lethargy and natural camouflage as evolutionary survival mechanisms that mirror a state of spiritual meditation.
- A comparison is drawn between the sloth's peaceful existence and the narrator's dual academic interests in zoology and religious studies.
- The narrator reflects on his academic success and the lingering sting of losing a prestigious medal to a cheerful rival, viewing human ambition through the lens of a memento mori.
- A philosophical perspective on death is offered, suggesting that death pursues life not out of necessity, but out of a jealous love for life's beauty.
- The narrator expresses a deep, complex affection for Canada, his adopted home, while acknowledging the loss of his original home in Pondicherry.
The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological necessityโit's envy.
to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground
clinging to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of
jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry
season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and
looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured
smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one
given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil,
looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits
deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnostics
who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright-reminded
me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded
me of God.
I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking
lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got
every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious
Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are
not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the
University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have
been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of
unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both
unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning
skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've
got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers
and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological
necessity-it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs
at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is
but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I
love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours
me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi,
Jerusalem and Paris.
I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man
nonetheless if he's not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver
screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad
hairdos.
Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.
Page 5
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Sloths, Science, and Survival
- The narrator reflects on the three-toed sloth, viewing it as a spiritual being whose slow nature serves as a miraculous survival mechanism against predators.
- A dual academic background in zoology and religious studies shapes the narrator's worldview, blending scientific observation with a deep sense of the divine.
- The narrator describes the lingering trauma of a past ordeal, personified by the memory of Richard Parker and the physical toll of recovery in a Mexican hospital.
- The transition to life in Canada is marked by a deep appreciation for the country tempered by the stinging social shame of being perceived as a crude immigrant.
- A philosophical meditation on death suggests it is not a biological necessity but a jealous force that pursues life because of life's inherent beauty.
Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs at what it can.
to be able to sniff and avoid decayed branches, but Bullock (1968) reported that sloths fall to the ground
clinging to decayed branches "often".
How does it survive, you might ask.
Precisely by being so slow. Sleepiness and slothfulness keep it out of harm's way, away from the notice of
jaguars, ocelots, harpy eagles and anacondas. A sloth's hairs shelter an algae that is brown during the dry
season and green during the wet season, so the animal blends in with the surrounding moss and foliage and
looks like a nest of white ants or of squirrels, or like nothing at all but part of a tree.
The three-toed sloth lives a peaceful, vegetarian life in perfect harmony with its environment. "A good-natured
smile is forever on its lips," reported Tirler (1966). I have seen that smile with my own eyes. I am not one
given to projecting human traits and emotions onto animals, but many a time during that month in Brazil,
looking up at sloths in repose, I felt I was in the presence of upside-down yogis deep in meditation or hermits
deep in prayer, wise beings whose intense imaginative lives were beyond the reach of my scientific probing.
Sometimes I got my majors mixed up. A number of my fellow religious-studies students-muddled agnostics
who didn't know which way was up, who were in the thrall of reason, that fool's gold for the bright-reminded
me of the three-toed sloth; and the three-toed sloth, such a beautiful example of the miracle of life, reminded
me of God.
I never had problems with my fellow scientists. Scientists are a friendly, atheistic, hard-working, beer-drinking
lot whose minds are preoccupied with sex, chess and baseball when they are not preoccupied with science.
I was a very good student, if I may say so myself. I was tops at St. Michael's College four years in a row. I got
every possible student award from the Department of Zoology. If I got none from the Department of Religious
Studies, it is simply because there are no student awards in this department (the rewards of religious study are
not in mortal hands, we all know that). I would have received the Governor General's Academic Medal, the
University of Toronto's highest undergraduate award, of which no small number of illustrious Canadians have
been recipients, were it not for a beef-eating pink boy with a neck like a tree trunk and a temperament of
unbearable good cheer.
I still smart a little at the slight. When you've suffered a great deal in life, each additional pain is both
unbearable and trifling. My life is like a memento mori painting from European art: there is always a grinning
skull at my side to remind me of the folly of human ambition. I mock this skull. I look at it and I say, "You've
got the wrong fellow. You may not believe in life, but I don't believe in death. Move on!" The skull snickers
and moves ever closer, but that doesn't surprise me. The reason death sticks so closely to life isn't biological
necessity-it's envy. Life is so beautiful that death has fallen in love with it, a jealous, possessive love that grabs
at what it can. But life leaps over oblivion lightly, losing only a thing or two of no importance, and gloom is
but the passing shadow of a cloud. The pink boy also got the nod from the Rhodes Scholarship committee. I
love him and I hope his time at Oxford was a rich experience. If Lakshmi, goddess of wealth, one day favours
me bountifully, Oxford is fifth on the list of cities I would like to visit before I pass on, after Mecca, Varanasi,
Jerusalem and Paris.
I have nothing to say of my working life, only that a tie is a noose, and inverted though it is, it will hang a man
nonetheless if he's not careful.
I love Canada. I miss the heat of India, the food, the house lizards on the walls, the musicals on the silver
screen, the cows wandering the streets, the crows cawing, even the talk of cricket matches, but I love Canada.
It is a great country much too cold for good sense, inhabited by compassionate, intelligent people with bad
hairdos.
Anyway, I have nothing to go home to in Pondicherry.
Page 5
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see
him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of
the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of
goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.
The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico were incredibly kind to me. And the patients, too. Victims of
cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to see me, they and their
families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled at me, shook my hand,
patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fits of
laughing and crying.
Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nausea, dizziness and general
weakness. Blood tests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodium was very high and my
potassium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I had been
grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was a deep, dark yellow going on to brown. After a week or so, I
could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn't lace them up. My skin healed, though I still
have scars on my shoulders and back.
The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I became
incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted in the arms of a nurse.
The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waiter looked at me critically
and said, "Fresh off the boat, are you?" I blanched. My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds
savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught
in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words
wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever
used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.
Recovery and Lingering Scars
- The narrator reflects on the painful abandonment by Richard Parker, whose departure remains an unhealed emotional wound.
- Physical recovery in a Mexican hospital reveals the severe toll of the ordeal, including extreme swelling and anemia.
- Reintegrating into society proves traumatic, as seen when the simple gush of a water tap causes the narrator to faint.
- A cruel comment from a waiter in Canada highlights the narrator's struggle to reconcile his survival instincts with modern social norms.
- The narrative introduces the protagonist's adult life in Scarborough and the origin of his name, linked to a champion swimmer named Mamaji.
My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze.
Richard Parker has stayed with me. I've never forgotten him. Dare I say I miss him? I do. I miss him. I still see
him in my dreams. They are nightmares mostly, but nightmares tinged with love. Such is the strangeness of
the human heart. I still cannot understand how he could abandon me so unceremoniously, without any sort of
goodbye, without looking back even once. That pain is like an axe that chops at my heart.
The doctors and nurses at the hospital in Mexico were incredibly kind to me. And the patients, too. Victims of
cancer or car accidents, once they heard my story, they hobbled and wheeled over to see me, they and their
families, though none of them spoke English and I spoke no Spanish. They smiled at me, shook my hand,
patted me on the head, left gifts of food and clothing on my bed. They moved me to uncontrollable fits of
laughing and crying.
Within a couple of days I could stand, even make two, three steps, despite nausea, dizziness and general
weakness. Blood tests revealed that I was anemic, and that my level of sodium was very high and my
potassium low. My body retained fluids and my legs swelled up tremendously. I looked as if I had been
grafted with a pair of elephant legs. My urine was a deep, dark yellow going on to brown. After a week or so, I
could walk just about normally and I could wear shoes if I didn't lace them up. My skin healed, though I still
have scars on my shoulders and back.
The first time I turned a tap on, its noisy, wasteful, superabundant gush was such a shock that I became
incoherent and my legs collapsed beneath me and I fainted in the arms of a nurse.
The first time I went to an Indian restaurant in Canada I used my fingers. The waiter looked at me critically
and said, "Fresh off the boat, are you?" I blanched. My fingers, which a second before had been taste buds
savouring the food a little ahead of my mouth, became dirty under his gaze. They froze like criminals caught
in the act. I didn't dare lick them. I wiped them guiltily on my napkin. He had no idea how deeply those words
wounded me. They were like nails being driven into my flesh. I picked up the knife and fork. I had hardly ever
used such instruments. My hands trembled. My sambar lost its taste.
CHAPTER 2
He lives in Scarborough. He's a small, slim man-no more than five foot five. Dark hair, dark eyes. Hair
greying at the temples. Can't be older than forty. Pleasing coffee-coloured complexion. Mild fall weather, yet
puts on a big winter parka with fur-lined hood for the walk to the diner. Expressive face. Speaks quickly,
hands flitting about. No small talk. He launches forth.
CHAPTER 3
I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my
father's earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called
him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and
affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer,
the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when
Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take
him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.
Page 6
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand above his head. "He coughed out water and started
breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That's why his chest is so thick and his
legs are so skinny."
The Gift of Water
- The narrator reveals the peculiar origin of his name, which is linked to a swimming pool despite his parents' aversion to water.
- Francis Adirubasamy, known as Mamaji, is a family friend and former champion swimmer who maintains a lifelong devotion to the sport.
- The narrator's brother, Ravi, invents a tall tale about Mamaji's birth to explain his muscular chest and thin legs.
- While the rest of the family resists the water, Mamaji finds a dedicated student in the narrator at the age of seven.
- Mamaji views the ocean and the ability to swim as a profound personal gift to be passed down to the next generation.
My brother Ravi once told me that when Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.
I was named after a swimming pool. Quite peculiar considering my parents never took to water. One of my
father's earliest business contacts was Francis Adirubasamy. He became a good friend of the family. I called
him Mamaji, mama being the Tamil word for uncle and ji being a suffix used in India to indicate respect and
affection. When he was a young man, long before I was born, Mamaji was a champion competitive swimmer,
the champion of all South India. He looked the part his whole life. My brother Ravi once told me that when
Mamaji was born he didn't want to give up on breathing water and so the doctor, to save his life, had to take
him by the feet and swing him above his head round and round.
Page 6
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"It did the trick!" said Ravi, wildly spinning his hand above his head. "He coughed out water and started
breathing air, but it forced all his flesh and blood to his upper body. That's why his chest is so thick and his
legs are so skinny."
I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first time he called Mamaji "Mr. Fish" to my face I left a
banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter-obstetric
gravity had begun to nudge his flesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the
Aurobindo Ashram.
He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their knees at the
beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising the breaststroke,
made them look as if they were walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass ahead of them, or, if it was
the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi was just as
unenthusiastic.
Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of swimming age,
which, to Mother's distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought me down to the beach, spread his arms
seaward and said, "This is my gift to you."
The Gift of Swimming
- Mamaji, a family friend and dedicated swimmer, attempts to pass his passion for the water down to the narrator's family.
- While the narrator's parents and brother remain uninterested or clumsy in the water, the narrator becomes Mamaji's devoted disciple at age seven.
- The training transitions from the chaotic surf of the beach to the disciplined, rhythmic environment of the Aurobindo Ashram swimming pool.
- The narrator finds a spiritual and hypnotic connection to the sport, eventually mastering the grueling butterfly stroke as a gift for his mentor.
- The narrator's father enjoys the lore and discussion of swimming as a mental escape from the complexities of managing a zoo.
Swimming instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten lead to liquid light.
I believed him. (Ravi was a merciless teaser. The first time he called Mamaji "Mr. Fish" to my face I left a
banana peel in his bed.) Even in his sixties, when he was a little stooped and a lifetime of counter-obstetric
gravity had begun to nudge his flesh downwards, Mamaji swam thirty lengths every morning at the pool of the
Aurobindo Ashram.
He tried to teach my parents to swim, but he never got them to go beyond wading up to their knees at the
beach and making ludicrous round motions with their arms, which, if they were practising the breaststroke,
made them look as if they were walking through a jungle, spreading the tall grass ahead of them, or, if it was
the front crawl, as if they were running down a hill and flailing their arms so as not to fall. Ravi was just as
unenthusiastic.
Mamaji had to wait until I came into the picture to find a willing disciple. The day I came of swimming age,
which, to Mother's distress, Mamaji claimed was seven, he brought me down to the beach, spread his arms
seaward and said, "This is my gift to you."
"And then he nearly drowned you," claimed Mother.
I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and
scratched away at the sand with my hands, turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must have looked like
a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the surface, I tried my best to
swim. It was much more difficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging.
When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the shouting, the
running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the proper rectangularity
and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool.
I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early
morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivid memories of this
dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatly disposed of
each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair
of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming
instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing
a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten
lead to liquid light.
It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to the sea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed
down and reached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos that caught their willing Indian boy.
My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteen or so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I
finished so spent I could hardly wave to him.
Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. It was the talk that Father loved. The more
vigorously he resisted actually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was his vacation talk from the
workaday talk of running a zoo. Water without a hippopotamus was so much more manageable than water
with one.
Page 7
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Aquatic Guru
- The narrator recounts his childhood swimming lessons under the mentorship of Mamaji, a family friend and dedicated aquatic enthusiast.
- The instruction evolved from awkward land-based drills to a disciplined thrice-weekly ritual at the local ashram swimming pool.
- While the narrator's father avoided the water, he delighted in the lore and technical talk of swimming as a mental escape from his work at the zoo.
- Mamaji's stories of his time in Paris focused exclusively on the city's swimming pools, ranging from the filthy Seine-fed barges to the pristine Piscine Molitor.
- The Piscine Molitor is described as the pinnacle of aquatic architecture, a place of such perfection that it surpassed all other pools in the civilized world.
Swimming instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten lead to liquid light.
"And then he nearly drowned you," claimed Mother.
I remained faithful to my aquatic guru. Under his watchful eye I lay on the beach and fluttered my legs and
scratched away at the sand with my hands, turning my head at every stroke to breathe. I must have looked like
a child throwing a peculiar, slow-motion tantrum. In the water, as he held me at the surface, I tried my best to
swim. It was much more difficult than on land. But Mamaji was patient and encouraging.
When he felt that I had progressed sufficiently, we turned our backs on the laughing and the shouting, the
running and the splashing, the blue-green waves and the bubbly surf, and headed for the proper rectangularity
and the formal flatness (and the paying admission) of the ashram swimming pool.
I went there with him three times a week throughout my childhood, a Monday, Wednesday, Friday early
morning ritual with the clockwork regularity of a good front-crawl stroke. I have vivid memories of this
dignified old man stripping down to nakedness next to me, his body slowly emerging as he neatly disposed of
each item of clothing, decency being salvaged at the very end by a slight turning away and a magnificent pair
of imported athletic bathing trunks. He stood straight and he was ready. It had an epic simplicity. Swimming
instruction, which in time became swimming practice, was gruelling, but there was the deep pleasure of doing
a stroke with increasing ease and speed, over and over, till hypnosis practically, the water turning from molten
lead to liquid light.
It was on my own, a guilty pleasure, that I returned to the sea, beckoned by the mighty waves that crashed
down and reached for me in humble tidal ripples, gentle lassos that caught their willing Indian boy.
My gift to Mamaji one birthday, I must have been thirteen or so, was two full lengths of credible butterfly. I
finished so spent I could hardly wave to him.
Beyond the activity of swimming, there was the talk of it. It was the talk that Father loved. The more
vigorously he resisted actually swimming, the more he fancied it. Swim lore was his vacation talk from the
workaday talk of running a zoo. Water without a hippopotamus was so much more manageable than water
with one.
Page 7
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of his life. This
was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic as the British were
trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamaji studied. Something commercial, I
suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafes
of the Champs-Elysees. All his stories had to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For
example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored
to the Quai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were
recognized by the International Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in
the pool came straight from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," said Mamaji. "The
water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." In
conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had very low
standards of personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the Seine, was worse.
At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool,
touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile.
One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor
pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the condensation from steam
engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still a bit dingy and
tended to be crowded. "There was so much gob and spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimming
through jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji.
The Piscines Hebert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian
wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was the Piscine des Tourelles,
of course, the city's other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of 1924. And there
were still others, many of them.
But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic
glory of Paris, indeed, of the entire civilized world.
"It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in
Paris. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small oceans. The indoor pool
always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The water was so clean and clear you
could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white, surrounded the
pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone and everything. The porters who marked your
cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No
amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a
steam room and an exercise room. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a
cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood
The Naming of Pi
- Mamaji, a family friend and former student in Paris, spent his time abroad obsessively cataloging the city's various swimming pools.
- He describes the evolution of Parisian pools from the 'disgusting' open-air barges on the Seine to modern, artesian-fed facilities.
- The Piscine Molitor is highlighted as the pinnacle of aquatic excellence, described with such reverence that it silences the storyteller.
- Inspired by Mamaji's vivid memories and his father's dreams of such grandeur, the narrator is named Piscine Molitor Patel.
The water was so clean and clear you could have used it to make your morning coffee.
Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of his life. This
was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic as the British were
trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamaji studied. Something commercial, I
suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafes
of the Champs-Elysees. All his stories had to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For
example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored
to the Quai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were
recognized by the International Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in
the pool came straight from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," said Mamaji. "The
water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." In
conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had very low
standards of personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the Seine, was worse.
At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool,
touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile.
One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor
pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the condensation from steam
engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still a bit dingy and
tended to be crowded. "There was so much gob and spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimming
through jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji.
The Piscines Hebert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian
wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was the Piscine des Tourelles,
of course, the city's other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of 1924. And there
were still others, many of them.
But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic
glory of Paris, indeed, of the entire civilized world.
"It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in
Paris. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small oceans. The indoor pool
always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The water was so clean and clear you
could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white, surrounded the
pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone and everything. The porters who marked your
cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No
amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a
steam room and an exercise room. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a
cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood
gleamed. It was-it was..."
It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, his memory making too many lengths to mention.
Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed.
That is how I got my name when I entered this world, a last, welcome addition to my family, three years after
Ravi: Piscine Molitor Patel.
CHAPTER 4
Page 8
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Aquatic Origins of Pi
- Mamaji, a family friend and former student in Paris, regales the narrator with vivid stories of French swimming pools, ranging from the filthy Seine-fed barges to modern artesian facilities.
- The Piscine Molitor is described as the pinnacle of aquatic excellence, a pool so perfect and clear that it left the usually talkative Mamaji speechless with reverence.
- Inspired by Mamaji's obsession and his father's dreams, the narrator is named Piscine Molitor Patel, a name derived from the legendary Parisian swimming club.
- The narrator describes his childhood growing up in the Pondicherry Zoo, which his father established after transitioning from the hotel business to zookeeping.
- While his father views the zoo as a logistical nightmare of ungrateful and unhygienic 'guests,' the narrator considers the lush, animal-filled grounds to be a literal paradise.
The water was so clean and clear you could have used it to make your morning coffee.
Mamaji studied in Paris for two years, thanks to the colonial administration. He had the time of his life. This
was in the early 1930s, when the French were still trying to make Pondicherry as Gallic as the British were
trying to make the rest of India Britannic. I don't recall exactly what Mamaji studied. Something commercial, I
suppose. He was a great storyteller, but forget about his studies or the Eiffel Tower or the Louvre or the cafes
of the Champs-Elysees. All his stories had to do with swimming pools and swimming competitions. For
example, there was the Piscine Deligny, the city's oldest pool, dating back to 1796, an open-air barge moored
to the Quai d'Orsay and the venue for the swimming events of the 1900 Olympics. But none of the times were
recognized by the International Swimming Federation because the pool was six metres too long. The water in
the pool came straight from the Seine, unfiltered and unheated. "It was cold and dirty," said Mamaji. "The
water, having crossed all of Paris, came in foul enough. Then people at the pool made it utterly disgusting." In
conspiratorial whispers, with shocking details to back up his claim, he assured us that the French had very low
standards of personal hygiene. "Deligny was bad enough. Bain Royal, another latrine on the Seine, was worse.
At least at Deligny they scooped out the dead fish." Nevertheless, an Olympic pool is an Olympic pool,
touched by immortal glory. Though it was a cesspool, Mamaji spoke of Deligny with a fond smile.
One was better off at the Piscines Chateau-Landon, Rouvet or du boulevard de la Gare. They were indoor
pools with roofs, on land and open year-round. Their water was supplied by the condensation from steam
engines from nearby factories and so was cleaner and warmer. But these pools were still a bit dingy and
tended to be crowded. "There was so much gob and spit floating in the water, I thought I was swimming
through jellyfish," chuckled Mamaji.
The Piscines Hebert, Ledru-Rollin and Butte-aux-Cailles were bright, modern, spacious pools fed by artesian
wells. They set the standard for excellence in municipal swimming pools. There was the Piscine des Tourelles,
of course, the city's other great Olympic pool, inaugurated during the second Paris games, of 1924. And there
were still others, many of them.
But no swimming pool in Mamaji's eyes matched the glory of the Piscine Molitor. It was the crowning aquatic
glory of Paris, indeed, of the entire civilized world.
"It was a pool the gods would have delighted to swim in. Molitor had the best competitive swimming club in
Paris. There were two pools, an indoor and an outdoor. Both were as big as small oceans. The indoor pool
always had two lanes reserved for swimmers who wanted to do lengths. The water was so clean and clear you
could have used it to make your morning coffee. Wooden changing cabins, blue and white, surrounded the
pool on two floors. You could look down and see everyone and everything. The porters who marked your
cabin door with chalk to show that it was occupied were limping old men, friendly in an ill-tempered way. No
amount of shouting and tomfoolery ever ruffled them. The showers gushed hot, soothing water. There was a
steam room and an exercise room. The outside pool became a skating rink in winter. There was a bar, a
cafeteria, a large sunning deck, even two small beaches with real sand. Every bit of tile, brass and wood
gleamed. It was-it was..."
It was the only pool that made Mamaji fall silent, his memory making too many lengths to mention.
Mamaji remembered, Father dreamed.
That is how I got my name when I entered this world, a last, welcome addition to my family, three years after
Ravi: Piscine Molitor Patel.
CHAPTER 4
Page 8
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Our good old nation was just seven years old as a republic when it became bigger by a small territory.
Pondicherry entered the Union of India on November 1,1954. One civic achievement called for another. A
portion of the grounds of the Pondicherry Botanical Garden was made available rent-free for an exciting
business opportunity and-lo and behold-India had a brand new zoo, designed and run according to the most
modern, biologically sound principles.
It was a huge zoo, spread over numberless acres, big enough to require a train to explore it, though it seemed
to get smaller as I grew older, train included. Now it's so small it fits in my head. You must imagine a hot and
humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. The riot of flowers is incessant. There are trees, shrubs
and climbing plants in profusion-peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of the forest, red silk cottons, jacarandas,
mangoes, jackfruits and many others that would remain unknown to you if they didn't have neat labels at their
feet. There are benches. On these benches you see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting, young
couples, who steal glances at each other shyly and whose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch.
Suddenly, amidst the tall and slim trees up ahead, you notice two giraffes quietly observing you. The sight is
not the last of your surprises. The next moment you are startled by a furious outburst coming from a great
troupe of monkeys, only outdone in volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to a turnstile. You
distractedly pay a small sum of money. You move on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond a low
wall? Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indian rhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when you
turn your head you see the elephant that was there all along, so big you didn't notice it. And in the pond you
realize those are hippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, the more you see. You are in
Zootown!
Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel in Madras. An abiding interest in animals led him to
the zoo business. A natural transition, you might think, from hotelkeeping to zookeeping. Not so. In many
ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare. Consider: the guests never leave their rooms; they
expect not only lodging but full board; they receive a constant flow of visitors, some of whom are noisy and
unruly. One has to wait until they saunter to their balconies, so to speak, before one can clean their rooms, and
then one has to wait until they tire of the view and return to their rooms before one can clean their balconies;
and there is much cleaning to do, for the guests are as unhygienic as alcoholics. Each guest is very particular
about his or her diet, constantly complains about the slowness of the service, and never, ever tips. To speak
frankly, many are sexual deviants, either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenzied lasciviousness
or openly depraved, in either case regularly affronting management with gross outrages of free sex and incest.
Are these the sorts of guests you would want to welcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source of
some pleasure and many headaches for Mr. Santosh Patel, founder, owner, director, head of a staff of
fifty-three, and my father.
To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but the fondest memories of growing up in a zoo. I lived the
life of a prince. What maharaja's son had such vast, luxuriant grounds to play about? What palace had such a
menagerie? My alarm clock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were no Swiss clocks, but the
lions could be counted upon to roar their heads off between five-thirty and six every morning. Breakfast was
punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys, hill mynahs and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school
under the benevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of bright-eyed otters and burly American bison and
stretching and yawning orang-utans.
Growing Up in Zootown
- The Pondicherry Zoo was established shortly after Pondicherry joined the Union of India, utilizing the botanical gardens for a modern biological facility.
- The narrator describes the zoo as a sensory-rich environment filled with vibrant flora and unexpected encounters with exotic animals like giraffes and rhinoceroses.
- The narrator's father transitioned from hotelkeeping to zookeeping, discovering that animals are far more demanding and unhygienic guests than humans.
- Despite the logistical headaches for the management, the zoo served as a literal paradise and playground for the narrator during his childhood.
- Daily life for the narrator was regulated by the natural sounds of the animals, from the morning roars of lions to the shrieks of monkeys at breakfast.
In many ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare.
Our good old nation was just seven years old as a republic when it became bigger by a small territory.
Pondicherry entered the Union of India on November 1,1954. One civic achievement called for another. A
portion of the grounds of the Pondicherry Botanical Garden was made available rent-free for an exciting
business opportunity and-lo and behold-India had a brand new zoo, designed and run according to the most
modern, biologically sound principles.
It was a huge zoo, spread over numberless acres, big enough to require a train to explore it, though it seemed
to get smaller as I grew older, train included. Now it's so small it fits in my head. You must imagine a hot and
humid place, bathed in sunshine and bright colours. The riot of flowers is incessant. There are trees, shrubs
and climbing plants in profusion-peepuls, gulmohurs, flames of the forest, red silk cottons, jacarandas,
mangoes, jackfruits and many others that would remain unknown to you if they didn't have neat labels at their
feet. There are benches. On these benches you see men sleeping, stretched out, or couples sitting, young
couples, who steal glances at each other shyly and whose hands flutter in the air, happening to touch.
Suddenly, amidst the tall and slim trees up ahead, you notice two giraffes quietly observing you. The sight is
not the last of your surprises. The next moment you are startled by a furious outburst coming from a great
troupe of monkeys, only outdone in volume by the shrill cries of strange birds. You come to a turnstile. You
distractedly pay a small sum of money. You move on. You see a low wall. What can you expect beyond a low
wall? Certainly not a shallow pit with two mighty Indian rhinoceros. But that is what you find. And when you
turn your head you see the elephant that was there all along, so big you didn't notice it. And in the pond you
realize those are hippopotamuses floating in the water. The more you look, the more you see. You are in
Zootown!
Before moving to Pondicherry, Father ran a large hotel in Madras. An abiding interest in animals led him to
the zoo business. A natural transition, you might think, from hotelkeeping to zookeeping. Not so. In many
ways, running a zoo is a hotelkeeper's worst nightmare. Consider: the guests never leave their rooms; they
expect not only lodging but full board; they receive a constant flow of visitors, some of whom are noisy and
unruly. One has to wait until they saunter to their balconies, so to speak, before one can clean their rooms, and
then one has to wait until they tire of the view and return to their rooms before one can clean their balconies;
and there is much cleaning to do, for the guests are as unhygienic as alcoholics. Each guest is very particular
about his or her diet, constantly complains about the slowness of the service, and never, ever tips. To speak
frankly, many are sexual deviants, either terribly repressed and subject to explosions of frenzied lasciviousness
or openly depraved, in either case regularly affronting management with gross outrages of free sex and incest.
Are these the sorts of guests you would want to welcome to your inn? The Pondicherry Zoo was the source of
some pleasure and many headaches for Mr. Santosh Patel, founder, owner, director, head of a staff of
fifty-three, and my father.
To me, it was paradise on earth. I have nothing but the fondest memories of growing up in a zoo. I lived the
life of a prince. What maharaja's son had such vast, luxuriant grounds to play about? What palace had such a
menagerie? My alarm clock during my childhood was a pride of lions. They were no Swiss clocks, but the
lions could be counted upon to roar their heads off between five-thirty and six every morning. Breakfast was
punctuated by the shrieks and cries of howler monkeys, hill mynahs and Moluccan cockatoos. I left for school
under the benevolent gaze not only of Mother but also of bright-eyed otters and burly American bison and
stretching and yawning orang-utans.
I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on
me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early
hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria
to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it
might be birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or
Morning at the Zoo
- The narrator navigates the zoo grounds early in the morning, avoiding the mess of peafowl in favor of the noisy fruit bat colonies.
- A diverse array of colorful amphibians and exotic birds, such as cassowaries and lovebirds, provide a vibrant visual backdrop to the walk.
- The text distinguishes between the late-sleeping large predators and the active, early-rising primates and ungulates.
- The routine journey through the zoo highlights the sensory richness and constant activity of the animal inhabitants before the gates open.
Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering.
I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on
me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early
hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria
to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it
might be birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or
something smaller, silver diamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds, Nanday conures,
orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that the elephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears would be up and
doing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, the gibbons, the deer, the tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes,
the mongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was out the main gate I had one last impression that
Page 9
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Illusion of Wild Freedom
- The narrator recounts a childhood spent in a zoo, observing the diverse and sensory-rich behaviors of animals during the early morning hours.
- He challenges the romanticized notion that animals in the wild are 'happy' and 'free' compared to those in captivity.
- Wild life is described as a grueling existence defined by constant fear, food scarcity, parasites, and rigid social hierarchies.
- Animals are characterized as inherently conservative creatures that crave routine and predictability rather than the chaos of total freedom.
- The narrator argues that an animal's territory, whether in a zoo or the wild, is navigated with the calculated precision of chess pieces on a board.
It is after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to have an elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick through your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is.
I looked up as I ran under some trees, otherwise peafowl might excrete on
me. Better to go by the trees that sheltered the large colonies of fruit bats; the only assault there at that early
hour was the bats' discordant concerts of squeaking and chattering. On my way out I might stop by the terraria
to look at some shiny frogs glazed bright, bright green, or yellow and deep blue, or brown and pale green. Or it
might be birds that caught my attention: pink flamingoes or black swans or one-wattled cassowaries, or
something smaller, silver diamond doves, Cape glossy starlings, peach-faced lovebirds, Nanday conures,
orange-fronted parakeets. Not likely that the elephants, the seals, the big cats or the bears would be up and
doing, but the baboons, the macaques, the mangabeys, the gibbons, the deer, the tapirs, the llamas, the giraffes,
the mongooses were early risers. Every morning before I was out the main gate I had one last impression that
Page 9
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
was both ordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the iridescent snout of a mandrill; the stately silence
of a giraffe; the obese, yellow open mouth of a hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of a macaw parrot up a wire
fence; the greeting claps of a shoebill's bill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all these riches
were had quickly, as I hurried to school. It was after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to
have an elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick
through your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is. I wish I
could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a
lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want
to feel it.
In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals come to life.
They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments. They sing their
songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye and the listening ear is
great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life
that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.
I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as I have about God and religion. Well-meaning but
misinformed people think animals in the wild are "happy" because they are "free". These people usually have
a large, handsome predator in mind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an aardvark is rarely exalted).
They imagine this wild animal roaming about the savannah on digestive walks after eating a prey that accepted
its lot piously, or going for callisthenic runs to stay slim after overindulging. They imagine this animal
overseeing its offspring proudly and tenderly, the whole family watching the setting of the sun from the limbs
of trees with sighs of pleasure. The life of the wild animal is simple, noble and meaningful, they imagine.
Then it is captured by wicked men and thrown into tiny jails. Its "happiness" is dashed. It yearns mightily for
"freedom" and does all it can to escape. Being denied its "freedom" for too long, the animal becomes a shadow
of itself, its spirit broken. So some people imagine.
This is not the way it is.
Animals in the wild lead lives of compulsion and necessity within an unforgiving social hierarchy in an
environment where the supply of fear is high and the supply of food low and where territory must constantly
be defended and parasites forever endured. What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the
wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory-that is, as a
simple physical possibility-an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries
proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species, say a
shopkeeper with all the usual ties-to family, to friends, to society-to drop everything and walk away from his
life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most
intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an
animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? For that is what animals are, conservative, one might
even say reactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They want things to be just so, day after day,
month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in their spatial relations. An animal
inhabits its space, whether in a zoo or in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move about a
chessboard-significantly.
The Illusion of Wild Freedom
- The narrator describes intimate, sensory encounters with zoo animals that reveal the 'bright, loud, weird and delicate' nature of life.
- He challenges the romanticized notion that wild animals are 'happy' and 'free,' arguing that nature is actually a place of constant fear, hunger, and social compulsion.
- Animals are characterized as inherently conservative and reactionary creatures that find comfort in strict routine and predictable environments.
- The movement of an animal, whether in a zoo or the wild, is compared to a chess piece on a board, governed by pattern and purpose rather than happenstance.
- In a zoo setting, even a minor deviation from an animal's daily habit can be a critical symptom of distress or environmental change.
I wish I could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas.
was both ordinary and unforgettable: a pyramid of turtles; the iridescent snout of a mandrill; the stately silence
of a giraffe; the obese, yellow open mouth of a hippo; the beak-and-claw climbing of a macaw parrot up a wire
fence; the greeting claps of a shoebill's bill; the senile, lecherous expression of a camel. And all these riches
were had quickly, as I hurried to school. It was after school that I discovered in a leisurely way what it's like to
have an elephant search your clothes in the friendly hope of finding a hidden nut, or an orang-utan pick
through your hair for tick snacks, its wheeze of disappointment at what an empty pantry your head is. I wish I
could convey the perfection of a seal slipping into water or a spider monkey swinging from point to point or a
lion merely turning its head. But language founders in such seas. Better to picture it in your head if you want
to feel it.
In zoos, as in nature, the best times to visit are sunrise and sunset. That is when most animals come to life.
They stir and leave their shelter and tiptoe to the water's edge. They show their raiments. They sing their
songs. They turn to each other and perform their rites. The reward for the watching eye and the listening ear is
great. I spent more hours than I can count a quiet witness to the highly mannered, manifold expressions of life
that grace our planet. It is something so bright, loud, weird and delicate as to stupefy the senses.
I have heard nearly as much nonsense about zoos as I have about God and religion. Well-meaning but
misinformed people think animals in the wild are "happy" because they are "free". These people usually have
a large, handsome predator in mind, a lion or a cheetah (the life of a gnu or of an aardvark is rarely exalted).
They imagine this wild animal roaming about the savannah on digestive walks after eating a prey that accepted
its lot piously, or going for callisthenic runs to stay slim after overindulging. They imagine this animal
overseeing its offspring proudly and tenderly, the whole family watching the setting of the sun from the limbs
of trees with sighs of pleasure. The life of the wild animal is simple, noble and meaningful, they imagine.
Then it is captured by wicked men and thrown into tiny jails. Its "happiness" is dashed. It yearns mightily for
"freedom" and does all it can to escape. Being denied its "freedom" for too long, the animal becomes a shadow
of itself, its spirit broken. So some people imagine.
This is not the way it is.
Animals in the wild lead lives of compulsion and necessity within an unforgiving social hierarchy in an
environment where the supply of fear is high and the supply of food low and where territory must constantly
be defended and parasites forever endured. What is the meaning of freedom in such a context? Animals in the
wild are, in practice, free neither in space nor in time, nor in their personal relations. In theory-that is, as a
simple physical possibility-an animal could pick up and go, flaunting all the social conventions and boundaries
proper to its species. But such an event is less likely to happen than for a member of our own species, say a
shopkeeper with all the usual ties-to family, to friends, to society-to drop everything and walk away from his
life with only the spare change in his pockets and the clothes on his frame. If a man, boldest and most
intelligent of creatures, won't wander from place to place, a stranger to all, beholden to none, why would an
animal, which is by temperament far more conservative? For that is what animals are, conservative, one might
even say reactionary. The smallest changes can upset them. They want things to be just so, day after day,
month after month. Surprises are highly disagreeable to them. You see this in their spatial relations. An animal
inhabits its space, whether in a zoo or in the wild, in the same way chess pieces move about a
chessboard-significantly.
There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of
a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose.
In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season. In a zoo, if an
animal is not in its normal place in its regular posture at the usual hour, it means something. It may be the
reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has
made a menacing impression. A puddle has formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But
it could mean something more. At its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a
herald of trouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All
this because a stork is not standing where it usually stands!
Patterns of the Wild
- The movements of animals in both the wild and captivity are governed by strict patterns rather than random chance.
- Animal behavior is compared to the strategic movements of a knight on a chessboard, implying a deep sense of purpose.
- In a zoo setting, any deviation from an animal's routine serves as a critical indicator of environmental changes or health issues.
- Minor disruptions like a misplaced hose or a new shadow can significantly alter an animal's habitual posture.
- A break in routine is often the first warning sign that prompts urgent intervention from keepers and veterinarians.
There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard.
There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of
a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose.
In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season. In a zoo, if an
animal is not in its normal place in its regular posture at the usual hour, it means something. It may be the
reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has
made a menacing impression. A puddle has formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But
it could mean something more. At its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a
herald of trouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All
this because a stork is not standing where it usually stands!
Page 10
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Illusion of Freedom
- Animals in both the wild and the zoo live by rigid patterns and purposes rather than random freedom.
- Territoriality is the fundamental key to the animal mind, prioritizing safety and resource access over vast open spaces.
- A well-designed zoo enclosure functions as a compressed territory, providing the same essential needs as the wild without the threats of predators or starvation.
- Once an animal claims an enclosure as its own, it views itself as a landholder rather than a prisoner and will defend its space accordingly.
- The author argues that the wild is often a place of scarcity and fear, whereas a zoo can be compared to a high-end hotel with guaranteed security.
There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard.
There is no more happenstance, no more "freedom", involved in the whereabouts of
a lizard or a bear or a deer than in the location of a knight on a chessboard. Both speak of pattern and purpose.
In the wild, animals stick to the same paths for the same pressing reasons, season after season. In a zoo, if an
animal is not in its normal place in its regular posture at the usual hour, it means something. It may be the
reflection of nothing more than a minor change in the environment. A coiled hose left out by a keeper has
made a menacing impression. A puddle has formed that bothers the animal. A ladder is making a shadow. But
it could mean something more. At its worst, it could be that most dreaded thing to a zoo director: a symptom, a
herald of trouble to come, a reason to inspect the dung, to cross-examine the keeper, to summon the vet. All
this because a stork is not standing where it usually stands!
Page 10
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.
If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and
said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"-do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They
wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us
out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."
Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainly what animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is
the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two relentless imperatives of the
wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zoo enclosure-whether
cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or aquarium-is just another territory, peculiar only in its size
and in its proximity to human territory. That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to
reason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals
what we have done for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread
out. Whereas before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the
lookout next to it, the berries somewhere else-all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and poison
ivy-now the river flows through taps at hand's reach and we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat
where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and keep it clean and warm. A
house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely. A sound zoo
enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace or the like, present in
every human habitation). Finding within it all the places it needs-a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and
drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.-and finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six
days a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space
in the wild, exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps.
Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even
less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure as it
would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such an enclosure
is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the
animal's needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a given, like the spots on a
leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it would opt for living in a
zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies and the
abundance of food in the first, and their respective abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it
yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be
homeless without a soul to care for you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of
their nature, they make do with what they have.
The Zoo as Home
- The author argues that animals are fundamentally territorial creatures rather than seekers of abstract freedom.
- A zoo enclosure functions as a compressed territory, providing the same essential needs as the wild but in a safer, more efficient space.
- Once an animal completes its moving-in rituals, it views its enclosure as its own property to be defended rather than as a prison.
- The primary difference between the wild and a zoo is the absence of predators and the guaranteed abundance of food and medical care.
- An animal's acceptance of a habitat is based on the fulfillment of biological imperatives rather than a preference for vast geographic scale.
Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder.
But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.
If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and
said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"-do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They
wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us
out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."
Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainly what animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is
the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two relentless imperatives of the
wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zoo enclosure-whether
cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or aquarium-is just another territory, peculiar only in its size
and in its proximity to human territory. That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to
reason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals
what we have done for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread
out. Whereas before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the
lookout next to it, the berries somewhere else-all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and poison
ivy-now the river flows through taps at hand's reach and we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat
where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and keep it clean and warm. A
house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely. A sound zoo
enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace or the like, present in
every human habitation). Finding within it all the places it needs-a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and
drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.-and finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six
days a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space
in the wild, exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps.
Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even
less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure as it
would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such an enclosure
is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the
animal's needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a given, like the spots on a
leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it would opt for living in a
zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies and the
abundance of food in the first, and their respective abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it
yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be
homeless without a soul to care for you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of
their nature, they make do with what they have.
A good zoo is a place of carefully worked-out coincidence: exactly where an animal says to us, "Stay out!"
The Psychology of Territory
- The author argues that animals are fundamentally territorial creatures rather than seekers of abstract freedom.
- A well-designed zoo enclosure functions as a compressed territory that fulfills an animal's basic needs for food, water, and safety.
- Animals view their zoo enclosures not as prisons, but as owned property that they will defend against intruders.
- The primary difference between the wild and a zoo is the absence of predators and the guaranteed abundance of resources.
- Evidence suggests that escaped zoo animals often choose to return to their enclosures because they find the outside world frightening and unfamiliar.
If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and said, 'Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!'-do you think they would shout and dance for joy?
But let me pursue for a moment only one aspect of the question.
If you went to a home, kicked down the front door, chased the people who lived there out into the street and
said, "Go! You are free! Free as a bird! Go! Go!"-do you think they would shout and dance for joy? They
wouldn't. Birds are not free. The people you've just evicted would sputter, "With what right do you throw us
out? This is our home. We own it. We have lived here for years. We're calling the police, you scoundrel."
Don't we say, "There's no place like home"? That's certainly what animals feel. Animals are territorial. That is
the key to their minds. Only a familiar territory will allow them to fulfill the two relentless imperatives of the
wild: the avoidance of enemies and the getting of food and water. A biologically sound zoo enclosure-whether
cage, pit, moated island, corral, terrarium, aviary or aquarium-is just another territory, peculiar only in its size
and in its proximity to human territory. That it is so much smaller than what it would be in nature stands to
reason. Territories in the wild are large not as a matter of taste but of necessity. In a zoo, we do for animals
what we have done for ourselves with houses: we bring together in a small space what in the wild is spread
out. Whereas before for us the cave was here, the river over there, the hunting grounds a mile that way, the
lookout next to it, the berries somewhere else-all of them infested with lions, snakes, ants, leeches and poison
ivy-now the river flows through taps at hand's reach and we can wash next to where we sleep, we can eat
where we have cooked, and we can surround the whole with a protective wall and keep it clean and warm. A
house is a compressed territory where our basic needs can be fulfilled close by and safely. A sound zoo
enclosure is the equivalent for an animal (with the noteworthy absence of a fireplace or the like, present in
every human habitation). Finding within it all the places it needs-a lookout, a place for resting, for eating and
drinking, for bathing, for grooming, etc.-and finding that there is no need to go hunting, food appearing six
days a week, an animal will take possession of its zoo space in the same way it would lay claim to a new space
in the wild, exploring it and marking it out in the normal ways of its species, with sprays of urine perhaps.
Once this moving-in ritual is done and the animal has settled, it will not feel like a nervous tenant, and even
less like a prisoner, but rather like a landholder, and it will behave in the same way within its enclosure as it
would in its territory in the wild, including defending it tooth and nail should it be invaded. Such an enclosure
is subjectively neither better nor worse for an animal than its condition in the wild; so long as it fulfills the
animal's needs, a territory, natural or constructed, simply is, without judgment, a given, like the spots on a
leopard. One might even argue that if an animal could choose with intelligence, it would opt for living in a
zoo, since the major difference between a zoo and the wild is the absence of parasites and enemies and the
abundance of food in the first, and their respective abundance and scarcity in the second. Think about it
yourself. Would you rather be put up at the Ritz with free room service and unlimited access to a doctor or be
homeless without a soul to care for you? But animals are incapable of such discernment. Within the limits of
their nature, they make do with what they have.
A good zoo is a place of carefully worked-out coincidence: exactly where an animal says to us, "Stay out!"
with its urine or other secretion, we say to it, "Stay in!" with our barriers. Under such conditions of diplomatic
peace, all animals are content and we can relax and have a look at each other.
In the literature can be found legions of examples of animals that could escape but did not, or did and returned.
There is the case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlocked and had swung open. Increasingly
anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly-with a deafening clang each time-until
the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo
stepped out of their corral when the gate was left open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby
forest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly
returned to their corral. In another zoo a worker was walking to his work site at an early hour, carrying planks
of wood, when, to his horror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, heading straight for him at a confident
pace. The man dropped the planks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately started searching for the
escaped bear. They found it back in its enclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it had climbed out,
The Illusion of Freedom
- Animals often view their zoo enclosures as safe territories rather than prisons, preferring the security of their barriers to the unknown.
- Multiple accounts describe escaped animals, such as chimpanzees and roe-deer, voluntarily returning to their cages when faced with external stress.
- The author suggests that the public's dislike of zoos stems from a misunderstanding of freedom, a problem he believes is shared by religion.
- The Pondicherry Zoo is revealed to be a thing of the past, existing now only within the narrator's memory.
Increasingly anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly-with a deafening clang each time-until the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation.
with its urine or other secretion, we say to it, "Stay in!" with our barriers. Under such conditions of diplomatic
peace, all animals are content and we can relax and have a look at each other.
In the literature can be found legions of examples of animals that could escape but did not, or did and returned.
There is the case of the chimpanzee whose cage door was left unlocked and had swung open. Increasingly
anxious, the chimp began to shriek and to slam the door shut repeatedly-with a deafening clang each time-until
the keeper, notified by a visitor, hurried over to remedy the situation. A herd of roe-deer in a European zoo
stepped out of their corral when the gate was left open. Frightened by visitors, the deer bolted for the nearby
forest, which had its own herd of wild roe-deer and could support more. Nonetheless, the zoo roe-deer quickly
returned to their corral. In another zoo a worker was walking to his work site at an early hour, carrying planks
of wood, when, to his horror, a bear emerged from the morning mist, heading straight for him at a confident
pace. The man dropped the planks and ran for his life. The zoo staff immediately started searching for the
escaped bear. They found it back in its enclosure, having climbed down into its pit the way it had climbed out,
Page 11
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
by way of a tree that had fallen over. It was thought that the noise of the planks of wood falling to the ground
had frightened it.
But I don't insist. I don't mean to defend zoos. Close them all down if you want (and let us hope that what
wildlife remains can survive in what is left of the natural world). I know zoos are no longer in people's good
graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both.
The Pondicherry Zoo doesn't exist any more. Its pits are filled in, the cages torn down. I explore it now in the
only place left for it, my memory.
CHAPTER 5
The Burden of a Name
- The narrator reflects on the closure of the Pondicherry Zoo and the shared public skepticism toward both zoos and religion.
- Piscine Molitor Patel faces constant social friction and confusion due to his unusual name, often leading him to use aliases to avoid ridicule.
- The text draws a parallel between the narrator's name change and biblical figures whose identities were transformed by their encounters with others.
- A schoolyard bully coins the nickname 'Pissing Patel,' a cruel moniker that quickly spreads among the student body.
- Even well-meaning teachers, exhausted by the Indian heat, begin to accidentally mispronounce Piscine's name as the vulgar nickname.
The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.
by way of a tree that had fallen over. It was thought that the noise of the planks of wood falling to the ground
had frightened it.
But I don't insist. I don't mean to defend zoos. Close them all down if you want (and let us hope that what
wildlife remains can survive in what is left of the natural world). I know zoos are no longer in people's good
graces. Religion faces the same problem. Certain illusions about freedom plague them both.
The Pondicherry Zoo doesn't exist any more. Its pits are filled in, the cages torn down. I explore it now in the
only place left for it, my memory.
CHAPTER 5
My name isn't the end of the story about my name. When your name is Bob no one asks you, "How do you
spell that?" Not so with Piscine Molitor Patel.
Some thought it was P. Singh and that I was a Sikh, and they Wondered why I wasn't wearing a turban.
In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I
couldn't bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked,
"Can I 'ave your name?" I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for "Ian Hoolihan".
It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even
unto our names. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also known as Levi, Nathaniel who is also
Bartholomew, Judas, not Iscariot, who took the name Thaddeus, Simeon who went by Niger, Saul who
became Paul.
My Roman soldier stood in the schoolyard one morning when I was twelve. I had just arrived. He saw me and
a flash of evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointed at me and shouted, "It's Pissing Patel!"
In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filed into the class. I walked in last, wearing my crown
of thorns.
The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. The words would waft across the yard to my ears,
unprovoked, uncalled for: "Where's Pissing? I've got to go." Or: "You're facing the wall. Are you Pissing?" Or
something of the sort. I would freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretending not to have heard. The
sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.
Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the day wore on, the geography lesson, which in the morning
had been as compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the Thar Desert; the history lesson, so alive when
the day was young, became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so precise at first, became muddled. In
their afternoon fatigue, as they wiped their foreheads and the backs of their necks with their handkerchiefs,
without meaning to offend or get a laugh, even teachers forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name and
distorted it in a shameful way. By nearly imperceptible modulations I could hear the change. It was as if their
tongues were charioteers driving wild horses. They could manage well enough the first syllable, the Pea, but
eventually the heat was too much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steeds and could no longer rein
them in for the climb to the second syllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing, and next time
round, all was lost. My hand would be Up to give an answer> and j would be acknowledged with a "Yes,
Pissing." Often the teacher wouldn't realize what he had just called me. He would look at me wearily after a
Page 12
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Burden of a Name
- Piscine Molitor Patel suffers through childhood due to his unusual name, which classmates and even exhausted teachers cruelly distort into 'Pissing'.
- The protagonist reflects on the transformative power of names, citing biblical and historical figures who changed their identities to mark new beginnings.
- Despite the athletic success of his older brother Ravi, Piscine remains in a social shadow, further motivated to reclaim his own dignity.
- Drawing a parallel to the Prophet Muhammadโs Hejira, Piscine views his transition to a new school as a strategic escape from his past reputation.
- On the first day at Petit Seminaire, Piscine takes a bold, preemptive action during roll call to permanently redefine his identity before his peers.
The sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.
My name isn't the end of the story about my name. When your name is Bob no one asks you, "How do you
spell that?" Not so with Piscine Molitor Patel.
Some thought it was P. Singh and that I was a Sikh, and they Wondered why I wasn't wearing a turban.
In my university days I visited Montreal once with some friends. It fell to me to order pizzas one night. I
couldn't bear to have yet another French speaker guffawing at my name, so when the man on the phone asked,
"Can I 'ave your name?" I said, "I am who I am." Half an hour later two pizzas arrived for "Ian Hoolihan".
It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even
unto our names. Witness Simon who is called Peter, Matthew also known as Levi, Nathaniel who is also
Bartholomew, Judas, not Iscariot, who took the name Thaddeus, Simeon who went by Niger, Saul who
became Paul.
My Roman soldier stood in the schoolyard one morning when I was twelve. I had just arrived. He saw me and
a flash of evil genius lit up his dull mind. He raised his arm, pointed at me and shouted, "It's Pissing Patel!"
In a second everyone was laughing. It fell away as we filed into the class. I walked in last, wearing my crown
of thorns.
The cruelty of children comes as news to no one. The words would waft across the yard to my ears,
unprovoked, uncalled for: "Where's Pissing? I've got to go." Or: "You're facing the wall. Are you Pissing?" Or
something of the sort. I would freeze or, the contrary, pursue my activity, pretending not to have heard. The
sound would disappear, but the hurt would linger, like the smell of piss long after it has evaporated.
Teachers started doing it too. It was the heat. As the day wore on, the geography lesson, which in the morning
had been as compact as an oasis, started to stretch out like the Thar Desert; the history lesson, so alive when
the day was young, became parched and dusty; the mathematics lesson, so precise at first, became muddled. In
their afternoon fatigue, as they wiped their foreheads and the backs of their necks with their handkerchiefs,
without meaning to offend or get a laugh, even teachers forgot the fresh aquatic promise of my name and
distorted it in a shameful way. By nearly imperceptible modulations I could hear the change. It was as if their
tongues were charioteers driving wild horses. They could manage well enough the first syllable, the Pea, but
eventually the heat was too much and they lost control of their frothy-mouthed steeds and could no longer rein
them in for the climb to the second syllable, the seen. Instead they plunged hell-bent into sing, and next time
round, all was lost. My hand would be Up to give an answer> and j would be acknowledged with a "Yes,
Pissing." Often the teacher wouldn't realize what he had just called me. He would look at me wearily after a
Page 12
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
moment, wondering why I wasn>t coming Qut ^ the answer. And sometimes the class, as beaten down by the
heat as he was, wouldn't react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I always heard the slur.
I spent my last year at St. Joseph's School feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in Mecca, peace be
upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira that would mark the beginning of Muslim
time, I planned my escape and the beginning of a new time for me.
After St. Joseph's, I went to Petit Seminaire, the best private English-medium secondary school in
Pondicherry. Ravi was already there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer from following in the
footsteps of a popular older sibling. He was the athlete of his generation at Petit Seminaire, a fearsome bowler
and a Powerful batter, the captain of the town's best cricket team, our very own Kapil Dev. That I was a
swimmer made no waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that those who live by the sea are suspicious of
swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in
someone's shadow wasn't my escape, though I would have taken any name over "Pissing", even "Ravi's
brother". I had a better plan than that.
I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in the very first class. Around me were other alumni of St.
Joseph's. The class started the way all new classes start, with the stating of names. We called them out from
our desks in the order in which we happened to be sitting.
"Ganapathy Kumar," said Ganapathy Kumar.
"Vipin Nath," said Vipin Nath.
"Shamshool Hudha," said Shamshool Hudha.
"Peter Dharmaraj," said Peter Dharmaraj.
Each name elicited a tick on a list and a brief mnemonic stare from the teacher. I was terribly nervous.
"Ajith Giadson," said Ajith Giadson, four desks away...
"Sampath Saroja," said Sampath Saroja, three away...
"Stanley Kumar," said Stanley Kumar, two away...
"Sylvester Naveen," said Sylvester Naveen, right in front of me.
It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come.
I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I picked up a piece
The Birth of Pi
- The narrator reflects on the social persecution he faced at St. Joseph's due to his unfortunate nickname.
- He transitions to Petit Seminaire, a prestigious school where he initially struggles under the shadow of his brother Ravi's athletic fame.
- Drawing a parallel to the Prophet Muhammad's Hejira, the narrator plans a strategic 'escape' from his old identity.
- On the first day of class, he preemptively redefines himself by writing his name and the mathematical constant on the blackboard.
- The bold maneuver successfully replaces his mocking nickname with the dignified moniker 'Pi'.
It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come.
moment, wondering why I wasn>t coming Qut ^ the answer. And sometimes the class, as beaten down by the
heat as he was, wouldn't react either. Not a snicker or a smile. But I always heard the slur.
I spent my last year at St. Joseph's School feeling like the persecuted prophet Muhammad in Mecca, peace be
upon him. But just as he planned his flight to Medina, the Hejira that would mark the beginning of Muslim
time, I planned my escape and the beginning of a new time for me.
After St. Joseph's, I went to Petit Seminaire, the best private English-medium secondary school in
Pondicherry. Ravi was already there, and like all younger brothers, I would suffer from following in the
footsteps of a popular older sibling. He was the athlete of his generation at Petit Seminaire, a fearsome bowler
and a Powerful batter, the captain of the town's best cricket team, our very own Kapil Dev. That I was a
swimmer made no waves; it seems to be a law of human nature that those who live by the sea are suspicious of
swimmers, just as those who live in the mountains are suspicious of mountain climbers. But following in
someone's shadow wasn't my escape, though I would have taken any name over "Pissing", even "Ravi's
brother". I had a better plan than that.
I put it to execution on the very first day of school, in the very first class. Around me were other alumni of St.
Joseph's. The class started the way all new classes start, with the stating of names. We called them out from
our desks in the order in which we happened to be sitting.
"Ganapathy Kumar," said Ganapathy Kumar.
"Vipin Nath," said Vipin Nath.
"Shamshool Hudha," said Shamshool Hudha.
"Peter Dharmaraj," said Peter Dharmaraj.
Each name elicited a tick on a list and a brief mnemonic stare from the teacher. I was terribly nervous.
"Ajith Giadson," said Ajith Giadson, four desks away...
"Sampath Saroja," said Sampath Saroja, three away...
"Stanley Kumar," said Stanley Kumar, two away...
"Sylvester Naveen," said Sylvester Naveen, right in front of me.
It was my turn. Time to put down Satan. Medina, here I come.
I got up from my desk and hurried to the blackboard. Before the teacher could say a word, I picked up a piece
of chalk and said as I wrote:
My name is
Piscine Molitor Patel,
known to all as
-I double underlined the first two letters of my given name-
Pi Patel.
Page 13
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
For good measure I added
Pi=3.14
and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with a diameter, to evoke that basic lesson of geometry.
There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. I was holding my breath. Then he said, "Very well, Pi.
Sit down. Next time you will ask permission before leaving your desk."
"Yes, sir."
The Rebirth of Pi
- Piscine Molitor Patel successfully rebrands himself as 'Pi' through a calculated, repetitive classroom stunt involving geometry and chalk.
- The new nickname gains social momentum, inspiring other students to adopt Greek letters and earning the begrudging approval of his popular older brother.
- The transition from 'Pissing' to 'Pi' represents a strategic escape from childhood mockery into the refuge of an elusive, irrational number.
- A shift in narrative reveals the adult Pi as an excellent cook whose home is obsessively stocked with an immense surplus of food.
- The adult Pi's 'siege of Leningrad' food reserves suggest a lingering psychological trauma or a deep-seated need for security.
And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with a corrugated tin roof, in that elusive, irrational number with which scientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge.
of chalk and said as I wrote:
My name is
Piscine Molitor Patel,
known to all as
-I double underlined the first two letters of my given name-
Pi Patel.
Page 13
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
For good measure I added
Pi=3.14
and I drew a large circle, which I then sliced in two with a diameter, to evoke that basic lesson of geometry.
There was silence. The teacher was staring at the board. I was holding my breath. Then he said, "Very well, Pi.
Sit down. Next time you will ask permission before leaving your desk."
"Yes, sir."
He ticked my name off. And looked at the next boy.
"Mansoor Ahamad," said Mansoor Ahamad.
I was saved.
"Gautham Selvaraj," said Gautham Selvaraj.
I could breathe.
"Arun Annaji," said Arun Annaji.
A new beginning.
I repeated the stunt with every teacher. Repetition is important in the training not only of animals but also of
humans. Between one commonly named boy and the next, I rushed forward and emblazoned, sometimes with
a terrible screech, the details of my rebirth. It got to be that after a few times the boys sang along with me, a
crescendo that climaxed, after a quick intake of air while I underlined the proper note, with such a rousing
rendition of my new name that it would have been the delight of any choirmaster. A few boys followed up
with a whispered, urgent "Three! Point! One! Four!" as I wrote as fast as I could, and I ended the concert by
slicing the circle with such vigour that bits of chalk went flying.
When I put my hand up that day, which I did every chance I had, teachers granted me the right to speak with a
single syllable that was music to my ears. Students followed suit. Even the St. Joseph's devils. In fact, the
name caught on. Truly we are a nation of aspiring engineers: shortly after, there was a boy named Omprakash
who was calling himself Omega, and another who was passing himself off as Upsilon, and for a while there
was a Gamma, a Lambda and a Delta. But I was the first and the most enduring of the Greeks at Petit
Seminaire. Even my brother, the captain of the cricket team, that local god, approved. He took me aside the
next week.
"What's this I hear about a nickname you have?" he said.
I kept silent. Because whatever mocking was to come, it was to come. There was no avoiding it.
"I didn't realize you liked the colour yellow so much."
The colour yellow? I looked around. No one must hear what he was about to say, especially not one of his
lackeys. "Ravi, what do you mean?" I whispered.
"It's all right with me, brother. Anything's better than 'Pissing'. Even 'Lemon Pie'."
Page 14
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
As he sauntered away he smiled and said, "You look a bit red in the face."
But he held his peace.
And so, in that Greek letter that looks like a shack with a corrugated tin roof, in that elusive, irrational number
with which scientists try to understand the universe, I found refuge.
CHAPTER 6
He's an excellent cook. His overheated house is always smelling of something delicious. His spice rack looks
like an apothecary's shop. When he opens his refrigerator or his cupboards, there are many brand names I don't
recognize; in fact, I can't even tell what language they're in. We are in India. But he handles Western dishes
equally well. He makes me the most zesty yet subtle macaroni and cheese I've ever had. And his vegetarian
tacos would be the envy of all Mexico.
I notice something else: his cupboards are jam-packed. Behind every door, on every shelf, stand mountains of
neatly stacked cans and packages. A reserve of food to last the siege of Leningrad.
CHAPTER 7
The Atheist and the Zoo
- The narrator describes a host who is an expert cook with a kitchen stocked like a fortress against a siege.
- Mr. Satish Kumar is introduced as a biology teacher and an avowed atheist with a strikingly geometric and peculiar physical appearance.
- For Mr. Kumar, the zoo is a place of scientific worship where animals represent the logical triumphs of genetics and natural selection.
- The Pondicherry Zoo successfully houses Indian rhinoceroses with a herd of goats to prevent the rhinos from suffering the effects of isolation.
- The narrator experiences a moment of connection with his authority figure when Mr. Kumar recognizes him during a visit to the rhino pit.
It was my luck to have a few good teachers in my youth, men and women who came into my dark head and lit a match.
He's an excellent cook. His overheated house is always smelling of something delicious. His spice rack looks
like an apothecary's shop. When he opens his refrigerator or his cupboards, there are many brand names I don't
recognize; in fact, I can't even tell what language they're in. We are in India. But he handles Western dishes
equally well. He makes me the most zesty yet subtle macaroni and cheese I've ever had. And his vegetarian
tacos would be the envy of all Mexico.
I notice something else: his cupboards are jam-packed. Behind every door, on every shelf, stand mountains of
neatly stacked cans and packages. A reserve of food to last the siege of Leningrad.
CHAPTER 7
It was my luck to have a few good teachers in my youth, men and women who came into my dark head and lit
a match. One of these was Mr. Satish Kumar, my biology teacher at Petit Seminaire and an active Communist
who was always hoping Tamil Nadu would stop electing movie stars and go the way of Kerala. He had a most
peculiar appearance. The top of his head was bald and pointy, yet he had the most impressive jowls I have
ever seen, and his narrow shoulders gave way to a massive stomach that looked like the base of a mountain,
except that the mountain stood in thin air, for it stopped abruptly and disappeared horizontally into his pants.
It's a mystery to me how his stick-like legs supported the weight above them, but they did, though they moved
in surprising ways at times, as if his knees could bend in any direction. His construction was geometric: he
looked like two triangles, a small one and a larger one, balanced on two parallel lines. But organic, quite warty
actually, and with sprigs of black hair sticking out of his ears. And friendly. His smile seemed to take up the
whole base of his triangular head.
Mr. Kumar was the first avowed atheist I ever met. I discovered this not in the classroom but at the zoo. He
was a regular visitor who read the labels and descriptive notices in their entirety and approved of every animal
he saw. Each to him was a triumph of logic and mechanics, and nature as a whole was an exceptionally fine
illustration of science. To his ears, when an animal felt the urge to mate, it said "Gregor Mendel", recalling the
father of genetics, and when it was time to show its mettle, "Charles Darwin", the father of natural selection,
and what we took to be bleating, grunting, hissing, snorting, roaring, growling, howling, chirping and
screeching were but the thick accents of foreigners. When Mr. Kumar visited the zoo, it was to take the pulse
of the universe, and his stethoscopic mind always I confirmed to him that everything was in order, that
everything was order. He left the zoo feeling scientifically refreshed.
The first time I saw his triangular form teetering and tottering about the zoo, I was shy to approach him. As
much as I liked him as a teacher, he was a figure of authority, and I, a subject. I was a little afraid of him. I
Page 15
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
observed him at a distance. He had just come to the rhinoceros pit. The two Indian rhinos were great
attractions at the zoo because of the goats. Rhinos are social animals, and when we got Peak, a young wild
male, he was showing signs of suffering from isolation and he was eating less and less. As a stopgap measure,
while he searched for a female, Father thought of seeing if Peak couldn't be accustomed to living with goats. If
it worked, it would save a valuable animal. If it didn't, it would only cost a few goats. It worked marvellously.
Peak and the herd of goats became inseparable, even when Summit arrived. Now, when the rhinos bathed, the
goats stood around the muddy pool, and when the goats ate in their corner, Peak and Summit stood next to
them like guards. The living arrangement was very popular with the public.
Mr. Kumar looked up and saw me. He smiled and, one hand holding onto the railing, the other waving,
signalled me to come over.
"Hello, Pi," he said.
Reason and Rhinoceroses
- The zoo successfully socializes a lonely Indian rhinoceros by housing it with a herd of goats, creating a popular and harmonious exhibit.
- Pi meets his teacher, Mr. Kumar, who uses the peaceful coexistence of the animals to critique the lack of sense in Indian politics.
- Mr. Kumar reveals his staunch atheism, arguing that religion is 'darkness' and that scientific reality is the only truth.
- The teacher explains that his worldview was shaped by his childhood battle with polio, where medicine, not God, saved him.
- Pi feels conflicted and unsettled by this perspective, fearing that Mr. Kumar's logic might destroy the religious faith he loves.
What a terrible disease that must be if it could kill God in a man.
observed him at a distance. He had just come to the rhinoceros pit. The two Indian rhinos were great
attractions at the zoo because of the goats. Rhinos are social animals, and when we got Peak, a young wild
male, he was showing signs of suffering from isolation and he was eating less and less. As a stopgap measure,
while he searched for a female, Father thought of seeing if Peak couldn't be accustomed to living with goats. If
it worked, it would save a valuable animal. If it didn't, it would only cost a few goats. It worked marvellously.
Peak and the herd of goats became inseparable, even when Summit arrived. Now, when the rhinos bathed, the
goats stood around the muddy pool, and when the goats ate in their corner, Peak and Summit stood next to
them like guards. The living arrangement was very popular with the public.
Mr. Kumar looked up and saw me. He smiled and, one hand holding onto the railing, the other waving,
signalled me to come over.
"Hello, Pi," he said.
"Hello, sir. It's good of you to come to the zoo."
"I come here all the time. One might say it's my temple. This is interesting..." He was indicating the pit. "If we
had politicians like these goats and rhinos we'd have fewer problems in our country. Unfortunately we have a
prime minister who has the armour plating of a rhinoceros without any of its good sense."
I didn't know much about politics. Father and Mother complained regularly about Mrs. Gandhi, but it meant
little to me. She lived far away in the north, not at the zoo and not in Pondicherry. But I felt I had to say
something.
"Religion will save us," I said. Since when I could remember, religion had been very close to my heart.
"Religion?" Mr. Kumar grinned broadly. "I don't believe in religion. Religion is darkness."
Darkness? I was puzzled. I thought, Darkness is the last thing that religion is. Religion is light. Was he testing
me? Was he saying, "Religion is darkness," the way he sometimes said in class things like "Mammals lay
eggs," to see if someone would correct him? ("Only platypuses, sir.")
"There are no grounds for going beyond a scientific explanation of reality and no sound reason for believing
anything but our sense experience. A clear intellect, close attention to detail and a little scientific knowledge
will expose religion as superstitious bosh. God does not exist."
Did he say that? Or am I remembering the lines of later atheists? At any rate, it was something of the sort. I
had never heard such words.
"Why tolerate darkness? Everything is here and clear, if only we look carefully."
He was pointing at Peak. Now though I had great admiration for Peak, I had never thought of a rhinoceros as a
light bulb.
He spoke again. "Some people say God died during the Partition in 1947. He may have died in 1971 during
the war. Or he may have died yesterday here in Pondicherry in an orphanage. That's what some people say, Pi.
When I was your age, I lived in bed, racked with polio. I asked myself every day, 'Where is God? Where is
God? Where is God?' God never came. It wasn't God who saved me-it was medicine. Reason is my prophet
and it tells me that as a watch stops, so we die. It's the end. If the watch doesn't work properly, it must be fixed
here and now by us. One day we will take hold of the means of production and there will be justice on earth."
Page 16
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right-loving and brave-but the details seemed bleak. I said
nothing. It wasn't for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid that in a few words thrown out he might
destroy something that I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? What a terrible disease that
must be if it could kill God in a man.
He walked off, pitching and rolling in the wild sea that was the steady ground. "Don't forget the test on
Tuesday. Study hard, 3.14!"
"Yes, Mr. Kumar."
Faith, Doubt, and Human Cruelty
- The narrator reflects on his kinship with his atheist teacher, Mr. Kumar, viewing atheism as a different form of faith that leaps where reason ends.
- Agnosticism is criticized as a stagnant philosophy, comparing the choice of perpetual doubt to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.
- The text identifies humans as the most dangerous animals in a zoo, citing the lethal objects visitors feed to unsuspecting creatures.
- Horrific instances of direct animal abuse are detailed, ranging from physical mutilation to bizarre acts of indecency by zoo visitors.
- While the Pondicherry Zoo was spared the worst sadism found in Western zoos, it still faced issues like the theft and consumption of animals.
To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.
This was all a bit much for me. The tone was right-loving and brave-but the details seemed bleak. I said
nothing. It wasn't for fear of angering Mr. Kumar. I was more afraid that in a few words thrown out he might
destroy something that I loved. What if his words had the effect of polio on me? What a terrible disease that
must be if it could kill God in a man.
He walked off, pitching and rolling in the wild sea that was the steady ground. "Don't forget the test on
Tuesday. Study hard, 3.14!"
"Yes, Mr. Kumar."
He became my favourite teacher at Petit Seminaire and the reason I studied zoology at the University of
Toronto. I felt a kinship with him. It was my first clue that atheists are my brothers and sisters of a different
faith, and every word they speak speaks of faith. Like me, they go as far as the legs of reason will carry
them-and then they leap.
I'll be honest about it. It is not atheists who get stuck in my craw, but agnostics. Doubt is useful for a while.
We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane. If Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent
an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?"
then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin
to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.
CHAPTER 8
We commonly say in the trade that the most dangerous animal in a zoo is Man. In a general way we mean how
our species' excessive predatoriness has made the entire planet our prey. More specifically, we have in mind
the people who feed fishhooks to the otters, razors to the bears, apples with small nails in them to the
elephants and hardware variations
on the theme: ballpoint pens, paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands, combs, coffee spoons, horseshoes, pieces
of broken glass, rings, brooches and other jewellery (and not just cheap plastic bangles: gold wedding bands,
too), drinking straws, plastic cutlery, ping-pong balls, tennis balls and so on. The obituary of zoo animals that
have died from being fed foreign bodies would include gorillas, bison, storks, rheas, ostriches, seals, sea lions,
big cats, bears, camels, elephants, monkeys, and most every variety of deer, ruminant and songbird. Among
zookeepers, Goliath's death is famous; he was a bull elephant seal, a great big venerable beast of two tons, star
of his European zoo, loved by all visitors. He died of internal bleeding after someone fed him a broken beer
bottle.
The cruelty is often more active and direct. The literature contains reports on the many torments inflicted upon
zoo animals: a shoebill dying of shock after having its beak smashed with a hammer; a moose stag losing its
beard, along with a strip of flesh the size of an index finger, to a visitor's knife (this same moose was poisoned
six months later); a monkey's arm broken after reaching out for proffered nuts; a deer's antlers attacked with a
hacksaw; a zebra stabbed with a sword; and other assaults on other animals, with walking sticks, umbrellas,
hairpins, knitting needles, scissors and whatnot, often with an aim to taking an eye out or to injuring sexual
parts. Animals are also poisoned. And there are indecencies even more bizarre: onanists breaking a sweat on
monkeys, ponies, birds; a religious freak who cut a snake's head off; a deranged man who took to urinating in
an elk's mouth.
At Pondicherry we were relatively fortunate. We were spared the sadists who plied European and American
zoos. Nonetheless, our golden agouti vanished, stolen by someone who ate it, Father suspected. Various
Page 17
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Most Dangerous Animal
- Zoo animals frequently suffer and die from ingesting foreign objects, ranging from jewelry and broken glass to a beer bottle that killed a famous elephant seal.
- Human visitors often inflict direct, sadistic cruelty upon animals, including physical assaults with hammers, knives, and hacksaws, or bizarre acts of indecency.
- The narrator's father installed a mirror behind a curtain to teach visitors that humans are the most dangerous species in the zoo.
- The text warns against anthropomorphism, the dangerous tendency to project human emotions and traits onto animals, which obscures their true nature.
- The narrator notes that both the 'cute' and 'vicious' labels applied to animals are mirrors of human obsession rather than zoological reality.
Behind it was a mirror.
on the theme: ballpoint pens, paper clips, safety pins, rubber bands, combs, coffee spoons, horseshoes, pieces
of broken glass, rings, brooches and other jewellery (and not just cheap plastic bangles: gold wedding bands,
too), drinking straws, plastic cutlery, ping-pong balls, tennis balls and so on. The obituary of zoo animals that
have died from being fed foreign bodies would include gorillas, bison, storks, rheas, ostriches, seals, sea lions,
big cats, bears, camels, elephants, monkeys, and most every variety of deer, ruminant and songbird. Among
zookeepers, Goliath's death is famous; he was a bull elephant seal, a great big venerable beast of two tons, star
of his European zoo, loved by all visitors. He died of internal bleeding after someone fed him a broken beer
bottle.
The cruelty is often more active and direct. The literature contains reports on the many torments inflicted upon
zoo animals: a shoebill dying of shock after having its beak smashed with a hammer; a moose stag losing its
beard, along with a strip of flesh the size of an index finger, to a visitor's knife (this same moose was poisoned
six months later); a monkey's arm broken after reaching out for proffered nuts; a deer's antlers attacked with a
hacksaw; a zebra stabbed with a sword; and other assaults on other animals, with walking sticks, umbrellas,
hairpins, knitting needles, scissors and whatnot, often with an aim to taking an eye out or to injuring sexual
parts. Animals are also poisoned. And there are indecencies even more bizarre: onanists breaking a sweat on
monkeys, ponies, birds; a religious freak who cut a snake's head off; a deranged man who took to urinating in
an elk's mouth.
At Pondicherry we were relatively fortunate. We were spared the sadists who plied European and American
zoos. Nonetheless, our golden agouti vanished, stolen by someone who ate it, Father suspected. Various
Page 17
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
birds-pheasants, peacocks, macaws-lost feathers to people greedy for their beauty. We caught a man with a
knife climbing into the pen for mouse deer; he said he was going to punish evil Ravana (who in the Ramayana
took the form of a deer when he kidnapped Sita, Rama's consort). Another man was nabbed in the process of
stealing a cobra. He was a snake charmer whose own snake had died. Both were saved: the cobra from a life of
servitude and bad music, and the man from a possible death bite. We had to deal on occasion with stone
throwers, who found the animals too placid and wanted a reaction. And we had the lady whose sari was caught
by a lion. She spun like a yo-yo, choosing mortal embarrassment over mortal end. The thing was, it wasn't
even an accident. She had leaned over, thrust her hand in the cage and waved the end of her sari in the lion's
face, with what intent we never figured out. She was not injured; there were many fascinated men who came
to her assistance. Her flustered explanation to Father was, "Whoever heard of a lion eating a cotton sari? I
thought lions were carnivores." Our worst troublemakers were the visitors who gave food to the animals.
Despite our vigilance, Dr. Atal, the zoo veterinarian, could tell by the number of animals with digestive
disturbances which had been the busy days at the zoo. He called "tidbit-itis" the cases of enteritis or gastritis
due to too many carbohydrates, especially sugar. Sometimes we wished people had stuck to sweets. People
have a notion that animals can eat anything without the least consequence to their health. Not so. One of our
sloth bears became seriously ill with severe hemorrhagic enteritis after being given fish that had gone putrid
by a man who was convinced he was doing a good deed.
Just beyond the ticket booth Father had painted on a wall in bright red letters the question: DO YOU KNOW
WHICH IS THE MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL IN THE ZOO? An arrow pointed to a small curtain. There
were so many eager, curious hands that pulled at the curtain that we had to replace it regularly. Behind it was a
mirror.
But I learned at my expense that Father believed there was another animal even more dangerous than us, and
one that was extremely common, too, found on every continent, in every habitat: the redoubtable species
Animalus anthropomorphicus, the animal as seen through human eyes. We've all met one, perhaps even
owned one. It is an animal that is "cute", "friendly", "loving", "devoted", "merry", "understanding". These
animals lie in ambush in every toy store and children's zoo. Countless stories are told of them. They are the
pendants of those "vicious", "bloodthirsty", "depraved" animals that inflame the ire of the maniacs I have just
mentioned, 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.
The Mirror and the Beast
- Zoo visitors often display reckless or bizarre behavior, ranging from stealing feathers and cobras to taunting lions with saris.
- The 'tidbit-itis' phenomenon highlights the danger of humans feeding animals inappropriate food, which can lead to severe illness or death.
- A mirror hidden behind a curtain serves as a literal reminder to visitors that humans are the most dangerous animals in the zoo.
- The narrator identifies 'Animalus anthropomorphicus'โthe human tendency to project emotions onto animalsโas a dangerous misconception for both zoologists and the public.
- The narrator's father prepares to deliver a grave, practical lesson on animal nature to his sons, signaling a shift from theory to harsh reality.
The obsession with putting ourselves at the centre of everything is the bane not only of theologians but also of zoologists.
birds-pheasants, peacocks, macaws-lost feathers to people greedy for their beauty. We caught a man with a
knife climbing into the pen for mouse deer; he said he was going to punish evil Ravana (who in the Ramayana
took the form of a deer when he kidnapped Sita, Rama's consort). Another man was nabbed in the process of
stealing a cobra. He was a snake charmer whose own snake had died. Both were saved: the cobra from a life of
servitude and bad music, and the man from a possible death bite. We had to deal on occasion with stone
throwers, who found the animals too placid and wanted a reaction. And we had the lady whose sari was caught
by a lion. She spun like a yo-yo, choosing mortal embarrassment over mortal end. The thing was, it wasn't
even an accident. She had leaned over, thrust her hand in the cage and waved the end of her sari in the lion's
face, with what intent we never figured out. She was not injured; there were many fascinated men who came
to her assistance. Her flustered explanation to Father was, "Whoever heard of a lion eating a cotton sari? I
thought lions were carnivores." Our worst troublemakers were the visitors who gave food to the animals.
Despite our vigilance, Dr. Atal, the zoo veterinarian, could tell by the number of animals with digestive
disturbances which had been the busy days at the zoo. He called "tidbit-itis" the cases of enteritis or gastritis
due to too many carbohydrates, especially sugar. Sometimes we wished people had stuck to sweets. People
have a notion that animals can eat anything without the least consequence to their health. Not so. One of our
sloth bears became seriously ill with severe hemorrhagic enteritis after being given fish that had gone putrid
by a man who was convinced he was doing a good deed.
Just beyond the ticket booth Father had painted on a wall in bright red letters the question: DO YOU KNOW
WHICH IS THE MOST DANGEROUS ANIMAL IN THE ZOO? An arrow pointed to a small curtain. There
were so many eager, curious hands that pulled at the curtain that we had to replace it regularly. Behind it was a
mirror.
But I learned at my expense that Father believed there was another animal even more dangerous than us, and
one that was extremely common, too, found on every continent, in every habitat: the redoubtable species
Animalus anthropomorphicus, the animal as seen through human eyes. We've all met one, perhaps even
owned one. It is an animal that is "cute", "friendly", "loving", "devoted", "merry", "understanding". These
animals lie in ambush in every toy store and children's zoo. Countless stories are told of them. They are the
pendants of those "vicious", "bloodthirsty", "depraved" animals that inflame the ire of the maniacs I have just
mentioned, 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.
Page 18
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
A Lesson in Danger
- Piscine and Ravi are summoned by their father for a mysterious and urgent lesson that their mother finds deeply unsettling.
- The boys are led through the quiet, early-morning zoo to the big cat house, feeling like prisoners on their way to an execution.
- The father singles out Piscine as the one who worries him most due to the boy's natural curiosity and tendency to explore.
- Inside the cat house, they encounter Mahisha, a 550-pound Bengal tiger whose ferocious snarl physically shakes the building.
- The father begins a stern interrogation to ensure his sons understand the lethal reality of wild animals behind iron bars.
The sound was so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the whole cat house.
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.
Page 18
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"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
Page 19
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
a cage. Is that clear? Ravi?"
Ravi nodded vigorously.
"Piscine?"
A Lesson in Danger
- The narrator's father brings his sons to the tiger cage to deliver a stern warning about the lethal nature of wild animals.
- Despite the narrator's habit of anthropomorphizing animals in his imagination, he maintains a conscious understanding of their true ferocity.
- The father orchestrates a visceral demonstration of a tiger's predatory instinct to ensure his sons never approach the cages.
- A terrified goat is placed in an adjacent cage as Mahisha the tiger prepares to strike, illustrating the raw reality of the food chain.
The sound was so loud and fierce it seemed to shake the whole cat house.
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
Page 19
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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 I'm surprised my neck didn't snap and my head fall to the floor.
I would like to say in my own defence that though I may have anthropomorphized the animals till they spoke
fluent English, the pheasants complaining in uppity British accents of their tea being cold and the baboons
planning their bank robbery getaway in the flat, menacing tones of American gangsters, the fancy was always
conscious. I quite deliberately dressed wild animals in tame costumes of my imagination. But I never deluded
myself as to the real nature of my playmates. My poking nose had more sense than that. I don't know where
Father got the idea that his youngest son was itching to step into a cage with a ferocious carnivore. But
wherever the strange worry came from-and Father was a worrier-he was clearly determined to rid himself of it
that very morning.
"I'm going to show you how dangerous tigers are," he continued. "I want you to remember this lesson for the
rest of your lives."
He turned to Babu and nodded. Babu left. Malahisha's eyes followed him and did not move from the door he
disappeared through. He returned a few seconds later carrying a goat with its legs tied. Mother gripped me
from behind. Mahihisha's snarl turned into a growl deep in the throat.
Babu unlocked, opened, entered, closed and locked a cage next to the tiger's cage. Bars and a trapdoor
separated the two. Immediately Mahisha was up against the dividing bars, pawing them. To his growling he
now added explosive, arrested woofs. Babu placed the goat on the floor; its flanks were heaving violently, its
tongue hung from its mouth, and its eyes were spinning orbs. He untied its legs. The goat got to its feet. Babu
exited the cage in the same careful way he had entered it. The cage had two floors, one level with us, the other
at the back, higher by about three feet, that led outside to the island. The goat scrambled to this second level.
Mahisha, now unconcerned with Babu, paralleled the move in his cage in a fluid, effortless motion. He
crouched and lay still, his slowly moving tail the only sign of tension.
Babu stepped up to the trapdoor between the cages and started pulling it open. In anticipation of satisfaction,
Mahisha fell silent. I heard two things at that moment: Father saying "Never forget this lesson" as he looked
A Brutal Lesson
- Santosh Patel forces his children to witness a starving tiger, Mahisha, kill and consume a live goat.
- The graphic demonstration is intended to instill a permanent, healthy fear of wild animals in the young boys.
- The mother is deeply incensed and protective, fearing the psychological trauma the spectacle might cause her children.
- Following the tiger's kill, the father continues the lesson by detailing the lethal capabilities of other zoo animals like bears and hippos.
I don't know if I saw blood before turning into Mother's arms or if I daubed it on later, in my memory, with a big brush.
He turned to Babu and nodded. Babu left. Malahisha's eyes followed him and did not move from the door he
disappeared through. He returned a few seconds later carrying a goat with its legs tied. Mother gripped me
from behind. Mahihisha's snarl turned into a growl deep in the throat.
Babu unlocked, opened, entered, closed and locked a cage next to the tiger's cage. Bars and a trapdoor
separated the two. Immediately Mahisha was up against the dividing bars, pawing them. To his growling he
now added explosive, arrested woofs. Babu placed the goat on the floor; its flanks were heaving violently, its
tongue hung from its mouth, and its eyes were spinning orbs. He untied its legs. The goat got to its feet. Babu
exited the cage in the same careful way he had entered it. The cage had two floors, one level with us, the other
at the back, higher by about three feet, that led outside to the island. The goat scrambled to this second level.
Mahisha, now unconcerned with Babu, paralleled the move in his cage in a fluid, effortless motion. He
crouched and lay still, his slowly moving tail the only sign of tension.
Babu stepped up to the trapdoor between the cages and started pulling it open. In anticipation of satisfaction,
Mahisha fell silent. I heard two things at that moment: Father saying "Never forget this lesson" as he looked
on grimly; and the bleating of the goat. It must have been bleating all along, only we couldn't hear it before.
I could feel Mother's hand pressed against my pounding heart.
The trapdoor resisted with sharp cries. Mahisha was beside himself-he looked as if he were about to burst
through the bars. He seemed to hesitate between staying where he was, at the place where his prey was closest
but most certainly out of reach, and moving to the ground level, further away but where the trapdoor was
located. He raised himself and started snarling again.
The goat started to jump. It jumped to amazing heights. I had no idea a goat could jump so high. But the back
of the cage was a high and smooth cement wall.
Page 20
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
With sudden ease the trapdoor slid open. Silence fell again, except for bleating and the click-click of the goat's
hooves against the floor.
A streak of black and orange flowed from one cage to the next.
Normally the big cats were not given food one day a week, to simulate conditions in the wild. We found out
later that Father had ordered that Mahisha not be fed for three days.
I don't know if I saw blood before turning into Mother's arms or if I daubed it on later, in my memory, with a
big brush. But I heard. It was enoiugh to scare the living vegetarian daylights out of me. Mother bundled us
out. We were in hysterics. She was incensed.
"How could you, Santosh? They're children! They'll be scarred for the rest of their lives."
Her voice was hot and tremulous. I could see she had tears in her eyes. I felt better.
"Gita, my bird, it's for their sake. What if Piscine had stuck his hand through the bars of the cage one day to
touch the pretty orange fur? Better a goat than him, no?"
His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. He looked contrite. He never called her "my bird" in front of us.
We were huddled around her. He joined us. But the lesson was not over, though it was gentler after that.
Father led us to the lions and leopards.
"Once there was a madman in Australia who was a black belt in karate. He wanted to prove himself against
the lions. He lost. Badly. The keepers found only half his body in the morning."
"Yes, Father."
The Himalayan bears and the sloth bears.
"One strike of the claws from these cuddly creatures and your innards will be scooped out and splattered all
over the ground."
"Yes, Father."
The hippos.
"With those soft, flabby mouths of theirs they'll crush your body to a bloody pulp. On land they can outrun
you."
"Yes, Father."
The hyenas.
"The strongest jaws in nature. Don't think that they're cowardly or that they only eat carrion. They're not and
A Lesson in Ferocity
- The narrator's father leads a grim tour of the zoo to dismantle any romanticized notions of animal behavior.
- Each animal, from the majestic lion to the seemingly silly ostrich, is described in terms of its capacity to mutilate or kill humans.
- The father emphasizes that even small or herbivorous creatures like deer and swans possess lethal defensive capabilities.
- The lesson culminates in the assertion that elephants are the most dangerous zoo animals, capable of trampling or crushing victims.
- The tour concludes with a shift in focus to the guinea pigs, who have been intentionally starved for a demonstration.
Life will defend itself no matter how small it is. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous.
His voice was soft, nearly a whisper. He looked contrite. He never called her "my bird" in front of us.
We were huddled around her. He joined us. But the lesson was not over, though it was gentler after that.
Father led us to the lions and leopards.
"Once there was a madman in Australia who was a black belt in karate. He wanted to prove himself against
the lions. He lost. Badly. The keepers found only half his body in the morning."
"Yes, Father."
The Himalayan bears and the sloth bears.
"One strike of the claws from these cuddly creatures and your innards will be scooped out and splattered all
over the ground."
"Yes, Father."
The hippos.
"With those soft, flabby mouths of theirs they'll crush your body to a bloody pulp. On land they can outrun
you."
"Yes, Father."
The hyenas.
"The strongest jaws in nature. Don't think that they're cowardly or that they only eat carrion. They're not and
they don't! They'll start eating you while you're still alive."
"Yes, Father."
Page 21
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The orang-utans.
"As strong as ten men. They'll break your bones as if they were twigs. I know some of them were once pets
and you played with them when they were small. But now they're grown-up and wild and unpredictable."
"Yes, Father."
The ostrich.
"Looks flustered and silly, doesn't it? Listen up: it's one of the most dangerous animals in a zoo. Just one kick
and your back is broken or your torso is crushed."
"Yes, Father."
The spotted deer.
"So pretty, aren't they? If the male feels he has to, he'll charge you and those short little antlers will pierce you
like daggers."
"Yes, Father."
The Arabian camel.
"One slobbering bite and you've lost a chunk of flesh."
"Yes, Father."
The black swans.
"With their beaks they'll crack your skull. With their wings they'll break your arms."
"Yes, Father."
The smaller birds.
"They'll cut through your fingers with their beaks as if they were butter."
"Yes, Father."
The elephants.
"The most dangerous animal of all. More keepers and visitors are killed by elephants than by any other animal
in a zoo. A young elephant will most likely dismember you and trample your body parts flat. That's what
happened to one poor lost soul in a European zoo who got into the elephant house through a window. An
older, more patient animal will squeeze you against a wall or sit on you. Sounds funny-but think about it!"
"Yes, Father."
"There are animals we haven't stopped by. Don't think they're harmless. Life will defend itself no matter how
small it is. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous. It may not kill you, but it will certainly injure you. It will
scratch you and bite you, and you can look forward to a swollen, pus-filled infection, a high fever and a
Page 22
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
ten-day stay in the hospital."
"Yes, Father."
We came to the guinea pigs, the only other animals besides Mahisha to have been starved at Father's orders,
having been denied their previous evening's meal. Father unlocked the cage. He brought out a bag of feed
from his pocket and emptied it on the floor.
"You see these guinea pigs?"
"Yes, Father."
The Art of Flight Distance
- Father concludes his brutal lesson on animal ferocity by demonstrating that even small creatures will defend themselves with teeth and claws.
- The tension of the tiger demonstration leaves the family in a state of silent resentment, with Ravi using the trauma to jokingly threaten Pi.
- Zookeeping is defined as the science of managing 'flight distance,' the specific radius an animal maintains between itself and a perceived enemy.
- Successful zookeeping involves using food, shelter, and protection to diminish this distance until an animal feels emotionally stable enough to reproduce.
- Pi reflects on his father's intuitive talent for understanding animal psychology despite a lack of formal training.
Otherwise, to grab a wild guinea pig with your bare hands would be like taking hold of a knife by the blade.
"There are animals we haven't stopped by. Don't think they're harmless. Life will defend itself no matter how
small it is. Every animal is ferocious and dangerous. It may not kill you, but it will certainly injure you. It will
scratch you and bite you, and you can look forward to a swollen, pus-filled infection, a high fever and a
Page 22
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
ten-day stay in the hospital."
"Yes, Father."
We came to the guinea pigs, the only other animals besides Mahisha to have been starved at Father's orders,
having been denied their previous evening's meal. Father unlocked the cage. He brought out a bag of feed
from his pocket and emptied it on the floor.
"You see these guinea pigs?"
"Yes, Father."
The creatures were trembling with weakness as they frantically nibbled their kernels of corn.
"Well..." He leaned down and scooped one up. "They're not dangerous." The other guinea pigs scattered
instantly.
Father laughed. He handed me the squealing guinea pig. He meant ito end on a light note.
The guinea pig rested in my arms tensely. It was a young one. I went to the cage and carefully lowered it to the
floor. It rushed to its mother's side. The only reason these guinea pigs weren't dangerous-didn't draw blood
with their teeth and claws-was that they were practically domesticated. Otherwise, to grab a wild guinea pig
with your bare hands would be like taking hold of a knife by the blade.
The lesson was over. Ravi and I sulked and gave Father the cold shoulder for a week. Mother ignored him too.
When I went by the rhinoceros pit I fancied the rhinos' heads were hung low with sadness over the loss of one
of their dear companions.
But what can you do when you love your father? Life goes on and you don't touch tigers. Except that now, for
having accused Ravi of an unspecified crime he hadn't committed, I was as good as dead. In years subsequent,
when he was in the mood to terrorize me, he would whisper to me, "Just wait till we're alone. You're the next
goat!"
CHAPTER 9
Getting animals used to the presence of humans is at the heart of the art and science of zookeeping. The key
aim is to diminish an animal's flight distance, which is the minimum distance at which an animal wants to
keep a perceived enemy. A flamingo in the wild won't mind you if you stay more than three hundred yards
away. Cross that limit and it becomes tense. Get even closer and you trigger a flight reaction from which the
bird will not cease until the three-hundred-yard limit is set again, or until heart and lungs fail. Different
animals have different flight distances and they gauge them in different ways. Cats look, deer listen, bears
smell. Giraffes will allow you to come to within thirty yards of them if you are in a motor car, but will run if
you are 150 yards away on foot. Fiddler crabs scurry when you're ten yards away; howler monkeys stir in their
branches when you're at twenty; African buffaloes react at seventy-five.
Our tools for diminishing flight distance are the knowledge we have of an animal, the food and shelter we
provide, the protection we afford. When it works, the result is an emotionally stable, stress-free wild animal
that not only stays put, but is healthy, lives a very long time, eats without fuss, behaves and socializes in
Page 23
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
natural ways and-the best sign-reproduces. I won't say that our zoo compared to the zoos of San Diego or
Toronto or Berlin or Singapore, but you can't keep a good zookeeper down. Father was a natural. He made up
for a lack of formal training with an intuitive gift and a keen eye. He had a knack for looking at an animal and
guessing what was on its mind. He was attentive to his charges, and they, in return, multiplied, some to excess.
CHAPTER IO
The Art of Flight Distance
- Zookeeping centers on diminishing an animal's flight distance, the minimum space it requires to feel safe from perceived enemies.
- A successful zoo environment provides the essential elements of a habitat rather than a literal imitation of the wild.
- Animals typically attempt to escape not to reach a destination, but to flee from a specific internal or external stressor.
- Even well-adapted animals possess a 'measure of madness' that can trigger unpredictable behavior or a drive for survival.
- Escaped animals are generally terrified of the unknown and seek the first available hiding spot rather than a return to the wild.
All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways.
Getting animals used to the presence of humans is at the heart of the art and science of zookeeping. The key
aim is to diminish an animal's flight distance, which is the minimum distance at which an animal wants to
keep a perceived enemy. A flamingo in the wild won't mind you if you stay more than three hundred yards
away. Cross that limit and it becomes tense. Get even closer and you trigger a flight reaction from which the
bird will not cease until the three-hundred-yard limit is set again, or until heart and lungs fail. Different
animals have different flight distances and they gauge them in different ways. Cats look, deer listen, bears
smell. Giraffes will allow you to come to within thirty yards of them if you are in a motor car, but will run if
you are 150 yards away on foot. Fiddler crabs scurry when you're ten yards away; howler monkeys stir in their
branches when you're at twenty; African buffaloes react at seventy-five.
Our tools for diminishing flight distance are the knowledge we have of an animal, the food and shelter we
provide, the protection we afford. When it works, the result is an emotionally stable, stress-free wild animal
that not only stays put, but is healthy, lives a very long time, eats without fuss, behaves and socializes in
Page 23
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
natural ways and-the best sign-reproduces. I won't say that our zoo compared to the zoos of San Diego or
Toronto or Berlin or Singapore, but you can't keep a good zookeeper down. Father was a natural. He made up
for a lack of formal training with an intuitive gift and a keen eye. He had a knack for looking at an animal and
guessing what was on its mind. He was attentive to his charges, and they, in return, multiplied, some to excess.
CHAPTER IO
Yet there will always be animals that seek to escape from zoos. Animals that are kept in unsuitable enclosures
are the most obvious example. Every animal has particular habitat needs that must be met. If its enclosure is
too sunny or too wet or too empty, if its perch is too high or too exposed, if the ground is too sandy, if there
are too few branches to make a nest, if the food trough is too low, if there is not enough mud to wallow in-and
so many other ifs-then the animal will not be at peace. It is not so much a question of constructing an imitation
of conditions in the wild as of getting to the essence of these conditions. Everything in an enclosure must be
just right-in other words, within the limits of the animal's capacity to adapt. A plague upon bad zoos with bad
enclosures! They bring all zoos into disrepute.
Wild animals that are captured when they are fully mature are another example of escape-prone animals; often
they are too set in their ways to reconstruct their subjective worlds and adapt to a new environment.
But even animals that were bred in zoos and have never known the wild, that are perfectly adapted to their
enclosures and feel no tension in the presence of humans, will have moments of excitement that push them to
seek to escape. All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes
inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no
species would survive.
Whatever the reason for wanting to escape, sane or insane, zoo detractors should realize that animals don't
escape to somewhere but from something. Something within their territory has frightened them-the intrusion
of an enemy, the assault of a dominant animal, a startling noise-and set off a flight reaction. The animal flees,
or tries to. I was surprised to read at the Toronto Zoo-a very fine zoo, I might add-that leopards can jump
eighteen feet straight up. Our leopard enclosure in Pondicherry had a wall sixteen feet high at the back; I
surmise that Rosie and Copycat never jumped out not because of constitutional weakness but simply because
they had no reason to. Animals that escape go from the known into the unknown-and if there is one thing an
animal hates above all else, it is the unknown. Escaping animals usually hide in the very first place they find
that gives them a sense of security, and they are dangerous only to those who happen to get between them and
their reckoned safe spot.
The Nature of Escape
- Animals primarily attempt to escape from zoos when their enclosures fail to meet specific habitat needs or when they are captured as mature adults set in their ways.
- Even well-adapted zoo animals possess a 'measure of madness' that can trigger inexplicable flight reactions as a survival mechanism.
- The author argues that animals do not escape 'to' a destination but rather 'from' a perceived threat or discomfort within their territory.
- Escaped animals are typically not aggressive predators but frightened creatures seeking a new place to hide and fit in within the unknown.
- The case of the Zurich leopard demonstrates that wild animals can survive undetected in human environments for long periods without causing harm.
All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes inexplicable ways.
Yet there will always be animals that seek to escape from zoos. Animals that are kept in unsuitable enclosures
are the most obvious example. Every animal has particular habitat needs that must be met. If its enclosure is
too sunny or too wet or too empty, if its perch is too high or too exposed, if the ground is too sandy, if there
are too few branches to make a nest, if the food trough is too low, if there is not enough mud to wallow in-and
so many other ifs-then the animal will not be at peace. It is not so much a question of constructing an imitation
of conditions in the wild as of getting to the essence of these conditions. Everything in an enclosure must be
just right-in other words, within the limits of the animal's capacity to adapt. A plague upon bad zoos with bad
enclosures! They bring all zoos into disrepute.
Wild animals that are captured when they are fully mature are another example of escape-prone animals; often
they are too set in their ways to reconstruct their subjective worlds and adapt to a new environment.
But even animals that were bred in zoos and have never known the wild, that are perfectly adapted to their
enclosures and feel no tension in the presence of humans, will have moments of excitement that push them to
seek to escape. All living things contain a measure of madness that moves them in strange, sometimes
inexplicable ways. This madness can be saving; it is part and parcel of the ability to adapt. Without it, no
species would survive.
Whatever the reason for wanting to escape, sane or insane, zoo detractors should realize that animals don't
escape to somewhere but from something. Something within their territory has frightened them-the intrusion
of an enemy, the assault of a dominant animal, a startling noise-and set off a flight reaction. The animal flees,
or tries to. I was surprised to read at the Toronto Zoo-a very fine zoo, I might add-that leopards can jump
eighteen feet straight up. Our leopard enclosure in Pondicherry had a wall sixteen feet high at the back; I
surmise that Rosie and Copycat never jumped out not because of constitutional weakness but simply because
they had no reason to. Animals that escape go from the known into the unknown-and if there is one thing an
animal hates above all else, it is the unknown. Escaping animals usually hide in the very first place they find
that gives them a sense of security, and they are dangerous only to those who happen to get between them and
their reckoned safe spot.
CHAPTER 11
Consider the case of the female black leopard that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the winter of 1933. She was
new to the zoo and seemed to get along with the male leopard. But various paw injuries hinted at matrimonial
strife. Before any decision could be taken about what to do, she squeezed through a break in the roof bars of
her cage and vanished in the night. The discovery that a wild carnivore was tree in their midst created an
uproar among the citizens of Zurich. Traps were set and hunting dogs were let loose. They only rid the canton
of its few half-wild dogs. Not a trace of the leopard was found for ten weeks. Finally, a casual labourer came
upon it under a barn twenty-five miles away and shot it. Remains of roe-deer were found nearby. That a big,
Page 24
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
black, tropical cat managed to survive for more than two months in a Swiss winter without being seen by
anyone, let alone attacking anyone, speaks plainly to the fact that escaped zoo animals are not dangerous
absconding criminals but simply wild creatures seeking to fit in.
And this case is just one among many. If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it,
you would be amazed at the animals that would fall out. It would pour more than cats and dogs, I tell you. Boa
constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles, piranhas, ostriches, wolves, lynx, wallabies, manatees, porcupines,
Territory and Social Rank
- Escaped zoo animals are often misunderstood as dangerous criminals when they are actually just wild creatures attempting to blend into their surroundings.
- The narrator describes the physical agony of eating the protagonist's incredibly spicy South Indian vegetarian feasts out of politeness.
- Animal attacks in zoo settings are typically motivated by territorial defense rather than hunger or innate bloodlust.
- Circus trainers maintain control by establishing themselves as the 'super-alpha' through specific rituals of dominance and territorial entry.
- Social rank is the fundamental organizing principle for animals, and a lack of clear hierarchy leads to a state of 'unbearable anarchy' and dangerous nervousness.
Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die, my skin goes beet red, my eyes well up with tears, my head feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tract starts to twist and groan in agony like a boa constrictor that has swallowed a lawn mower.
black, tropical cat managed to survive for more than two months in a Swiss winter without being seen by
anyone, let alone attacking anyone, speaks plainly to the fact that escaped zoo animals are not dangerous
absconding criminals but simply wild creatures seeking to fit in.
And this case is just one among many. If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down and shook it,
you would be amazed at the animals that would fall out. It would pour more than cats and dogs, I tell you. Boa
constrictors, Komodo dragons, crocodiles, piranhas, ostriches, wolves, lynx, wallabies, manatees, porcupines,
orang-utans, wild boar-that's the sort of rainfall you could expect on your umbrella. And they expected to
find-ha! In the middle of a Mexican tropical jungle, imagine! Ha! Ha! It's laughable, simply laughable. What
were they thinking?
CHAPTER 12
At times he gets agitated. It's nothing I say (I say very little). It's his own story that does it. Memory is an
ocean and he bobs on its surface. I worry that he'll want to stop. But he wants to tell me his story. He goes on.
After all these years, Richard Parker still preys on his mind.
He's a sweet man. Every time I visit he prepares a South Indian vegetarian feast. I told him I like spicy food. I
don't know why I said such a stupid thing. It's a complete lie. I add dollop of yogurt after dollop of yogurt.
Nothing doing. Each time it's the same: my taste buds shrivel up and die, my skin goes beet red, my eyes well
up with tears, my head feels like a house on fire, and my digestive tract starts to twist and groan in agony like
a boa constrictor that has swallowed a lawn mower.
CHAPTER 13
So you see, if you fall into a lion's pit, the reason the lion will tear you to pieces is not because it's hungry-be
assured, zoo animals are amply fed-or because it's bloodthirsty, but because you've invaded its territory.
As an aside, that is why a circus trainer must always enter the lion ring first, and in full sight of the lions. In
doing so, he establishes that the ring is his territory, not theirs, a notion that he reinforces by shouting, by
stomping about, by snapping his whip. The lions are impressed. Their disadvantage weighs heavily on them.
Notice how they come in: mighty predators though they are, "kings of beasts", they crawl in with their tails
low and they keep to the edges of the ring, which is always round so that they have nowhere to hide. They are
in the presence of a strongly dominant male, a super-alpha male, and they must submit to his dominance
rituals. So they open their jaws wide, they sit up, they jump through paper-covered hoops, they crawl through
tubes, they walk backwards, they roll over. "He's a queer one," they think dimly. "Never seen a top lion like
him. But he runs a good pride. The larder's always full and-let's be honest, mates-his antics keep us busy.
Napping all the time does get a bit boring. At least we're not riding bicycles like the brown bears or catching
flying plates like the chimps."
Only the trainer better make sure he always remains super alpha. He will pay dearly if he unwittingly slips to
beta. Much hostile and aggressive behaviour among animals is the expression of social insecurity. The animal
in front of you must know where it stands, whether above you or below you. Social rank is central to how it
leads its life. Rank determines whom it can associate with and how; where and when it can eat; where it can
rest; where it can drink; and so on. Until it knows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable
anarchy. It remains nervous, jumpy, dangerous. Luckily for the circus trainer, decisions about social rank
Page 25
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Psychology of Animal Rank
- Animal trainers must maintain a 'super alpha' status to prevent the dangerous anarchy that results from social insecurity in animals.
- Social rank is established through psychological intimidation and brain over brawn rather than through pure physical violence.
- The 'omega' animal, or the one with the lowest social standing, is often the most compliant and easiest to train for circus performances.
- Socially inferior animals seek out relationships with human keepers to gain protection from more aggressive members of their own group.
- A trainer's success relies on specific behaviors like steady gazes and calm demeanors to fill an animal's mind with the certainty of its subordinate position.
Until it knows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable anarchy.
Only the trainer better make sure he always remains super alpha. He will pay dearly if he unwittingly slips to
beta. Much hostile and aggressive behaviour among animals is the expression of social insecurity. The animal
in front of you must know where it stands, whether above you or below you. Social rank is central to how it
leads its life. Rank determines whom it can associate with and how; where and when it can eat; where it can
rest; where it can drink; and so on. Until it knows its rank for certain, the animal lives a life of unbearable
anarchy. It remains nervous, jumpy, dangerous. Luckily for the circus trainer, decisions about social rank
Page 25
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
among higher animals are not always based on brute force. Hediger (1950) says, "When two creatures meet,
the one that is able to intimidate its opponent is recognized as socially superior, so that a social decision does
not always depend on a fight; an encounter in some circumstances may be enough." Words of a wise animal
man. Mr. Hediger was for many years a zoo director, first of the Basel Zoo and then of the Zurich Zoo. He
was a man well versed in the ways of animals.
It's a question of brain over brawn. The nature of the circus trainer's ascendancy is psychological. Foreign
surroundings, the trainer's erect posture, calm demeanour, steady gaze, fearless step forward, strange roar (for
example, the snapping of a whip or the blowing of a whistle)-these are so many factors that will fill the
animal's mind with doubt and fear, and make clear to it where it stands, the very thing it wants to know.
Satisfied, Number Two will back down and Number One can turn to the audience and shout, "Let the show go
on! And now, ladies and gentlemen, through hoops of rael fire..."
CHAPTER 14
It is interesting to note that the lion that is the most amenable to the circus trainer's tricks is the one with the
lowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It has the most to gain from a close relationship with the
super-alpha trainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A close relationship will also mean protection from
the other members of the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the public no different from the others in size
and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show, while the trainer leaves the beta and gamma lions, more
cantankerous subordinates, sitting on their colourful barrels on the edge of the ring.
The same is true of other circus animals and is also seen in zoos. Socially inferior animals are the ones that
make the most strenuous, resourceful efforts to get to know their keepers. They prove to be the ones most
faithful to them, most in need of their company, least likely to challenge them or be difficult. The phenomenon
has been observed with big cats, bison, deer, wild sheep, monkeys and many other animals. It is a fact
commonly known in the trade.
Chapter 15
His house is a temple. In the entrance hall hangs a framed picture of Ganesha, he of the elephant head. He sits
facing out-rosy-coloured, pot-bellied, crowned and smiling-three hands holding various objects, the fourth
Omega Animals and Sacred Spaces
- The most compliant circus animals are often the 'omega' individuals who seek protection and status through a relationship with the human trainer.
- Socially inferior animals across many species are more likely to be faithful and resourceful in their efforts to bond with keepers.
- The narrator describes a home that serves as a multi-faith temple, blending symbols from Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam.
- A detailed kitchen shrine features various Hindu deities and ritual objects, including Ganesha, Krishna, and symbols of universal energy.
- The presence of a wooden Cross and a picture of the Kaaba alongside Hindu murtis suggests a unique, pluralistic approach to spirituality.
It is the compliant animal, to the public no different from the others in size and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show.
It is interesting to note that the lion that is the most amenable to the circus trainer's tricks is the one with the
lowest social standing in the pride, the omega animal. It has the most to gain from a close relationship with the
super-alpha trainer. It is not only a matter of extra treats. A close relationship will also mean protection from
the other members of the pride. It is this compliant animal, to the public no different from the others in size
and apparent ferocity, that will be the star of the show, while the trainer leaves the beta and gamma lions, more
cantankerous subordinates, sitting on their colourful barrels on the edge of the ring.
The same is true of other circus animals and is also seen in zoos. Socially inferior animals are the ones that
make the most strenuous, resourceful efforts to get to know their keepers. They prove to be the ones most
faithful to them, most in need of their company, least likely to challenge them or be difficult. The phenomenon
has been observed with big cats, bison, deer, wild sheep, monkeys and many other animals. It is a fact
commonly known in the trade.
Chapter 15
His house is a temple. In the entrance hall hangs a framed picture of Ganesha, he of the elephant head. He sits
facing out-rosy-coloured, pot-bellied, crowned and smiling-three hands holding various objects, the fourth
held palm out in blessing and in greeting. He is the lord overcomer of obstacles, the god of good luck, the god
of wisdom, the patron of learning. Simpatico in the highest. He brings a smile to my lips. At his feet is an
attentive rat. His vehicle. Because when Lord Ganesha travels, he travels atop a rat. On the wall opposite the
picture is a plain wooden Cross.
In the living room, on a table next to the sofa, there is a small framed picture of the Virgin Mary of Guadalupe,
flowers tumbling from her open mantle. Next to it is a framed photo of the black-robed Kaaba, holiest sanctum
of Islam, surrounded by a ten-thousandfold swirl of the faithful. On the television set is a brass statue of Shiva
as Nataraja, the cosmic lord of the dance, who controls the motions of the universe and the flow of time. He
dances on the demon of ignorance, his four arms held out in choreographic gesture, one foot on the demon's
back, the other lifted in the air. When Nataraja brings this foot down, they say time will stop.
There is a shrine in the kitchen. It is set in a cupboard whose door he has replaced with a fretwork arch. The
Page 26
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
arch partly hides the yellow light bulb that in the evenings lights up the shrine. Two pictures rest behind a
small altar: to the side, Ganesha again, and in the centre, in a larger frame, smiling and blue-skinned, Krishna
playing the flute. Both have smears of red and yellow powder on the glass over their foreheads. In a copper
dish on the altar are three silver murtis, representations. He identifies them for me with a pointed finger:
Lakshmi; Shakti, the mother goddess, in the form of Parvati; and Krishna, this time as a playful baby crawling
on all fours. In between the goddesses is a stone Shiva yoni linga, which looks like half an avocado with a
phallic stump rising from its centre, a Hindu symbol representing the male and female energies of the
universe. To one side of the dish is a small conch shell set on a pedestal; to the other, a small silver handbell.
Grains of rice lie about, as well as a flower just beginning to wilt. Many of these items are anointed with dabs
of yellow and red.
On the shelf below are various articles of devotion: a beaker full of water; a copper spoon; a lamp with a wick
A Tapestry of Faith
- The narrator's home is a sanctuary of religious pluralism, housing icons from Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam in close proximity.
- A detailed description of a Hindu shrine reveals a collection of murtis, ritual powders, and symbolic items representing diverse divine energies.
- The narrator traces his spiritual awakening to a childhood visit to a temple in Madurai, facilitated by his Auntie Rohini.
- Religious identity is presented as a sensory experience, rooted in the smells, sounds, and colors of worship rather than just intellectual doctrine.
- The narrator asserts that his devotion is a matter of the heart, maintaining a lifelong 'germ of religious exaltation' that has never stopped growing.
A germ of religious exaltation, no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left to germinate.
arch partly hides the yellow light bulb that in the evenings lights up the shrine. Two pictures rest behind a
small altar: to the side, Ganesha again, and in the centre, in a larger frame, smiling and blue-skinned, Krishna
playing the flute. Both have smears of red and yellow powder on the glass over their foreheads. In a copper
dish on the altar are three silver murtis, representations. He identifies them for me with a pointed finger:
Lakshmi; Shakti, the mother goddess, in the form of Parvati; and Krishna, this time as a playful baby crawling
on all fours. In between the goddesses is a stone Shiva yoni linga, which looks like half an avocado with a
phallic stump rising from its centre, a Hindu symbol representing the male and female energies of the
universe. To one side of the dish is a small conch shell set on a pedestal; to the other, a small silver handbell.
Grains of rice lie about, as well as a flower just beginning to wilt. Many of these items are anointed with dabs
of yellow and red.
On the shelf below are various articles of devotion: a beaker full of water; a copper spoon; a lamp with a wick
coiled in oil; sticks of incense; and small bowls full of red powder, yellow powder, grains of rice and lumps of
sugar.
There is another Virgin Mary in the dining room.
Upstairs in his office there is a brass Ganesha sitting cross-legged next to the computer, a wooden Christ on
the Cross from Brazil on a wall, and a green prayer rug in a corner. The Christ is expressive-He suffers. The
prayer rug lies in its own clear space. Next to it, on a low bookstand, is a book covered by a cloth. At the
centre of the cloth is a single Arabic word, intricately woven, four letters: an alif, two lams and a ha. The word
God in Arabic.
The book on the bedside table is a Bible.
CHAPTER 16
We are all born like Catholics, aren't we-in limbo, without religion, until some figure introduces us to God?
After that meeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change, it is usually for the lesser rather than the
greater; many people seem to lose God along life's way. That was not my case. The figure in question for me
was an older sister of Mother's, of a more traditional mind, who brought me to a temple when I was a small
baby. Auntie Rohini was delighted to meet her newborn nephew and thought she would include Mother
Goddess in the delight. "It will be his symbolic first outing," she said. It's a samskara!" Symbolic indeed. We
were in Madurai; I was the fresh veteran of a seven-hour train journey. No matter. Off we went on this Hindu
rite of passage, Mother carrying me, Auntie propelling her. I have no conscious memory of this first go-around
in a temple, but some smell of incense, some play of light and shadow, some flame, some burst of colour,
something of the sultriness and mystery of the place must have stayed with me. A germ of religious exaltation,
no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left to germinate. It has never stopped growing since that
day.
I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets,
because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce
one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the
patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the
fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being
sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful
stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word-faith. I became loyal to these sense
impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I
Page 27
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Germination of Faith
- The narrator describes his introduction to Hinduism as a baby through a symbolic rite of passage orchestrated by his Auntie Rohini.
- Early sensory impressions of templesโincense, light, and colorโcreated a lasting 'germ of religious exaltation' that grew throughout his life.
- Hinduism is experienced as a visceral, physical loyalty to sights, sounds, and smells before any intellectual understanding of theology occurs.
- The narrator explains his spiritual connection to Brahman, the world soul that serves as the sustaining frame for all existence.
- The temple is described as a 'sacred cosmic womb' where the narrator feels a profound sense of Presence and divine belonging.
I became loyal to these sense impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for.
We are all born like Catholics, aren't we-in limbo, without religion, until some figure introduces us to God?
After that meeting the matter ends for most of us. If there is a change, it is usually for the lesser rather than the
greater; many people seem to lose God along life's way. That was not my case. The figure in question for me
was an older sister of Mother's, of a more traditional mind, who brought me to a temple when I was a small
baby. Auntie Rohini was delighted to meet her newborn nephew and thought she would include Mother
Goddess in the delight. "It will be his symbolic first outing," she said. It's a samskara!" Symbolic indeed. We
were in Madurai; I was the fresh veteran of a seven-hour train journey. No matter. Off we went on this Hindu
rite of passage, Mother carrying me, Auntie propelling her. I have no conscious memory of this first go-around
in a temple, but some smell of incense, some play of light and shadow, some flame, some burst of colour,
something of the sultriness and mystery of the place must have stayed with me. A germ of religious exaltation,
no bigger than a mustard seed, was sown in me and left to germinate. It has never stopped growing since that
day.
I am a Hindu because of sculptured cones of red kumkum powder and baskets of yellow turmeric nuggets,
because of garlands of flowers and pieces of broken coconut, because of the clanging of bells to announce
one's arrival to God, because of the whine of the reedy nadaswaram and the beating of drums, because of the
patter of bare feet against stone floors down dark corridors pierced by shafts of sunlight, because of the
fragrance of incense, because of flames of arati lamps circling in the darkness, because of bhajans being
sweetly sung, because of elephants standing around to bless, because of colourful murals telling colourful
stories, because of foreheads carrying, variously signified, the same word-faith. I became loyal to these sense
impressions even before I knew what they meant or what they were for. It is my heart that commands me so. I
Page 27
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually feel presence, but
something larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner
sanctum of a temple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my
sweet luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. I hunger for
prasad, that sugary offering to God that comes back to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel the heat
of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyes and forehead.
But religion is more than rite and ritual. There is what the rite and ritual stand for. Here too I am a Hindu. The
universe makes sense to me through Hindu eyes. There is Brahman, the world soul, the sustaining frame upon
which is woven, warp and weft, the cloth of being, with all its decorative elements of space and time. There is
Brahman nirguna, without qualities, which lies beyond understanding, beyond description, beyond approach;
The Hindu Worldview
- The author describes a deep, visceral connection to Hindu ritual, finding a sense of sacred presence within the temple's inner sanctum.
- Hinduism is presented as both a series of rites and a philosophical framework where the universe is woven upon Brahman, the world soul.
- Brahman is understood in two ways: as 'nirguna,' an absolute reality beyond description, and as 'saguna,' a manifest form with relatable attributes like Shiva or Krishna.
- A central tenet of this faith is the identity of 'atman,' the individual soul, with 'Brahman,' the universal force that sustains all existence.
- The relationship between the finite self and the infinite divine is described as a mystery where the soul seeks ultimate realization and union.
With our poor words we sew a suit for it-One, Truth, Unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being-and try to make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always bursts the seams.
feel at home in a Hindu temple. I am aware of Presence, not personal the way we usually feel presence, but
something larger. My heart still skips a beat when I catch sight of the murti, of God Residing, in the inner
sanctum of a temple. Truly I am in a sacred cosmic womb, a place where everything is born, and it is my
sweet luck to behold its living core. My hands naturally come together in reverent worship. I hunger for
prasad, that sugary offering to God that comes back to us as a sanctified treat. My palms need to feel the heat
of a hallowed flame whose blessing I bring to my eyes and forehead.
But religion is more than rite and ritual. There is what the rite and ritual stand for. Here too I am a Hindu. The
universe makes sense to me through Hindu eyes. There is Brahman, the world soul, the sustaining frame upon
which is woven, warp and weft, the cloth of being, with all its decorative elements of space and time. There is
Brahman nirguna, without qualities, which lies beyond understanding, beyond description, beyond approach;
with our poor words we sew a suit for it-One, Truth, Unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being-and
try to make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always bursts the seams. We are left speechless. But there is also
Brahman saguna, with qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva, Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can
approach it with some understanding; we can discern certain attributes-loving, merciful, frightening;-and we
feel the gentle pull of relationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to our limited senses, Brahman
expressed not only in gods but in humans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everything has a trace of the
divine in it. The truth of life is that Brahman is no different from atman, the spiritual force within us, what you
might call the soul. The individual soul touches upon the world soul like a well reaches for the water table.
That which sustains the universe beyond thought and language, and that which is at the core of us and
struggles for expression, is the same thing. The finite within the infinite, the infinite within the finite. If you
ask me how Brahman and atman relate precisely, I would say in the same way the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thing is clear: atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with the
The Infinite Within the Finite
- The concept of Brahman is divided into 'nirguna,' the absolute reality that defies language, and 'saguna,' the manifest form with qualities that humans can relate to.
- Atman, the individual soul, is described as being identical to Brahman, seeking to reunite with the absolute through a cycle of birth and death.
- The journey toward spiritual liberation is governed by the 'Bank of Karma,' where actions determine the progress of the soul's account.
- The author warns against religious possessiveness and fundamentalism, using a story of Krishna to illustrate that God vanishes when people claim exclusive ownership.
- A playful interfaith perspective suggests that different religions are essentially variations of one another, united by their shared capacity for love and devotion.
The moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes.
with our poor words we sew a suit for it-One, Truth, Unity, Absolute, Ultimate Reality, Ground of Being-and
try to make it fit, but Brahman nirguna always bursts the seams. We are left speechless. But there is also
Brahman saguna, with qualities, where the suit fits. Now we call it Shiva, Krishna, Shakti, Ganesha; we can
approach it with some understanding; we can discern certain attributes-loving, merciful, frightening;-and we
feel the gentle pull of relationship. Brahman saguna is Brahman made manifest to our limited senses, Brahman
expressed not only in gods but in humans, animals, trees, in a handful of earth, for everything has a trace of the
divine in it. The truth of life is that Brahman is no different from atman, the spiritual force within us, what you
might call the soul. The individual soul touches upon the world soul like a well reaches for the water table.
That which sustains the universe beyond thought and language, and that which is at the core of us and
struggles for expression, is the same thing. The finite within the infinite, the infinite within the finite. If you
ask me how Brahman and atman relate precisely, I would say in the same way the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit relate: mysteriously. But one thing is clear: atman seeks to realize Brahman, to be united with the
Absolute, and it travels in this life on a pilgrimage where it is born and dies, and is born again and dies again,
and again, and again, until it manages to shed the sheaths that imprison it here below. The paths to liberation
are numerous, but the bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation
account of each of us is credited or debited depending on our actions.
This, in a holy nutshell, is Hinduism, and I have been a Hindu all my life. With its notions in mind I see my
place in the universe.
But we should not cling! A plague upon fundamentalists and literalists! I am reminded of a story of Lord
Krishna when he was a cowherd. Every night he invites the milkmaids to dance with him in the forest. They
come and they dance. The night is dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the beat of the music gets
ever faster-the girls dance and dance and dance with their sweet lord, who has made himself so abundant as to
be in the arms of each and every girl. But the moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one
imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes. So it is that we should not be jealous with God.
I know a woman here in Toronto who is very dear to my heart. She was my foster mother. I call her Auntieji
and she likes that. She is Quebecoise. Though she has lived in Toronto for over thirty years, her
French-speaking mind still slips on occasion on the understanding of English sounds. And so, when she first
heard of Hare Krishnas, she didn't hear right. She heard "Hairless Christians", and that is what they were to her
for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their
capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are
bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.
CHAPTER 17
Page 28
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Landscape of Religious Imagination
- The narrator describes the core of Hinduism as a journey of the soul through cycles of birth and death, governed by the Bank of Karma.
- He argues against religious possessiveness and fundamentalism, suggesting that different faiths are deeply interconnected in their capacity for love and devotion.
- While on a family vacation in Munnar, the narrator observes three hills, each topped with a different house of worship: a temple, a mosque, and a church.
- At fourteen, despite his Hindu upbringing and a wariness of Christian 'violence,' the narrator finds himself drawn to the peaceful presence of a priest in a church rectory.
But the moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes.
Absolute, and it travels in this life on a pilgrimage where it is born and dies, and is born again and dies again,
and again, and again, until it manages to shed the sheaths that imprison it here below. The paths to liberation
are numerous, but the bank along the way is always the same, the Bank of Karma, where the liberation
account of each of us is credited or debited depending on our actions.
This, in a holy nutshell, is Hinduism, and I have been a Hindu all my life. With its notions in mind I see my
place in the universe.
But we should not cling! A plague upon fundamentalists and literalists! I am reminded of a story of Lord
Krishna when he was a cowherd. Every night he invites the milkmaids to dance with him in the forest. They
come and they dance. The night is dark, the fire in their midst roars and crackles, the beat of the music gets
ever faster-the girls dance and dance and dance with their sweet lord, who has made himself so abundant as to
be in the arms of each and every girl. But the moment the girls become possessive, the moment each one
imagines that Krishna is her partner alone, he vanishes. So it is that we should not be jealous with God.
I know a woman here in Toronto who is very dear to my heart. She was my foster mother. I call her Auntieji
and she likes that. She is Quebecoise. Though she has lived in Toronto for over thirty years, her
French-speaking mind still slips on occasion on the understanding of English sounds. And so, when she first
heard of Hare Krishnas, she didn't hear right. She heard "Hairless Christians", and that is what they were to her
for many years. When I corrected her, I told her that in fact she was not so wrong; that Hindus, in their
capacity for love, are indeed hairless Christians, just as Muslims, in the way they see God in everything, are
bearded Hindus, and Christians, in their devotion to God, are hat-wearing Muslims.
CHAPTER 17
Page 28
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the
original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy
mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so,
define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu
land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love,
Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old-and a well-content Hindu on a holiday-when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just
over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was
early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to
Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your
mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a
cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs-a species of wild goat-in a national park. ("We have
some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for
walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon
Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills-mountains, you might call
them-that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand
out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu
temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was
crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite
attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church-and I wasn't about to dare the deed
now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good
schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with
thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A
fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the
door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding
block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly
see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a
bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat
facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a
little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some
minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his
expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a
white cassock-it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what
arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there-open, patient-in case someone, anyone, should
A Meeting in Munnar
- The narrator reflects on his deep roots in Hinduism, which provided the original landscape for his religious imagination and cosmic understanding.
- During a family holiday in the hill station of Munnar, the narrator observes three distinct religious structuresโa temple, a mosque, and a churchโoccupying the town's hills.
- Despite attending a Christian school, the narrator initially views Christianity with suspicion, perceiving it as a religion of 'few gods and great violence.'
- Upon observing a priest in a rectory, the narrator is profoundly moved by the man's serene presence and his apparent professional commitment to love and listening.
- The encounter marks a pivotal moment where the narrator's curiosity about Jesus Christ begins to take root through the quiet example of a peaceful practitioner.
He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability.
First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the
original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy
mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so,
define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu
land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love,
Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old-and a well-content Hindu on a holiday-when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just
over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was
early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to
Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your
mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a
cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs-a species of wild goat-in a national park. ("We have
some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for
walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon
Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills-mountains, you might call
them-that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand
out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu
temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was
crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite
attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church-and I wasn't about to dare the deed
now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good
schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with
thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A
fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the
door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding
block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly
see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a
bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat
facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a
little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some
minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his
expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a
white cassock-it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what
arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there-open, patient-in case someone, anyone, should
want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would
listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to
the best of his ability.
I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.
Encountering the Christian Godhouse
- The narrator reflects on how his Hindu upbringing provided the original landscape for his religious imagination and cosmic understanding of loving kindness.
- During a family holiday in the hill station of Munnar, the narrator observes three distinct religious structuresโa temple, a mosque, and a churchโoccupying the town's hills.
- Despite attending a Christian school, the narrator initially views Christianity with suspicion, perceiving it as a religion of few gods and great violence.
- While exploring the church grounds, the narrator observes a priest whose serene and open presence suggests a professional commitment to love and spiritual listening.
- This quiet observation of the priest's peaceful demeanor deeply moves the narrator, marking the beginning of his transition from curiosity to spiritual attraction.
I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good schools.
First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the
original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy
mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so,
define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu
land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love,
Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old-and a well-content Hindu on a holiday-when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just
over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was
early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to
Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your
mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a
cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs-a species of wild goat-in a national park. ("We have
some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for
walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon
Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills-mountains, you might call
them-that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand
out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu
temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was
crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite
attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church-and I wasn't about to dare the deed
now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good
schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with
thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A
fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the
door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding
block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly
see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a
bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat
facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a
little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some
minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his
expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a
white cassock-it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what
arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there-open, patient-in case someone, anyone, should
want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would
listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to
the best of his ability.
I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.
Page 29
The Hilltop Godhouses
- The narrator reflects on how Hinduism formed the original landscape of his religious imagination and cosmic understanding.
- During a family vacation to the hill station of Munnar, the narrator observes three distinct places of worshipโa temple, a mosque, and a churchโoccupying the town's three hills.
- Despite attending a Christian school, the narrator initially views Christianity with suspicion, associating it with a reputation for 'few gods and great violence.'
- While exploring the church grounds, the narrator observes a priest whose serene presence and apparent dedication to love deeply move him.
- The encounter marks a pivotal shift in the narrator's spiritual journey, leading him from a 'well-content Hindu' to a meeting with Jesus Christ.
It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through.
First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the
original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy
mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so,
define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu
land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love,
Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old-and a well-content Hindu on a holiday-when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just
over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was
early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to
Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your
mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a
cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs-a species of wild goat-in a national park. ("We have
some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for
walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon
Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills-mountains, you might call
them-that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand
out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu
temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was
crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite
attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church-and I wasn't about to dare the deed
now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good
schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with
thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A
fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the
door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding
block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly
see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a
bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat
facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a
little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some
minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his
expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a
white cassock-it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what
arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there-open, patient-in case someone, anyone, should
want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would
listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to
the best of his ability.
I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.
Page 29
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
A Hindu Meets Christ
- The narrator reflects on how his Hindu upbringing provided the original landscape for his religious imagination and cosmic understanding.
- During a family holiday in the hill station of Munnar, the narrator observes three distinct houses of worshipโa temple, a mosque, and a churchโoccupying the town's hills.
- Despite his initial perception of Christianity as a religion of 'few gods and great violence,' the narrator is drawn to the peaceful atmosphere of a local rectory.
- The sight of a serene priest waiting to offer love and guidance deeply moves the narrator, prompting him to overcome his fear and enter the church for the first time.
He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to the best of his ability.
First wonder goes deepest; wonder after that fits in the impression made by the first. I owe to Hinduism the
original landscape of my religious imagination, those towns and rivers, battlefields and forests, holy
mountains and deep seas where gods, saints, villains and ordinary people rub shoulders, and, in doing so,
define who and why we are. I first heard of the tremendous, cosmic might of loving kindness in this Hindu
land. It was Lord Krishna speaking. I heard him, and I followed him. And in his wisdom and perfect love,
Lord Krishna led me to meet one man.
I was fourteen years old-and a well-content Hindu on a holiday-when I met Jesus Christ.
It was not often that Father took time off from the zoo, but one of the times he did we went to Munnar, just
over in Kerala. Munnar is a small hill station surrounded by some of the highest tea estates in the world. It was
early May and the monsoon hadn't come yet. The plains of Tamil Nadu were beastly hot. We made it to
Munnar after a winding, five-hour car ride from Madurai. The coolness was as pleasing as having mint in your
mouth. We did the tourist thing. We visited a Tata tea factory. We enjoyed a boat ride on a lake. We toured a
cattle-breeding centre. We fed salt to some Nilgiri tahrs-a species of wild goat-in a national park. ("We have
some in our zoo. You should come to Pondicherry," said Father to some Swiss tourists.) Ravi and I went for
walks in the tea estates near town. It was all an excuse to keep our lethargy a little busy. By late afternoon
Father and Mother were as settled in the tea room of our comfortable hotel as two cats sunning themselves at a
window. Mother read while Father chatted with fellow guests.
There are three hills within Munnar. They don't bear comparison with the tall hills-mountains, you might call
them-that surround the town, but I noticed the first morning, as we were having breakfast, that they did stand
out in one way: on each stood a Godhouse. The hill on the right, across the river from the hotel, had a Hindu
temple high on its side; the hill in the middle, further away, held up a mosque; while the hill on the left was
crowned with a Christian church.
On our fourth day in Munnar, as the afternoon was coming to an end, I stood on the hill on the left. Despite
attending a nominally Christian school, I had not yet been inside a church-and I wasn't about to dare the deed
now. I knew very little about the religion. It had a reputation for few gods and great violence. But good
schools. I walked around the church. It was a building unremittingly unrevealing of what it held inside, with
thick, featureless walls pale blue in colour and high, narrow windows impossible to look in through. A
fortress.
I came upon the rectory. The door was open. I hid around a corner to look upon the scene. To the left of the
door was a small board with the words Parish Priest and Assistant Priest on it. Next to each was a small sliding
block. Both the priest and his assistant were IN, the board informed me in gold letters, which I could plainly
see. One priest was working in his office, his back turned to the bay windows, while the other was seated on a
bench at a round table in the large vestibule that evidently functioned as a room for receiving visitors. He sat
facing the door and the windows, a book in his hands, a Bible I presumed. He read a little, looked up, read a
little more, looked up again. It was done in a way that was leisurely, yet alert and composed. After some
minutes, he closed the book and put it aside. He folded his hands together on the table and sat there, his
expression serene, showing neither expectation nor resignation.
The vestibule had clean, white walls; the table and benches were of dark wood; and the priest was dressed in a
white cassock-it was all neat, plain, simple. I was filled with a sense of peace. But more than the setting, what
arrested me was my intuitive understanding that he was there-open, patient-in case someone, anyone, should
want to talk to him; a problem of the soul, a heaviness of the heart, a darkness of the conscience, he would
listen with love. He was a man whose profession it was to love, and he would offer comfort and guidance to
the best of his ability.
I was moved. What I had before my eyes stole into my heart and thrilled me.
Page 29
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but he didn't. He retreated further into the rectory, that's all,
leaving the door between the vestibule and the next room as open as the outside door. I noted this, how both
doors were wide open. Clearly, he and his colleague were still available.
I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a
Christian who would shout at me, "What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you
The Weirdness of Christianity
- Pi enters a Catholic church for the first time, fearing he will be cast out as a defiler but finding only silence and confusing iconography.
- He observes the graphic imagery of the crucifixion, struggling to reconcile the violent 'torture scene' with the gentle nature of Father Martin.
- Father Martin introduces Pi to the central Christian narrative, which Pi finds psychologically baffling and logically inconsistent compared to Hindu traditions.
- Pi critiques the concept of vicarious atonement, using a dark metaphor about being fed to lions to pay for their predatory sins.
- The protagonist reflects on the fundamental difference between Hindu gods, who face adversity, and the Christian God, who submits to mortal humiliation and death.
I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them.
He got up. I thought he might slide his block over, but he didn't. He retreated further into the rectory, that's all,
leaving the door between the vestibule and the next room as open as the outside door. I noted this, how both
doors were wide open. Clearly, he and his colleague were still available.
I walked away and I dared. I entered the church. My stomach was in knots. I was terrified I would meet a
Christian who would shout at me, "What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you
defiler? Get out, right now!"
There was no one. And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner sanctum. There was a
painting. Was this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had to be appeased with
blood. Dazed women staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. A charismatic bird.
Which one was the god? To the side of the sanctum was a painted wooden sculpture. The victim again, bruised
and bleeding in bold colours. I stared at his knees. They were badly scraped. The pink skin was peeled back
and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that were fire-engine red. It was hard to connect this
torture scene with the priest in the rectory.
The next day, at around the same time, I let myself IN.
Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that comes down heavily. My experience with Father
Martin was not at all like that. He was very kind. He served me tea and biscuits in a tea set that tinkled and
rattled at every touch; he treated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story. Or rather, since Christians are so
fond of capital letters, a Story.
And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief. What? Humanity sins but it's God's Son who
pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, "Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and
killed two llamas. Yesterday another one killed a black buck. Last week two of them ate the camel. The week
before it was painted storks and grey herons. And who's to say for sure who snacked on our golden agouti?
The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done. I have decided that the only way the lions can
atone for their sins is if I feed you to them."
"Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do. Give me a moment to wash up."
"Hallelujah, my son."
"Hallelujah, Father."
What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology.
I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in
its bag-religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before
it-and there were many-were simply prologue to the Christians. Their religion had one Story, and to it they
came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them.
I was quiet that evening at the hotel.
That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand. The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of
thieves, bullies, kidnappers and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but the account of one long, bad day for
Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals of fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn't imagine
Lord Krishna consenting to be stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets and, to top it off,
crucified-and at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I'd never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed
Page 30
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Scandal of the Cross
- The narrator struggles to reconcile the concept of a suffering, dying deity with his understanding of divine power and immortality.
- He compares the vulnerability of the Christian Son to the cosmic might of Hindu avatars like Krishna, Vishnu, and Rama.
- The text explores the theological necessity of a 'real' death for Christ, noting that a faked tragedy would turn the Passion into a farce.
- Father Martin repeatedly offers 'Love' as the singular, paradoxical explanation for God's willingness to endure human humiliation and death.
- The narrator views Christ as a 'pedestrian god' whose miracles and physical limitations seem underwhelming compared to the grand scale of Hindu mythology.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father.
What a downright weird story. What peculiar psychology.
I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying. Surely this religion had more than one story in
its bag-religions abound with stories. But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before
it-and there were many-were simply prologue to the Christians. Their religion had one Story, and to it they
came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them.
I was quiet that evening at the hotel.
That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand. The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of
thieves, bullies, kidnappers and usurpers. What is the Ramayana but the account of one long, bad day for
Rama? Adversity, yes. Reversals of fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn't imagine
Lord Krishna consenting to be stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets and, to top it off,
crucified-and at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I'd never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed
Page 30
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions-that's what they
were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul
cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is
tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is
God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son
must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a
certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon
Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin's answer.
And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of
eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat
dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in
sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as
he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire
timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the
earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas
and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or
galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your
mouth," she says reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land
as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents.
Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the
heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over
the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross
would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength
no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down
evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is
anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who
don't respect Him-what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles,
yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly
walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred
times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who
walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just
above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a
god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to
inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away?
The Scandal of the Cross
- The narrator struggles with the Christian concept of a God who experiences real death, arguing that divinity should be immune to such blight.
- Hindu deities like Krishna, Vishnu, and Rama are contrasted as figures of immense cosmic power who transcend human limitations and physical suffering.
- The Christian 'Son' is criticized for being a 'pedestrian god' who suffers from hunger, thirst, and anxiety on a disturbingly human scale.
- Father Martin repeatedly answers the narrator's theological objections and confusion with the single, simple word: Love.
- The narrator questions the logic of a god who would choose to 'make dirty what is beautiful' by subjecting the divine Trinity to the stench of mortality.
If God on the Cross is God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ.
did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions-that's what they
were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul
cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is
tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is
God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son
must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a
certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon
Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin's answer.
And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of
eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat
dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in
sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as
he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire
timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the
earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas
and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or
galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your
mouth," she says reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land
as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents.
Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the
heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over
the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross
would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength
no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down
evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is
anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who
don't respect Him-what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles,
yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly
walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred
times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who
walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just
above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a
god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to
inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away?
Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on
the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head?
The Scandal of the Cross
- The narrator struggles with the theological concept of a dying God, arguing that divinity should be immune to the blight of mortality.
- Hindu deities like Krishna, Vishnu, and Rama are contrasted as figures of cosmic power who transcend human limitations with ease.
- The Christian 'Son' is criticized for being too human, performing only 'minor magic' and suffering from mundane physical needs like hunger and exhaustion.
- Father Martin defends the vulnerability and death of Christ by citing 'Love' as the singular, paradoxical motivation for such a divine sacrifice.
- The narrator finds the historical and geographical specificity of the Jesus storyโoccurring once in a remote backwaterโto be bafflingly small for a god.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father.
did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions-that's what they
were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul
cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is
tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is
God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son
must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a
certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon
Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin's answer.
And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of
eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat
dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in
sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as
he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire
timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the
earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas
and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or
galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your
mouth," she says reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land
as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents.
Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the
heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over
the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross
would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength
no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down
evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is
anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who
don't respect Him-what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles,
yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly
walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred
times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who
walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just
above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a
god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to
inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away?
Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on
the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head?
Page 31
The Scandal of the Cross
- The narrator struggles with the Christian concept of a God who allows His avatar to suffer a real and permanent death.
- Hindu deities like Krishna and Vishnu are contrasted as figures of immense cosmic power who transcend human limitations.
- The narrator views Christ's miracles as 'minor magic' compared to the grand scale of Hindu mythology.
- Father Martin repeatedly offers 'Love' as the singular, paradoxical explanation for God's willingness to endure human suffering.
- The narrator questions the logic of a 'pedestrian god' who lived a short, humble life in an obscure corner of the world.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth.
did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions-that's what they
were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul
cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is
tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is
God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son
must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a
certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon
Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin's answer.
And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of
eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat
dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in
sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as
he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire
timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the
earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas
and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or
galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your
mouth," she says reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land
as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents.
Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the
heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over
the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross
would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength
no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down
evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is
anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who
don't respect Him-what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles,
yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly
walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred
times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who
walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just
above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a
god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to
inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away?
Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on
the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head?
Page 31
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Scandal of the Cross
- The narrator struggles with the Christian concept of a God who suffers and dies, arguing that divinity should be immune to the 'stench' of mortality.
- Hindu deities like Krishna, Vishnu, and Rama are contrasted as examples of 'God as God should be,' possessing cosmic power and majestic scale.
- The narrator critiques the 'pedestrian' nature of Jesus, viewing his miracles as minor and his human limitations as a diminishment of divine perfection.
- Father Martin consistently answers every theological objection regarding the Son's suffering and scarcity with the single word: Love.
- The narrator finds the historical and physical limitations of the Christian incarnation to be 'divine stinginess' compared to the abundance of Hindu avatars.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a certain stench at the right hand of God the Father.
did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions-that's what they
were there for. Matter, too, fell away. But divinity should not be blighted by death. It's wrong. The world soul
cannot die, even in one contained part of it. It was wrong of this Christian God to let His avatar die. That is
tantamount to letting a part of Himself die. For if the Son is to die, it cannot be fake. If God on the Cross is
God shamming a human tragedy, it turns the Passion of Christ into the Farce of Christ. The death of the Son
must be real. Father Martin assured me that it was. But once a dead God, always a dead God, even resurrected.
The Son must have the taste of death forever in His mouth. The Trinity must be tainted by it; there must be a
certain stench at the right hand of God the Father. The horror must be real. Why would God wish that upon
Himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what is beautiful, spoil what is perfect?
Love. That was Father Martin's answer.
And what about this Son's deportment? There is the story of baby Krishna, wrongly accused by his friends of
eating a bit of dirt. His foster mother, Yashoda, comes up to him with a wagging finger. "You shouldn't eat
dirt, you naughty boy," she scolds him. "But I haven't," says the unchallenged lord of all and everything, in
sport disguised as a frightened human child. "Tut! Tut! Open your mouth," orders Yashoda. Krishna does as
he is told. He opens his mouth. Yashoda gasps. She sees in Krishna's mouth the whole complete entire
timeless universe, all the stars and planets of space and the distance between them, all the lands and seas of the
earth and the life in them; she sees all the days of yesterday and all the days of tomorrow; she sees all ideas
and all emotions, all pity and all hope, and the three strands of matter; not a pebble, candle, creature, village or
galaxy is missing, including herself and every bit of dirt in its truthful place. "My Lord, you can close your
mouth," she says reverently.
There is the story of Vishnu incarnated as Vamana the dwarf. He asks of demon king Bali only as much land
as he can cover in three strides. Bali laughs at this runt of a suitor and his puny request. He consents.
Immediately Vishnu takes on his full cosmic size. With one stride he covers the earth, with the second the
heavens, and with the third he boots Bali into the netherworld.
Even Rama, that most human of avatars, who had to be reminded of his divinity when he grew long-faced over
the struggle to get Sita, his wife, back from Ravana, evil king of Lanka, was no slouch. No spindly cross
would have kept him down. When push came to shove, he transcended his limited human frame with strength
no man could have and weapons no man could handle.
That is God as God should be. With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down
evil.
This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is
anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don't get it and opponents who
don't respect Him-what kind of a god is that? It's a god on too human a scale, that's what. There are miracles,
yes, mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly
walked upon. If that is magic, it is minor magic, on the order of card tricks. Any Hindu god can do a hundred
times better. This Son is a god who spent most of His time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who
walked, a pedestrian god-and in a hot place, at that-with a stride like any human stride, the sandal reaching just
above the rocks along the way; and when He splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a
god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps and laments. What kind of a god is that? What is there to
inspire in this Son?
Love, said Father Martin.
And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away?
Among an obscure tribe in a backwater of West Asia on
the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head?
Page 31
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? Wait
a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is
Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son,
He must be as abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
I'll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep your
sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.
The Urgent Call of Christ
- Piscine initially struggles with the concept of Jesus, finding the Christian God's singular incarnation and human petulance to be 'stingy' compared to the abundance of Hindu deities.
- The protagonist is particularly bothered by the story of Jesus cursing the fig tree, viewing it as an irrational and unfair act for a divine being.
- He contrasts the vast, cyclical timeline of Hinduism with the frantic, immediate nature of Christianity, which he describes as being as 'urgent as an ambulance.'
- Despite his intellectual resistance, Piscine finds himself unable to stop thinking about Christ and eventually asks Father Martin to become a Christian.
- The chapter concludes with Piscine embracing both faiths, thanking Lord Krishna for leading him to the compelling humanity of Jesus.
If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour.
Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? Wait
a minute. This is more than Brahman with a serious case of stage fright. This is Brahman selfish. This is
Brahman ungenerous and unfair. This is Brahman practically unmanifest. If Brahman is to have only one son,
He must be as abundant as Krishna with the milkmaids, no? What could justify such divine stinginess?
Love, repeated Father Martin.
I'll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much. I find his divinity utterly compelling. You can keep your
sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.
That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance.
I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row. Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled
against edge of cup, I asked questions.
The answer was always the same.
He bothered me, this Son. Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him.
He's petulant! It's morning in Bethany and God is hungry, God wants His breakfast. He comes to a fig tree. It's
not the season for figs, so the tree has no figs. God is peeved. The Son mutters, "May you never bear fruit
again," and instantly the fig tree withers. So says Matthew, backed up by Mark.
I ask you, is it the fig tree's fault that it's not the season for figs? What kind of a thing is that to do to an
innocent fig tree, wither it instantly?
I couldn't get Him out of my head. Still can't. I spent three solid days thinking about Him. The more He
bothered me, the less I could forget Him. And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.
On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me
now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days.
Even on a symbolic level, that's creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single
soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the
quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then
Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is a religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance.
It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back
through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now.
I booted up that hill. Though Father Martin was not IN-alas, his block was slid over-thank God he was in.
Short of breath I said, "Father, I would like to be a Christian, please."
He smiled. "You already are, Piscine-in your heart. Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here in
Munnar you met Christ."
He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. His hand went BOOM BOOM BOOM on my
head.
I thought I would explode with joy.
"When you come back, we'll have tea again, my son."
Page 32
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Yes, Father."
It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.
I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is
alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right-to offer thanks to Lord Krishna
for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.
CHAPTER 18
The Discovery of Islam
- Pi experiences a moment of profound spiritual acceptance after being welcomed by a Christian priest, leading him to offer prayers to both Christ and Krishna.
- Despite initial prejudices about Islam's reputation for violence and simplicity, Pi finds himself wandering into the Muslim quarter of his hometown.
- The physical structure of the Great Mosque strikes Pi as surprisingly pleasant and quiet, though he initially finds nothing 'evidently religious' about it.
- A chance encounter with a humble baker of unleavened bread leads to a moment of shared food and an invitation to learn the man's craft.
- Pi's spiritual journey expands as he begins to bridge the gap between his established Hindu and Christian beliefs and the unfamiliar world of Islam.
I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right-to offer thanks to Lord Krishna for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.
He patted me on the head. It was more of a thump, actually. His hand went BOOM BOOM BOOM on my
head.
I thought I would explode with joy.
"When you come back, we'll have tea again, my son."
Page 32
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Yes, Father."
It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.
I entered the church, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is
alive. Then I raced down the hill on the left and raced up the hill on the right-to offer thanks to Lord Krishna
for having put Jesus of Nazareth, whose humanity I found so compelling, in my way.
CHAPTER 18
Islam followed right behind, hardly a year later. I was fifteen years old and I was exploring my hometown.
The Muslim quarter wasn't far from the zoo. A small, quiet neighbourhood with Arabic writing and crescent
moons inscribed on the facades of the houses.
I came to Mullah Street. I had a peek at the Jamia Masjid, the Great Mosque, being careful to stay on the
outside, of course. Islam had a reputation worse than Christianity's-fewer gods, greater violence, and I had
never heard anyone say good things about Muslim schools-so I wasn't about to step in, empty though the place
was. The building, clean and white except for various edges painted green, was an open construction unfolding
around an empty central room. Long straw mats covered the floor everywhere. Above, two slim, fluted
minarets rose in the air before a background of soaring coconut trees. There was nothing evidently religious
or, for that matter, interesting about the place, but it was pleasant and quiet.
I moved on. Just beyond the mosque was a series of attached single-storey dwellings with small shaded
porches. They were rundown and poor, their stucco walls a faded green. One of the dwellings was a small
shop. I noticed a rack of dusty bottles of Thums Up and four transparent plastic jars half-full of candies. But
the main ware was something else, something flat, roundish and white. I got close. It seemed to be some sort
of unleavened bread. I poked at one. It flipped up stiffly. They looked like three-day-old nans. Who would eat
these, I wondered. I picked one up and wagged it to see if it would break.
A voice said, "Would you like to taste one?"
I nearly jumped out of my skin. It's happened to all of us: there's sunlight and shade, spots and patterns of
colour, your mind is elsewhere-so you don't make out what is right in front of you.
Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and
the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow dung.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you!" I burst out. I was just about ready to run away.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "It will feed a cow. Have another one."
He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed
down.
"So you make these," I said, to make conversation.
"Yes. Here, let me show you how." He got off his platform and waved me into his house.
Page 33
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Baker and the Beloved
- Pi accidentally encounters a Muslim baker whose calm demeanor and hospitality lead to an impromptu lesson in bread-making.
- The narrator witnesses the Islamic prayer ritual for the first time, initially perceiving it as a simple, physical exercise akin to 'hot-weather yoga.'
- Despite his Christian upbringing, Pi finds himself haunted by the image of the baker's 'callisthenic communion' during his own silent prayers in church.
- Upon returning to the baker to ask about his faith, Pi is introduced to the concept of Islam as a religion centered on 'the Beloved.'
- Pi experiences the communal nature of the mosque, finding a deep sense of religious connection in the physical act of prostration alongside others.
He brought his hands next to his ears, thumbs touching the lobes, looking as if he were straining to hear Allah replying.
colour, your mind is elsewhere-so you don't make out what is right in front of you.
Not four feet away, sitting cross-legged before his breads, was a man. I was so startled my hands flew up and
the bread went sailing halfway across the street. It landed on a pat of fresh cow dung.
"I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't see you!" I burst out. I was just about ready to run away.
"Don't worry," he said calmly. "It will feed a cow. Have another one."
He tore one in two. We ate it together. It was tough and rubbery, real work for the teeth, but filling. I calmed
down.
"So you make these," I said, to make conversation.
"Yes. Here, let me show you how." He got off his platform and waved me into his house.
Page 33
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
It was a two-room hovel. The larger room, dominated by an oven, was the bakery, and the other, separated by
a flimsy curtain, was his bedroom. The bottom of the oven was covered with smooth pebbles. He was
explaining to me how the bread baked on these heated pebbles when the nasal call of the muezzin wafted
through the air from the mosque. I knew it was the call to prayer, but I didn't know what it entailed. I imagined
it beckoned the Muslim faithful to the Mosque, much like bells summoned us Christians to church. Not so.
The baker interrupted himself mid-sentence and said, "Excuse me." He ducked into the next room for a minute
and returned with a rolled-up carpet, which he unfurled on the floor of his bakery, throwing up a small storm
of flour. And right there before me, in the midst of his workplace, he prayed. It was incongruous, but it was I
who felt out of place. Luckily, he prayed with his eyes closed.
He stood straight. He muttered in Arabic. He brought his hands next to his ears, thumbs touching the lobes,
looking as if he were straining to hear Allah replying. He bent forward. He stood straight again. He fell to his
knees and brought his hands and forehead to the floor. He sat up. He fell forward again. He stood. He started
the whole thing again.
Why, Islam is nothing but an easy sort of exercise, I thought. Hot-weather yoga for the Bedouins. Asanas
without sweat, heaven without strain.
He went through the cycle four times, muttering throughout. When he had finished-with a right-left turning of
the head and a short bout of meditation-he opened his eyes, smiled, stepped off his carpet and rolled it up with
a flick of the hand that spoke of old habit. He returned it to its spot in the next room. He came back to me.
"What was I saying?" he asked.
So it went the first time I saw a Muslim pray-quick, necessary, physical, muttered, striking. Next time I was
praying in church-on my knees, immobile, silent before Christ on the Cross-the image of this callisthenic
communion with God in the middle of bags of flour kept coming to my mind.
CHAPTER 19
I went to see him again.
"What's your religion about?" I asked.
His eyes lit up. "It is about the Beloved," he replied.
I challenge anyone to understand Islam, its spirit, and not to love it. It is a beautiful religion of brotherhood
and devotion.
The mosque was truly an open construction, to God and to breeze. We sat cross-legged listening to the imam
until the time came to pray. Then the random pattern of sitters disappeared as we stood and arranged ourselves
shoulder to shoulder in rows, every space ahead being filled by someone from behind until every line was
solid and we were row after row of worshippers. It felt good to bring my forehead to the ground. Immediately
it felt like a deeply religious contact.
Page 34
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 20
The Sufi and the Beloved
- The narrator explores the spiritual essence of Islam, describing it as a beautiful religion centered on brotherhood and devotion to 'the Beloved.'
- A visit to the mosque reveals a communal prayer ritual where individual sitters transform into solid, shoulder-to-shoulder rows of worshippers.
- The narrator meets Satish Kumar, a Sufi mystic and baker who seeks personal union with God through the concept of fana.
- Despite his profound spirituality, the baker is described as an exceptionally plain man who is difficult to recognize or remember by sight alone.
- The narrator notes the striking coincidence that the pious baker shares the exact same name as his atheistic biology teacher.
If you take two steps towards God, God runs to you!
I went to see him again.
"What's your religion about?" I asked.
His eyes lit up. "It is about the Beloved," he replied.
I challenge anyone to understand Islam, its spirit, and not to love it. It is a beautiful religion of brotherhood
and devotion.
The mosque was truly an open construction, to God and to breeze. We sat cross-legged listening to the imam
until the time came to pray. Then the random pattern of sitters disappeared as we stood and arranged ourselves
shoulder to shoulder in rows, every space ahead being filled by someone from behind until every line was
solid and we were row after row of worshippers. It felt good to bring my forehead to the ground. Immediately
it felt like a deeply religious contact.
Page 34
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 20
He was a Sufi, a Muslim mystic. He sought fana, union with God, and his relationship with God was personal
and loving. "If you take two steps towards God," he used to tell me, "God runs to you!"
He was a very plain-featured man, with nothing in his looks or in his dress that made memory cry hark. I'm
not surprised I didn't see him the first time we met. Even when I knew him very well, encounter after
encounter, I had difficulty recognizing him. His name was Satish Kumar. These are common names in Tamil
Nadu, so the coincidence ls not so remarkable. Still, it pleased me that this pious baker, as plain as a shadow
and of solid health, and the Communist biology teacher
The Two Mr. Kumars
- Pi describes his relationship with the second Mr. Kumar, a Sufi baker who introduces him to the mystical and personal aspects of Islam.
- Despite their opposite worldviews, the atheist biology teacher and the Sufi mystic share the same name and both serve as the 'prophets' of Pi's youth.
- The narrative explores the concept of fana, or union with God, through the rhythmic recitation of the Qur'an and shared prayer in a humble bakery.
- Pi recounts two profound spiritual epiphaniesโone in India and one in Canadaโwhere the boundaries between the self, nature, and the divine dissolved.
- These experiences lead Pi to a realization of universal unity, where different religious figures and natural elements speak a single language of kinship.
I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like the centre of a small circle coinciding with the centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah.
He was a Sufi, a Muslim mystic. He sought fana, union with God, and his relationship with God was personal
and loving. "If you take two steps towards God," he used to tell me, "God runs to you!"
He was a very plain-featured man, with nothing in his looks or in his dress that made memory cry hark. I'm
not surprised I didn't see him the first time we met. Even when I knew him very well, encounter after
encounter, I had difficulty recognizing him. His name was Satish Kumar. These are common names in Tamil
Nadu, so the coincidence ls not so remarkable. Still, it pleased me that this pious baker, as plain as a shadow
and of solid health, and the Communist biology teacher
and science devotee, the walking mountain on stilts, sadly afflicted with polio in his childhood, carried the
same name. Mr. and Mr. Kumar taught me biology and Islam. Mr. and Mr. Kumar led me to study zoology
and religious studies at the University of Toronto. Mr. and Mr. Kumar were the prophets of my Indian youth.
We prayed together and we practised dhikr, the recitation of the ninety-nine revealed names of God. He was a
hafiz, one who knows the Qur'an by heart, and he sang it in a slow, simple chant. My Arabic was never very
good, but I loved its sound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolled just beneath my
comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, just one
man's voice, but it was as deep as the universe.
I described Mr. Kumar's place as a hovel. Yet no mosque, church or temple ever felt so sacred to me. I
sometimes came out of that bakery feeling heavy with glory. I would climb onto my bicycle and pedal that
glory through the air.
One such time I left town and on my way back, at a point where the land was high and I could see the sea to
my left and down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was in heaven. The spot was in fact no different from
when I had passed it not long before, but my way of seeing it had changed. The feeling, a paradoxical mix of
pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas before the road, the sea, the trees, the
air, the sun all spoke differently to me, now they spoke one language of unity. Tree took account of road,
which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea, which shared things with sun. Every element lived in
harmonious relation with its neighbour, and all was kith and kin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like
the centre of a all circle coinciding with the centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah.
One other time I felt God come so close to me. It was in Canada, much later. I was visiting friends in the
country. It was winter. I was out alone on a walk on their large property and returning to the house. It was a
clear, sunny day after a night of snowfall. All nature was blanketed in white. As I was coming up to the house,
I turned mv head. There was a wood and in that wood, a small clearing. A breeze, or perhaps it was an animal,
had shaken a branch. Fine snow was falling through the air, glittering in the sunlight. In that falling golden
dust in that sun-splashed clearing, I saw the Virgin Mary. Why her, I don't know. My devotion to Mary was
secondary. But it was her. Her skin was pale. She was wearing a white dress and a blue cloak; I remember
being struck by their pleats and folds. When I say I saw her, I don't quite mean it literally, though she did have
body and colour. I felt I saw her, a vision beyond vision. I stopped and squinted. She looked beautiful and
supremely regal. She was smiling at me with loving kindness. After some seconds she left me. My heart beat
with fear and joy.
The presence of God is the finest of rewards.
CHAPTER 21
Page 35
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Prophets and Divine Visions
- The narrator reflects on the profound influence of two mentors named Mr. Kumar, who bridged the gap between scientific zoology and Islamic faith.
- A spiritual epiphany on a road in India transforms the narrator's perception, revealing a universe where all elements exist in a harmonious, unified language.
- A second mystical encounter occurs in the Canadian winter, where the narrator experiences a vision of the Virgin Mary characterized by 'loving kindness.'
- The narrator concludes that the founding principle of existence is love, which operates ineluctably even when it is not intellectually clear.
- The text contrasts 'dry, yeastless factuality' with the 'better story' of a universe aligned along moral and spiritual lines.
Tree took account of road, which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea, which shared things with sun.
and science devotee, the walking mountain on stilts, sadly afflicted with polio in his childhood, carried the
same name. Mr. and Mr. Kumar taught me biology and Islam. Mr. and Mr. Kumar led me to study zoology
and religious studies at the University of Toronto. Mr. and Mr. Kumar were the prophets of my Indian youth.
We prayed together and we practised dhikr, the recitation of the ninety-nine revealed names of God. He was a
hafiz, one who knows the Qur'an by heart, and he sang it in a slow, simple chant. My Arabic was never very
good, but I loved its sound. The guttural eruptions and long flowing vowels rolled just beneath my
comprehension like a beautiful brook. I gazed into this brook for long spells of time. It was not wide, just one
man's voice, but it was as deep as the universe.
I described Mr. Kumar's place as a hovel. Yet no mosque, church or temple ever felt so sacred to me. I
sometimes came out of that bakery feeling heavy with glory. I would climb onto my bicycle and pedal that
glory through the air.
One such time I left town and on my way back, at a point where the land was high and I could see the sea to
my left and down the road a long ways, I suddenly felt I was in heaven. The spot was in fact no different from
when I had passed it not long before, but my way of seeing it had changed. The feeling, a paradoxical mix of
pulsing energy and profound peace, was intense and blissful. Whereas before the road, the sea, the trees, the
air, the sun all spoke differently to me, now they spoke one language of unity. Tree took account of road,
which was aware of air, which was mindful of sea, which shared things with sun. Every element lived in
harmonious relation with its neighbour, and all was kith and kin. I knelt a mortal; I rose an immortal. I felt like
the centre of a all circle coinciding with the centre of a much larger one. Atman met Allah.
One other time I felt God come so close to me. It was in Canada, much later. I was visiting friends in the
country. It was winter. I was out alone on a walk on their large property and returning to the house. It was a
clear, sunny day after a night of snowfall. All nature was blanketed in white. As I was coming up to the house,
I turned mv head. There was a wood and in that wood, a small clearing. A breeze, or perhaps it was an animal,
had shaken a branch. Fine snow was falling through the air, glittering in the sunlight. In that falling golden
dust in that sun-splashed clearing, I saw the Virgin Mary. Why her, I don't know. My devotion to Mary was
secondary. But it was her. Her skin was pale. She was wearing a white dress and a blue cloak; I remember
being struck by their pleats and folds. When I say I saw her, I don't quite mean it literally, though she did have
body and colour. I felt I saw her, a vision beyond vision. I stopped and squinted. She looked beautiful and
supremely regal. She was smiling at me with loving kindness. After some seconds she left me. My heart beat
with fear and joy.
The presence of God is the finest of rewards.
CHAPTER 21
Page 35
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I am sitting in a downtown cafe, after, thinking. I have just spent most of an afternoon with him. Our
encounters always leave me weary of the glum contentment that characterizes my life. What were those words
he used that struck me? Ah, yes: "dry, yeastless factuality" "the better story". I take pen and paper out and
write:
Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the
moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of
the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is
what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless
ineluctably.
I pause. What of God's silence? I think it over. I add:
The Three Wise Men
- The narrator describes a spiritual state where moral exaltation and a sense of divine love supersede intellectual understanding.
- A contrast is drawn between the atheist's potential for a final leap of faith and the agnostic's tendency to explain away spiritual experiences with dry, biological facts.
- The protagonist's secret life as a practitioner of three different religionsโHinduism, Christianity, and Islamโis accidentally exposed to his secular parents.
- A tense confrontation begins on a seaside esplanade when the priest, the imam, and the pandit all converge on the narrator's family simultaneously.
- The narrator's father is characterized as a modern, secular businessman who is largely indifferent to religious orthodoxy.
When I saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror.
Words of divine consciousness: moral exaltation; lasting feelings of elevation, elation, joy; a quickening of the
moral sense, which strikes one as more important than an intellectual understanding of things; an alignment of
the universe along moral lines, not intellectual ones; a realization that the founding principle of existence is
what we call love, which works itself out sometimes not clearly, not cleanly, not immediately, nonetheless
ineluctably.
I pause. What of God's silence? I think it over. I add:
An intellect confounded yet a trusting sense of presence and of ultimate purpose.
CHAPTER 22
I can well imagine an atheist's last words: "White, white! L-L-Love! My God!"-and the deathbed leap of faith.
Whereas the agnostic, if he stays true to his reasonable self, if he stays beholden to dry, yeastless factuality,
might try to explain the warm light bathing him by saying, "Possibly a f-f-failing oxygenation of the
b-b-brain," and, to the very end, lack imagination and miss the better story.
CHAPTER 23
Alas the sense of community that a common faith brings to a people spelled trouble for me. In time, my
religious doings went from the notice of those to whom it didn't matter and only amused, to that of those to
whom it did matter-and they were not amused.
"What is your son doing going to temple?" asked the priest.
"Your son was seen in church crossing himself," said the imam.
"Your son has gone Muslim," said the pandit.
Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of my bemused parents. You see, they didn't know. They
didn't know that I was a practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagers always hide a few things from
their parents, isn't that so? All sixteen-year-olds have secrets, don't they? But fate decided that my parents and
I and the three wise men, as I shall call them, should meet one day on the Goubert Salai seaside esplanade and
that my secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy, hot Sunday afternoon and the Bay of Bengal glittered
under a blue sky. Townspeople were out for a stroll. Children screamed and laughed. Coloured balloons
floated in the air. Ice cream sales were brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn't they
have just walked by with a nod and a smile? It was not to be. We were to meet not just one wise man but all
three, and not one after another but at the same time, and each would decide upon seeing us that right then was
the golden occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, the zoo director, he of the model devout son. When I
Page 36
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror.
When it was clear that all three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low.
The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all three of them were approaching the same people.
Each must have assumed that the others were there for some business other than pastoral and had rudely
chosen that moment to deal with it Glances of displeasure were exchanged.
My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blocked by three broadly smiling religious strangers. I
should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himself as part of the New India-rich,
modern and as secular as ice cream. He didn't have a religious bone in his body. He was a businessman,
pronounced busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned with
The Three Wise Men
- Piscine's secret practice of three different religions is exposed when a priest, an imam, and a pandit simultaneously confront his family.
- The boy's parents are depicted as secular and modern, viewing religion as either a business formality or a literary curiosity rather than a spiritual necessity.
- Each religious leader claims Piscine as their own, leading to a tense and incredulous standoff between the three faiths.
- The confrontation highlights the contrast between the rigid exclusivity of organized religion and Piscine's personal, multi-faith spiritual journey.
- The scene culminates in a moment of intense social pressure as all parties demand an explanation for the boy's triple religious life.
When I saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror.
saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror.
When it was clear that all three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low.
The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all three of them were approaching the same people.
Each must have assumed that the others were there for some business other than pastoral and had rudely
chosen that moment to deal with it Glances of displeasure were exchanged.
My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently blocked by three broadly smiling religious strangers. I
should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father saw himself as part of the New India-rich,
modern and as secular as ice cream. He didn't have a religious bone in his body. He was a businessman,
pronounced busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned with
inbreeding among the lions than any overarching moral or existential scheme. It's true that he had all new
animals blessed by a priest and there were two small shrines at the zoo, one to Lord Ganesha and one to
Hanuman, gods likely to please a zoo director, what with the first having the head of an elephant and the
second being a monkey, but Father's calculation was that this was good for business, not good for his soul, a
matter of public relations rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worry was alien to him; it was financial
worry that rocked his being. "One epidemic in the collection," he used to say, "and we'll end up in a road crew
breaking up stones." Mother was mum, bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and a Baptist
education had precisely cancelled each other out as far as religion was concerned and had left her serenely
impious. I suspect she suspected that I had a different take on the matter, but she never said anything when as
a child I devoured the comic books of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and an illustrated children's Bible
and other stories of the gods. She herself was a big reader. She was pleased to see me with my nose buried in a
book, any book, so long as it wasn't naughty. As for Ravi, if Lord Krishna had held a cricket bat rather than a
flute, if Christ had appeared more plainly to him as an umpire, if the prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him,
had shown some notions of bowling, he might have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn't, and so he
slumbered.
After the "Hellos" and the "Good days", there was an awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with
pride in his voice, "Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon."
My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised.
"You must be mistaken. He's a good Muslim boy. He comes without fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge
of the Holy Qur'an is coming along nicely." So said the imam.
My parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous.
The pandit spoke. "You're both wrong. He's a good Hindu boy. l see him all the time at the temple coming for
darshan and performing puja."
My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.
"There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian."
"I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted the imam.
"Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!"
The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving.
Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.
Page 37
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
All eyes fell upon me.
"Piscine, can this be true?" asked the imam earnestly. "Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many
gods."
The Three Wise Men
- Piscine's secret practice of three different religions is exposed when his parents encounter his priest, imam, and pandit simultaneously.
- The three religious leaders engage in a heated theological debate, each claiming exclusive ownership over the boy's soul.
- The argument quickly devolves into a series of petty insults and cultural stereotypes regarding the history and rituals of each faith.
- Pi's father is forced to intervene as a secular mediator, reminding the angry men of the legal freedom of religion in India.
- The conflict highlights the irony of religious leaders preaching divinity while displaying intense human intolerance and pride.
The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving. Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.
My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.
"There is no mistake," said the priest. "I know this boy. He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he's a Christian."
"I know him too, and I tell you he's a Muslim," asserted the imam.
"Nonsense!" cried the pandit. "Piscine was born a Hindu, lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!"
The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and disbelieving.
Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.
Page 37
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
All eyes fell upon me.
"Piscine, can this be true?" asked the imam earnestly. "Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many
gods."
"And Muslims have many wives," responded the pandit.
The priest looked askance at both of them. "Piscine," he nearly whispered, "there is salvation only in Jesus."
"Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion," said the pandit.
"They strayed long ago from God's path," said the imam.
"Where's God in your religion?" snapped the priest. "You don't have a single miracle to show for it. What kind
of religion is that, without miracles?"
"It isn't a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs all the time, that's what! We Muslims stick to the
essential miracle of existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing-these are miracles enough for us."
"Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know that God is truly with us."
"Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be with you-you tried to kill him! You banged him to a
cross with great big nails. Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? The prophet Muhammad-peace be upon
him-brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and died at a ripe old age."
"The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in the middle of the desert? Those were drooling
epileptic fits brought on by the swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun frying his brains!"
"If the Prophet-p.b.u.h.-were alive, he would have choice words for you," replied the imam, with narrowed
eyes.
"Well, he's not! Christ is alive, while your old 'p.b.u.h.' is dead, dead, dead!"
The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said, "The real question is, why is Piscine dallying with these
foreign religions?"
The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out of their heads. They were both native Tamils.
"God is universal," spluttered the priest.
The imam nodded strong approval. "There is only one God."
"And with their one god Muslims are always causing troubles and provoking riots. The proof of how bad
Islam is, is how uncivilized Muslims are," pronounced the pandit.
"Says the slave-driver of the caste system," huffed the imam. "Hindus enslave people and worship dressed-up
dolls."
"They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows," the priest chimed in.
Page 38
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the flunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of
all non-white people."
"And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the imam for good measure.
"What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether Piscine wants real religion-or myths
from a cartoon strip."
"God-or idols," intoned the imam gravely.
"Our gods-or colonial gods," hissed the pandit.
It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if might come to blows.
Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you there is
freedom of practice in this country."
The Conflict of Faiths
- Religious leaders from Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam confront Pi's parents, demanding that the boy choose a single faith.
- The three men argue over the validity of their respective religions while displaying a comical, simultaneous outrage at Pi's pluralism.
- Pi defends his multi-faith practice by quoting Gandhi and stating that his only true desire is simply to love God.
- Pi's father defuses the tension with a secular offer of ice cream, though Pi's brother Ravi later subjects him to relentless teasing.
- The encounter highlights the tension between institutional religious exclusivity and Pi's personal, inclusive spiritual journey.
Bapu Gandhi said, 'All religions are true.' I just want to love God.
"And they eat pigs and are cannibals," added the imam for good measure.
"What it comes down to," the priest put out with cool rage, "is whether Piscine wants real religion-or myths
from a cartoon strip."
"God-or idols," intoned the imam gravely.
"Our gods-or colonial gods," hissed the pandit.
It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It looked as if might come to blows.
Father raised his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen, please!" he interjected. "I would like to remind you there is
freedom of practice in this country."
Three apoplectic faces turned to him.
"Yes! Practice-singular!" the wise men screamed in unison. Three index fingers, like punctuation marks,
jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.
They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers
came down quickly, and they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss for
words.
The pandit spoke first. "Mr. Patel, Piscine's piety is admirable. In these troubled times it's good to see a boy so
keen on God. We all agree on that." The imam and the priest nodded. "But he can't be a Hindu, a Christian and
a Muslim. It's impossible. He must choose."
"I don't think it's a crime, but I suppose you're right," Father replied.
The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as did Father, whence they felt the decision must
come. Mother looked at me.
A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.
"Hmmm, Piscine?" Mother nudged me. "How do you feel about the question?"
"Bapu Gandhi said, 'All religions are true.' I just want to love God," I blurted out, and looked down, red in the
face.
My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It happened that we were not far from the statue of
Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma
walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater attention to my heart. Father
cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, "I suppose that's what we're all trying to do-love God."
I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who hadn't stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I
had had the faculty of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can't reprimand a boy for wanting to love
God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff, grudging smiles on their faces.
Page 39
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, then thought better, said, "Ice cream, anyone?" and headed for
the closest ice cream wallah before we could answer. Mother gazed at me a little longer, with an expression
that was both tender and perplexed.
That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Father bought three ice cream sandwiches. We ate them in
unusual silence as we continued on our Sunday walk.
CHAPTER 24
Ravi had a field day of it when he found out.
"So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" he said, bringing the palms of his hands together in front
of his face in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" He crossed himself. "Or will it be to Rome for your
coronation as the next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter, making clear the spelling of his Mockery.
"Have you found time yet to get the end of your pecker cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if
you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only
need to convert to three more religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life."
And other lampoonery of such kind.
CHAPTER 25
The Multi-Faith Dilemma
- Pi's brother, Ravi, mercilessly mocks Pi's attempt to practice Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam simultaneously.
- The narrator criticizes self-righteous religious defenders who prioritize protecting God's reputation over helping the suffering and the poor.
- Pi argues that the true battlefield for morality is the human heart rather than public displays of religious purity.
- Pi approaches his father to request both a Christian baptism and a Muslim prayer rug, sparking a debate about religious exclusivity.
- His father expresses confusion and embarrassment at Pi's simple declaration of love for God, insisting that religions must remain separate.
The main battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart.
Ravi had a field day of it when he found out.
"So, Swami Jesus, will you go on the hajj this year?" he said, bringing the palms of his hands together in front
of his face in a reverent namaskar. "Does Mecca beckon?" He crossed himself. "Or will it be to Rome for your
coronation as the next Pope Pius?" He drew in the air a Greek letter, making clear the spelling of his Mockery.
"Have you found time yet to get the end of your pecker cut off and become a Jew? At the rate you're going, if
you go to temple on Thursday, mosque on Friday, synagogue on Saturday and church on Sunday, you only
need to convert to three more religions to be on holiday for the rest of your life."
And other lampoonery of such kind.
CHAPTER 25
And that wasn't the end of it. There are always those who take it upon themselves to defend God, as if
Ultimate Reality, as if the sustaining frame of existence, were something weak and helpless. These people
walk by a widow deformed by leprosy begging for a few paise, walk by children dressed in rags living in the
street, and they think, "Business as usual." But if they perceive a slight against God, it is a different story.
Their faces go red, their chests heave mightily, they sputter angry words. The degree of their indignation is
astonishing. Their resolve is frightening.
These people fail to realize that it is on the inside that God must be defended, not on the outside. They should
direct their anger at themselves. For evil in the open is but evil from within that has been let out. The main
battlefield for good is not the open ground of the public arena but the small clearing of each heart. Meanwhile,
the lot of widows and homeless children is very hard, and it is to their defence, not God's, that the
self-righteous should rush.
Once an oaf chased me away from the Great Mosque. When I went to church the priest glared at me so that I
could not feel the peace of Christ. A Brahmin sometimes shooed me away from darshan. My religious doings
were reported to my parents in the hushed, urgent tones of treason revealed.
As if this small-mindedness did God any good.
To me, religion is about our dignity, not our depravity.
I stopped attending Mass at Our Lady of Immaculate Conception and went instead to Our Lady of Angels. I no
longer lingered after Friday prayer among my brethren. I went to temple at crowded times when the Brahmins
Page 40
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
were too distracted to come between God and me.
CHAPTER 26
A few days after the meeting on the esplanade, I took my courage into my hands and went to see Father at his
office.
"Father?"
"Yes, Piscine."
"I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug."
My words intruded slowly. He looked up from his papers after some seconds.
"A what? What?"
"I would like to pray outside without getting my pants dirty. And I'm attending a Christian school without
having received the proper baptism of Christ."
"Why do you want to pray outside? In fact, why do you want to pray at all?"
"Because I love God."
"Aha." He seemed taken aback by my answer, nearly embarrassed by it. There was a pause. I thought he was
going to offer me ice cream again. "Well, Petit Seminaire is Christian only in name. There are many Hindu
boys there who aren't Christians. You'll get just as good an education without being baptized. Praying to Allah
won't make any difference, either."
"But I want to pray to Allah. I want to be a Christian."
"You can't be both. You must be either one or the other."
"Why can't I be both?"
"They're separate religions! They have nothing in common."
"That's not what they say! They both claim Abraham as theirs. Muslims say the God of the Hebrews and
Christians is the same as the God of the Muslims. They recognize David, Moses and Jesus as prophets."
"What does this have to do with us, Piscine? We're Indians!"
One Nation in the Sky
- Piscine challenges his father's insistence that he must choose a single religion, arguing that Christianity and Islam share common roots.
- His mother attempts to distract him with literature, but Piscine remains firm in his desire for both a prayer rug and baptism.
- Piscine uses a clever analogy about dual citizenship to argue that one should be able to hold multiple 'passports' for the kingdom of heaven.
- The parents find themselves in a stalemate, each trying to pass the responsibility of addressing their son's religious zeal to the other.
If there's only one nation in the sky, shouldn't all passports be valid for it?
"Aha." He seemed taken aback by my answer, nearly embarrassed by it. There was a pause. I thought he was
going to offer me ice cream again. "Well, Petit Seminaire is Christian only in name. There are many Hindu
boys there who aren't Christians. You'll get just as good an education without being baptized. Praying to Allah
won't make any difference, either."
"But I want to pray to Allah. I want to be a Christian."
"You can't be both. You must be either one or the other."
"Why can't I be both?"
"They're separate religions! They have nothing in common."
"That's not what they say! They both claim Abraham as theirs. Muslims say the God of the Hebrews and
Christians is the same as the God of the Muslims. They recognize David, Moses and Jesus as prophets."
"What does this have to do with us, Piscine? We're Indians!"
"There have been Christians and Muslims in India for centuries! Some people say Jesus is buried in Kashmir."
He said nothing, only looked at me, his brow furrowed. Suddenly business called.
"Talk to Mother about it."
Page 41
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
She was reading.
"Mother?"
"Yes, darling."
"I would like to be baptized and I would like a prayer rug."
"Talk to Father about it."
"I did. He told me to talk to you about it."
"Did he?" She laid her book down. She looked out in the direction of the zoo. At that moment I'm sure Father
felt a blow of chill air against the back of his neck. She turned to the bookshelf. "I have a book here that you'll
like." She already had her arm out, reaching for a volume. It was Robert Louis Stevenson. This was her usual
tactic.
"I've already read that, Mother. Three times."
"Oh." Her arm hovered to the left.
"The same with Conan Doyle," I said.
Her arm swung to the right. "R. K. Narayan? You can't possibly have read all of Narayan?"
"These matters are important to me, Mother."
"Robinson Crusoe!"
"Mother!"
"But Piscine!" she said. She settled back into her chair, a path-of-least-resistance look on her face, which
meant I had to put up a stiff fight in precisely the right spots. She adjusted a cushion. "Father and I find your
religious zeal a bit of a mystery."
"It is a Mystery."
"Hmmm. I don't mean it that way. Listen, my darling, if you're going to be religious, you must be either a
Hindu, a Christian or a Muslim. You heard what they said on the esplanade."
"I don't see why I can't be all three. Mamaji has two passports. He's Indian and French. Why can't I be a
Hindu, a Christian and a Muslim?"
"That's different. France and India are nations on earth."
"How many nations are there in the sky?"
She thought for a second. "One. That's the point. One nation, one passport."
"One nation in the sky?"
Page 42
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Yes. Or none. There's that option too, you know. These are terribly old-fashioned things you've taken to."
"If there's only one nation in the sky, shouldn't all passports be valid for it?"
A cloud of uncertainty came over her face.
"Bapu Gandhi said-"
"Yes, I know what Bapu Gandhi said." She brought a hand to her forehead. She had a weary look, Mother did.
"Good grief," she said.
CHAPTER 27
Later that evening I overheard my parents speaking.
"You said yes?" said Father.
"I believe he asked you too. You referred him to me," replied Mother.
"Did I?"
"You did."
"I had a very busy day..."
"You're not busy now. You're quite comfortably unemployed by the looks of it. If you want to march into his
room and pull the prayer rug from under his feet and discuss the question of Christian baptism with him,
please go ahead. I won't object."
A Different Drumbeat
- Pi's parents discuss his sudden and intense devotion to three different religions: Hinduism, Christianity, and Islam.
- Father expresses frustration that Pi is not a 'normal' boy interested in secular things like cricket or movies.
- The dialogue highlights a generational clash between Father's belief in modern progress and Pi's spiritual exploration.
- Father specifically struggles with Pi's adoption of Islam, viewing it as 'foreign' compared to the more familiar Hindu and Christian traditions.
- Mother takes a more tolerant, though weary, stance, suggesting that Pi's religious fervor might just be a passing phase.
He seems to be attracting religions the way a dog attracts fleas.
"Yes, I know what Bapu Gandhi said." She brought a hand to her forehead. She had a weary look, Mother did.
"Good grief," she said.
CHAPTER 27
Later that evening I overheard my parents speaking.
"You said yes?" said Father.
"I believe he asked you too. You referred him to me," replied Mother.
"Did I?"
"You did."
"I had a very busy day..."
"You're not busy now. You're quite comfortably unemployed by the looks of it. If you want to march into his
room and pull the prayer rug from under his feet and discuss the question of Christian baptism with him,
please go ahead. I won't object."
"No, no." I could tell from his voice that Father was settling deeper into his chair. There was a pause.
"He seems to be attracting religions the way a dog attracts fleas, he pursued. "I don't understand it. We're a
modern Indian family; we live in a modern way, India is on the cusp of becoming a truly modern and
advanced nation-and here we've produced a son who thinks he's the reincarnation of Sri Ramakrishna."
"If Mrs. Gandhi is what being modern and advanced is about, I'm not sure I like it," Mother said.
"Mrs. Gandhi will pass! Progress is unstoppable. It is a drumbeat to which we must all march. Technology
helps and good ideas spread-these are two laws of nature. If you don't let technology help you, if you resist
good ideas, you condemn yourself to dinosaurhood! I am utterly convinced of this. Mrs. Gandhi and her
foolishness will pass. The New India will come."
(Indeed she would pass. And the New India, or one family of it, would decide to move to Canada.)
Father went on: "Did you hear when he said, 'Bapu Gandhi said, "All religions are true'"?"
"Yes."
Page 43
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Bapu Gandhi? The boy is getting to be on affectionate terms with Gandhi? After Daddy Gandhi, what next?
Uncle Jesus? And what's this nonsense-has he really become a Muslim?"
"It seems so."
"A Muslim! A devout Hindu, all right, I can understand. A Christian in addition, it's getting to be a bit strange,
but I can stretch my mind. The Christians have been here for a long time-Saint Thomas, Saint Francis Xavier,
the missionaries and so on. We owe them good schools."
"Yes."
"So all that I can sort of accept. But Muslim? It's totally foreign to our tradition. They're outsiders."
"They've been here a very long time too. They're a hundred times more numerous than the Christians."
"That makes no difference. They're outsiders."
"Perhaps Piscine is marching to a different drumbeat of progress."
"You're defending the boy? You don't mind it that he's fancying himself a Muslim?"
"What can we do, Santosh? He's taken it to heart, and it's not doing anyone any harm. Maybe it's just a phase.
It too may pass-like Mrs. Gandhi."
"Why can't he have the normal interests of a boy his age? Look at Ravi. All he can think about is cricket,
movies and music."
"You think that's better?"
"No, no. Oh, I don't know what to think. It's been a long day." He sighed. "I wonder how far he'll go with these
interests."
Mother chuckled. "Last week he finished a book called The Imitation of Christ."
"The Imitation of Christ! I say again, I wonder how far he'll go with these interests!" cried Father.
They laughed.
CHAPTER 28
Faith and Migration
- Pi's parents express concern and amusement over his intense spiritual interests, such as reading 'The Imitation of Christ'.
- The protagonist describes the profound sense of sacredness and belonging he finds while using his prayer rug in the garden.
- Pi undergoes a Christian baptism, an event met with a mix of parental skepticism and sibling mockery.
- The narrative shifts to the universal motivations behind migration, framing it as a difficult quest for a better life.
The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beaker's worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.
It too may pass-like Mrs. Gandhi."
"Why can't he have the normal interests of a boy his age? Look at Ravi. All he can think about is cricket,
movies and music."
"You think that's better?"
"No, no. Oh, I don't know what to think. It's been a long day." He sighed. "I wonder how far he'll go with these
interests."
Mother chuckled. "Last week he finished a book called The Imitation of Christ."
"The Imitation of Christ! I say again, I wonder how far he'll go with these interests!" cried Father.
They laughed.
CHAPTER 28
I loved my prayer rug. Ordinary in quality though it was, it glowed with beauty in my eyes. I'm sorry I lost it.
Wherever I laid it I felt special affection for the patch of ground beneath it and the immediate surroundings,
which to me is a clear indication that it was a good prayer rug because it helped me remember that the earth is
the creation of God and sacred the same all over. The pattern, in gold lines upon a background of red, was
plain: a narrow rectangle with a triangular peak at one extremity to indicate the qibla, the direction of prayer,
and little curlicues floating around it, like wisps of smoke or accents from a strange language. The pile was
soft. When I prayed, the short, unknotted tassels were inches from the tip of my forehead at one end of the
carpet and inches from the tip of my toes at the other, a cozy size to make you feel at home anywhere upon
Page 44
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
this vast earth.
I prayed outside because I liked it. Most often I unrolled my prayer rug in a corner of the yard behind the
house. It was a secluded spot in the shade of a coral tree, next to a wall that was covered with bougainvillea.
Along the length of the wall was a row of potted poinsettias. The bougainvillea had also crept through the tree.
The contrast between its purple bracts and the red flowers of the tree was very pretty. And when that tree was
in bloom, it was a regular aviary of crows, mynahs, babblers, rosy pastors, sunbirds and parakeets. The wall
was to my right, at a wide angle. Ahead of me and to my left, beyond the milky, mottled shade of the tree, lay
the sundrenched open space of the yard. The appearance of things changed, of course, depending on the
weather, the time of day, the time of year. But it's all very clear in my memory, as if it never changed. I faced
Mecca with the help of a line I scratched into the pale yellow ground and carefully kept up.
Sometimes, upon finishing my prayers, I would turn and catch sight of Father or Mother or Ravi observing
me, until they got used to the sight.
My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. Mother played along nicely, Father looked on stonily, and Ravi
was mercifully absent because of a cricket match, which did not prevent him from commenting at great length
on the event. The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beaker's worth, it had the
refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.
CHAPTER 29
Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they've known for a great unknown
beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a beggar? Why
enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult?
The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life.
Faith and Political Unrest
- The narrator describes his private religious rituals, finding peace in a vibrant, bird-filled corner of the yard while facing Mecca.
- Despite his family's mixed reactions, the narrator undergoes a Christian baptism that he likens to the refreshing power of a monsoon rain.
- The narrative shifts to the universal motivations for migration, framing it as a difficult quest for a better life amidst uncertainty.
- Political instability in 1970s India under Indira Gandhi begins to threaten the family's sense of security, specifically impacting the father's outlook.
- While the narrator remains focused on the timeless nature of the zoo and God, his father becomes increasingly burdened by the country's dictatorial shift.
The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beaker's worth, it had the refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.
this vast earth.
I prayed outside because I liked it. Most often I unrolled my prayer rug in a corner of the yard behind the
house. It was a secluded spot in the shade of a coral tree, next to a wall that was covered with bougainvillea.
Along the length of the wall was a row of potted poinsettias. The bougainvillea had also crept through the tree.
The contrast between its purple bracts and the red flowers of the tree was very pretty. And when that tree was
in bloom, it was a regular aviary of crows, mynahs, babblers, rosy pastors, sunbirds and parakeets. The wall
was to my right, at a wide angle. Ahead of me and to my left, beyond the milky, mottled shade of the tree, lay
the sundrenched open space of the yard. The appearance of things changed, of course, depending on the
weather, the time of day, the time of year. But it's all very clear in my memory, as if it never changed. I faced
Mecca with the help of a line I scratched into the pale yellow ground and carefully kept up.
Sometimes, upon finishing my prayers, I would turn and catch sight of Father or Mother or Ravi observing
me, until they got used to the sight.
My baptism was a slightly awkward affair. Mother played along nicely, Father looked on stonily, and Ravi
was mercifully absent because of a cricket match, which did not prevent him from commenting at great length
on the event. The water trickled down my face and down my neck; though just a beaker's worth, it had the
refreshing effect of a monsoon rain.
CHAPTER 29
Why do people move? What makes them uproot and leave everything they've known for a great unknown
beyond the horizon? Why climb this Mount Everest of formalities that makes you feel like a beggar? Why
enter this jungle of foreignness where everything is new, strange and difficult?
The answer is the same the world over: people move in the hope of a better life.
The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered that from the deep furrows that appeared on Father's
forehead when he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversation that I caught between him and Mother and
Mamaji and others. It's not that I didn't understand the drift of what they said-it's that I wasn't interested. The
orang-utans were as eager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never asked after the news from Delhi; the rhinos
and goats continued to live in peace; the birds twittered; the clouds carried rain; the sun was hot; the earth
breathed; God was-there was no Emergency in my world.
Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976, the Tamil Nadu government was brought down
by Delhi. It had been one of Mrs. Gandhi's most vocal critics. The takeover was smoothly enforced-Chief
Minister Karunanidhi's ministry vanished quietly into "resignation" or house arrest-and what does the fall of
one local government matter when the whole country's Constitution has been suspended these last eight
months? But it was to Father the crowning touch in Mrs. Gandhi's dictatorial takeover of the nation. The
came1 at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back.
He shouted, "Soon she'll come down to our zoo and tell us that her jails are full, she needs more space. Could
we put Desai with the lions?"
Morarji Desai was an opposition politician. No friend of Mrs. Gandhi's. It makes me sad, my father's ceaseless
worrying. Mrs. Gandhi could have personally bombed the zoo, it would have been fine with me if Father had
been gay about it. I wish he hadn't fretted so much. It's hard on a son to see his father sick with worry.
Page 45
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Collapse of New India
- The political instability of the mid-1970s Emergency in India begins to encroach upon the peaceful, apolitical world of the Pondicherry Zoo.
- The narrator's father views the suspension of the Constitution and the takeover of local government as a direct threat to the zoo's survival.
- A zoo is described as a precarious cultural institution that requires democratic stability and the rule of law to remain viable as a business.
- Driven by the wear and tear of political anxiety and a lack of faith in the future, the narrator's parents decide to emigrate from India to Canada.
- The children are shocked by the announcement, as Canada represents an unimaginably distant and alien concept compared to their familiar world.
The camel at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back.
The mid-1970s were troubled times in India. I gathered that from the deep furrows that appeared on Father's
forehead when he read the papers. Or from snippets of conversation that I caught between him and Mother and
Mamaji and others. It's not that I didn't understand the drift of what they said-it's that I wasn't interested. The
orang-utans were as eager for chapattis as ever; the monkeys never asked after the news from Delhi; the rhinos
and goats continued to live in peace; the birds twittered; the clouds carried rain; the sun was hot; the earth
breathed; God was-there was no Emergency in my world.
Mrs. Gandhi finally got the best of Father. In February 1976, the Tamil Nadu government was brought down
by Delhi. It had been one of Mrs. Gandhi's most vocal critics. The takeover was smoothly enforced-Chief
Minister Karunanidhi's ministry vanished quietly into "resignation" or house arrest-and what does the fall of
one local government matter when the whole country's Constitution has been suspended these last eight
months? But it was to Father the crowning touch in Mrs. Gandhi's dictatorial takeover of the nation. The
came1 at the zoo was unfazed, but that straw broke Father's back.
He shouted, "Soon she'll come down to our zoo and tell us that her jails are full, she needs more space. Could
we put Desai with the lions?"
Morarji Desai was an opposition politician. No friend of Mrs. Gandhi's. It makes me sad, my father's ceaseless
worrying. Mrs. Gandhi could have personally bombed the zoo, it would have been fine with me if Father had
been gay about it. I wish he hadn't fretted so much. It's hard on a son to see his father sick with worry.
Page 45
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and none more so than small b business, the one that risks
the shirt on its back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, like a museum, it is at the service of
popular education and science. And by this token, not much of a money-making venture, for the Greater Good
and the Greater Profit are not compatible aims, much to Father's chagrin. The truth was, we were not a rich
family, certainly not by Canadian standards. We were a poor family that happened to own a lot of animals,
though not the roof above their heads (or above ours, for that matter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its
inhabitants in the wild, is precarious. It is neither big enough a business to be above the law nor small enough
to survive on its margins. To prosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democratic elections, freedom of
speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India's
Constitution. Impossible to enjoy the animals otherwise. Long-term, bad politics is bad for business.
People move because of the wear and tear of anxiety. Because of the gnawing feeling that no matter how hard
they work their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up in one year will be torn down in one day by
others. Because of the impression that the future is blocked up, that they might do all right but not their
children Because of the feeling that nothing will change, that happiness and prosperity are possible only
somewhere else.
The New India split to pieces and collapsed in Father's mind. Mother assented. We would bolt.
It was announced to us one evening during dinner. Ravi and I were thunderstruck. Canada! If Andhra Pradesh,
just north of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey's hop across a strait, was the dark side of the moon, imagine
what Canada was. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like Timbuktu, by definition a place
permanently far away.
CHAPTER 30
Precarious Lives and New Beginnings
- The narrator's father struggles with the financial instability of running a zoo, which functions more as a cultural institution than a profitable business.
- Political instability in India leads the family to conclude that their future and prosperity are only possible through emigration.
- The announcement of moving to Canada shocks the children, who view the distant country as an abstract and alien concept.
- In the present day, the narrator discovers that adult Pi is married to a pharmacist named Meena, a fact Pi had previously kept private.
- The narrator reflects on Pi's shyness and his tendency to hide what is most precious to him to protect it from the world.
Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like Timbuktu, by definition a place permanently far away.
But worry he did. Any business is risky business, and none more so than small b business, the one that risks
the shirt on its back. A zoo is a cultural institution. Like a public library, like a museum, it is at the service of
popular education and science. And by this token, not much of a money-making venture, for the Greater Good
and the Greater Profit are not compatible aims, much to Father's chagrin. The truth was, we were not a rich
family, certainly not by Canadian standards. We were a poor family that happened to own a lot of animals,
though not the roof above their heads (or above ours, for that matter). The life of a zoo, like the life of its
inhabitants in the wild, is precarious. It is neither big enough a business to be above the law nor small enough
to survive on its margins. To prosper, a zoo needs parliamentary government, democratic elections, freedom of
speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association, rule of law and everything else enshrined in India's
Constitution. Impossible to enjoy the animals otherwise. Long-term, bad politics is bad for business.
People move because of the wear and tear of anxiety. Because of the gnawing feeling that no matter how hard
they work their efforts will yield nothing, that what they build up in one year will be torn down in one day by
others. Because of the impression that the future is blocked up, that they might do all right but not their
children Because of the feeling that nothing will change, that happiness and prosperity are possible only
somewhere else.
The New India split to pieces and collapsed in Father's mind. Mother assented. We would bolt.
It was announced to us one evening during dinner. Ravi and I were thunderstruck. Canada! If Andhra Pradesh,
just north of us, was alien, if Sri Lanka, a monkey's hop across a strait, was the dark side of the moon, imagine
what Canada was. Canada meant absolutely nothing to us. It was like Timbuktu, by definition a place
permanently far away.
CHAPTER 30
He's married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off, when I hear him say, "I would like you to meet my wife." I
look up and there beside him is... Mrs. Patel. "Hello," she says, extending her hand and smiling. "Piscine has
been telling me lots about you." I cant say the same of her. I had no idea. She's on her way out, so we talk only
a few minutes. She's also Indian but has a more typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation.
She's a little younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and
lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She's a
pharmacist. When I say "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel," she replies, "Please, make it Meena."'After a quick
kiss between husband and wife, she's off on a working Saturday.
This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were there
all along, but I hadn't seen them because I wasn't looking for them.
He's a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him.
Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?
"I've made a special chutney for you," he says. He's smiling.
No, he is.
Page 46
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 31
They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to
see the zoo. "All these years and I've never seen it. It's so close by, too. Will you show it to me?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," I replied. "It would be an honour."
Hidden Lives and Dual Mentors
- The narrator discovers that the adult Piscine is married to a pharmacist named Meena, realizing he had overlooked signs of her presence in the house.
- Piscine reflects on how his host is a shy man who protects what is most precious to him by not displaying it openly.
- A flashback recounts a stressful meeting at the zoo between Piscine and the Sufi baker, Mr. Kumar, whom Piscine fears he will not recognize in a crowd.
- The narrative highlights the contrast between Piscine's two mentors, both named Mr. Kumar, who represent different worldviews but share a connection to him.
- Piscine's anxiety about social perception is revealed through his fear that the baker would feel rejected if not immediately recognized.
He's a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him.
He's married. I am bent down, taking my shoes off, when I hear him say, "I would like you to meet my wife." I
look up and there beside him is... Mrs. Patel. "Hello," she says, extending her hand and smiling. "Piscine has
been telling me lots about you." I cant say the same of her. I had no idea. She's on her way out, so we talk only
a few minutes. She's also Indian but has a more typically Canadian accent. She must be second generation.
She's a little younger than him, skin slightly darker, long black hair woven in a tress. Bright dark eyes and
lovely white teeth. She has in her arms a dry-cleaned white lab coat in a protective plastic film. She's a
pharmacist. When I say "Nice meeting you, Mrs. Patel," she replies, "Please, make it Meena."'After a quick
kiss between husband and wife, she's off on a working Saturday.
This house is more than a box full of icons. I start noticing small signs of conjugal existence. They were there
all along, but I hadn't seen them because I wasn't looking for them.
He's a shy man. Life has taught him not to show off what is most precious to him.
Is she the nemesis of my digestive tract?
"I've made a special chutney for you," he says. He's smiling.
No, he is.
Page 46
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 31
They met once, Mr. and Mr. Kumar, the baker and the teacher. The first Mr. Kumar had expressed the wish to
see the zoo. "All these years and I've never seen it. It's so close by, too. Will you show it to me?" he asked.
"Yes, of course," I replied. "It would be an honour."
We agreed to meet at the main gate the next day after school.
I worried all that day. I scolded myself, "You fool! Why did you say the main gate? At any time there will be a
crowd of people there. Have you forgotten how plain he looks? You'll never recognize him!" If I walked by
him without seeing him he would be hurt. He would think I had changed my mind and didn't want to be seen
with a poor Muslim baker. He would leave without saying a word. He wouldn't be angry-he would accept my
claims that it was the sun in my eyes-but he wouldn't want to come to the zoo any more. I could see it
happening that way. I had to recognize him. I would hide and wait until I was certain it was him, that's what I
would do. But I had noticed before that it was when I tried my hardest to recognize him that I was least able to
pick him out. The very effort seemed to blind me.
At the appointed hour I stood squarely before the main gate of the zoo and started rubbing my eyes with both
hands.
"What are you doing?"
It was Raj, a friend.
"I'm busy."
"You're busy rubbing your eyes?"
"Go away."
"Let's go to Beach Road."
"I'm waiting for someone."
"Well, you'll miss him if you keep rubbing your eyes like that."
"Thank you for the information. Have fun on Beach Road."
"How about Government Park?"
"I can't, I tell you."
"Come on."
"Please, Raj, move on!"
He left. I went back to rubbing my eyes.
Page 47
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Will you help me with my math homework, Pi?"
It was Ajith, another friend.
"Later. Go away."
"Hello, Piscine."
It was Mrs. Radhakrishna, a friend of Mother's. In a few more words I eased her on her way.
"Excuse me. Where's Laporte Street?"
A stranger.
"That way."
"How much is admission to the zoo?"
Another stranger.
"Five rupees. The ticket booth is right there."
"Has the chlorine got to your eyes?"
It was Mamaji.
"Hello, Mamaji. No, it hasn't."
"Is your father around?"
"I think so."
"See you tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Mamaji."
"I am here, Piscine."
My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile
welling up in me.
"Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you."
"Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with your eyes?"
"No, nothing. Just a bit of dust."
"They look quite red."
"It's nothing."
Page 48
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
He headed for the ticket booth but I called him back.
"No, no. Not for you, master."
The Two Mr. Kumars
- Pi hosts his two mentors, both named Mr. Kumarโone a Sufi mystic and the other an atheistic biology teacherโat the family zoo.
- The biology teacher marvels at the functional design of the animals, viewing the natural world through the lens of reason and evolution.
- The Sufi baker experiences the zoo through a lens of faith, praising the zebra as a wondrous creation of God.
- Despite their opposing worldviews, both men share a moment of pure wonder while feeding a zebra, highlighting Pi's ability to bridge science and spirituality.
- The chapter concludes by introducing zoomorphism, the phenomenon where animals perceive other species as their own kind.
Mr. Kumar said, 'Equus burchelli boehmi.' Mr. Kumar said, 'Allahu akbar.'
"Is your father around?"
"I think so."
"See you tomorrow morning."
"Yes, Mamaji."
"I am here, Piscine."
My hands froze over my eyes. That voice. Strange in a familiar way, familiar in a strange way. I felt a smile
welling up in me.
"Salaam alaykum, Mr. Kumar! How good to see you."
"Wa alaykum as-salaam. Is something wrong with your eyes?"
"No, nothing. Just a bit of dust."
"They look quite red."
"It's nothing."
Page 48
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
He headed for the ticket booth but I called him back.
"No, no. Not for you, master."
It was with pride that I waved the ticket collector's hand away and showed Mr. Kumar into the zoo.
He marvelled at everything, at how to tall trees came tall giraffes, how carnivores were supplied with
herbivores and herbivores with grass, how some creatures crowded the day and others the night, how some
that needed sharp beaks had sharp beaks and others that needed limber limbs had limber limbs. It made me
happy that he was so impressed.
He quoted from the Holy Qur'an: "In all this there are messages indeed for a people who use their reason."
We came to the zebras. Mr. Kumar had never heard of such creatures, let alone seen one. He was
dumbfounded.
"They're called zebras," I said.
"Have they been painted with a brush?"
"No, no. They look like that naturally."
"What happens when it rains?"
"Nothing."
"The stripes don't melt?"
"No."
I had brought some carrots. There was one left, a large and sturdy specimen. I took it out of the bag. At that
moment I heard a slight scraping of gravel to my right. It was Mr. Kumar, coming up to the railing in his usual
limping and rolling gait.
"Hello, sir."
"Hello, Pi."
The baker, a shy but dignified man, nodded at the teacher, who nodded back.
An alert zebra had noticed my carrot and had come up to the low fence. It twitched its ears and stamped the
ground softly. I broke the carrot in two and gave one half to Mr. Kumar and one half to Mr. Kumar. "Thank
you, Piscine," said one; "Thank you, Pi," said the other. Mr. Kumar went first, dipping his hand over the fence.
The zebra's thick, strong, black lips grasped the carrot eagerly. Mr. Kumar wouldn't let go. The zebra sank its
teeth into the carrot and snapped it in two. It crunched loudly on the treat for a few seconds, then reached for
the remaining piece, lips flowing over Mr. Kumar's fingertips. He released the carrot and touched the zebra's
soft nose.
It was Mr. Kumar's turn. He wasn't so demanding of the zebra. Once it had his half of the carrot between its
lips, he let go. The lips hurriedly moved the carrot into the mouth.
Page 49
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mr. and Mr. Kumar looked delighted. "A zebra, you say?" said Mr. Kumar.
"That's right," I replied. "It belongs to the same family as the ass and the horse."
"The Rolls-Royce of equids," said Mr. Kumar.
"What a wondrous creature," said Mr. Kumar.
"This one's a Grant's zebra," I said.
Mr. Kumar said, "Equus burchelli boehmi."
Mr. Kumar said, "Allahu akbar."
I said, "It's very pretty."
We looked on.
CHAPTER 32
There are many examples of animals coming to surprising living arrangements. All are instances of that
animal equivalent of anthropomorphism: zoomorphism, where an animal takes a human being, or another
animal, to be one of its kind.
The most famous case is also the most common: the pet dog, which has so assimilated humans into the realm
The Madness of Zoomorphism
- The narrator observes a moment of shared wonder between two very different men, both named Mr. Kumar, as they admire a zebra.
- Zoomorphism is defined as the phenomenon where an animal perceives a human or a different species as one of its own kind.
- Various examples are provided of cross-species bonds, including dolphins saving sailors and a mouse that lived peacefully among vipers.
- These strange arrangements often serve as a 'saving madness' that provides essential companionship or social stability for the animals involved.
- The narrator suggests that animals may cling to these fictions to avoid the terrifying reality of being alone or motherless.
I'm sure even the adult viper, as it swallowed the mouse, must have felt somewhere in its undeveloped mind a twinge of regret, a feeling that something greater was just missed, an imaginative leap away from the lonely, crude reality of a reptile.
Mr. and Mr. Kumar looked delighted. "A zebra, you say?" said Mr. Kumar.
"That's right," I replied. "It belongs to the same family as the ass and the horse."
"The Rolls-Royce of equids," said Mr. Kumar.
"What a wondrous creature," said Mr. Kumar.
"This one's a Grant's zebra," I said.
Mr. Kumar said, "Equus burchelli boehmi."
Mr. Kumar said, "Allahu akbar."
I said, "It's very pretty."
We looked on.
CHAPTER 32
There are many examples of animals coming to surprising living arrangements. All are instances of that
animal equivalent of anthropomorphism: zoomorphism, where an animal takes a human being, or another
animal, to be one of its kind.
The most famous case is also the most common: the pet dog, which has so assimilated humans into the realm
of doghood as to want to mate with them, a fact that any dog owner who has had to pull an amorous dog from
the leg of a mortified visitor will confirm.
Our golden agouti and spotted paca got along very well, conentedly huddling together and sleeping against
each other until the first was stolen.
I have already mentioned our rhinoceros-and-goat herd, and the case of circus lions.
There are confirmed stories of drowning sailors being pushed up to the surface of the water and held there by
dolphins, a characteristic way in which these marine mammals help each other.
A case is mentioned in the literature of a stoat and a rat living in a companion relationship, while other rats
presented to the stoat were devoured by it in the typical way of stoats.
We had our own case of the freak suspension of the predator-prey relationship. We had a mouse that lived for
several weeks with the vipers. While other mice dropped in the terrarium disappeared within two days, this
little brown Methuselah built itself a nest, stored the grains we gave it in various hideaways and scampered
about in plain sight of the snakes. We were amazed. We put up a sign to bring the mouse to the public's
attention. It finally met its end in a curious way: a young viper bit it. Was the viper unaware of the mouse's
special status? Unsocialized to it, perhaps? Whatever the case, the mouse was bitten by a young viper but
devoured-and immediately-by an adult. If there was a spell, it was broken by the young one. Things returned
to normal after that. All mice disappeared down the vipers' gullets at the usual rate.
Page 50
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
In the trade, dogs are sometimes used as foster mothers for lion cubs. Though the cubs grow to become larger
than their caregiver, and far more dangerous, they never give their mother trouble and she never loses her
placid behaviour or her sense of authority over her litter. Signs have to be put up to explain to the public that
the dog is not live food left for the lions (just as we had to put up a sign pointing out that rhinoceros are
herbivores and do not eat goats).
What could be the explanation for zoomorphism? Can't a rhinoceros distinguish big from small, tough hide
from soft fur? Isn't it plain to a dolphin what a dolphin is like? I believe the answer lies in something I
mentioned earlier, that measure of madness that moves life in strange but saving ways. The golden agouti, like
the rhinoceros, was in need of companionship. The circus lions don't care to know that their leader is a
weakling human; the fiction guarantees their social well-being and staves off violent anarchy. As for the lion
cubs, they would positively keel over with fright if they knew their mother was a dog, for that would mean
they were motherless, the absolute worst condition imaginable for any young, warm-blooded life. I'm sure
even the adult viper, as it swallowed the mouse, must have felt somewhere in its undeveloped mind a twinge
of regret, a feeling that something greater was just missed, an imaginative leap away from the lonely, crude
reality of a reptile.
CHAPTER 33
Zoomorphism and Lost Memories
- The author explores zoomorphism, where animals accept different species as their own to satisfy a fundamental need for companionship and social order.
- Lions raised by dogs maintain a lifelong respect for their foster mothers, illustrating how fiction can prevent social anarchy in the animal kingdom.
- The narrator examines the protagonist's family memorabilia, noting a stark contrast between his cheerful smiles and the sadness reflected in his eyes.
- A significant gap exists in the protagonist's photographic history, as most records of his earlier life were lost during his journey across the Pacific.
- The protagonist identifies his mentor Mamaji in an old zoo photo but reveals that his father is absent from the image because he was the one behind the camera.
As for the lion cubs, they would positively keel over with fright if they knew their mother was a dog, for that would mean they were motherless, the absolute worst condition imaginable for any young, warm-blooded life.
In the trade, dogs are sometimes used as foster mothers for lion cubs. Though the cubs grow to become larger
than their caregiver, and far more dangerous, they never give their mother trouble and she never loses her
placid behaviour or her sense of authority over her litter. Signs have to be put up to explain to the public that
the dog is not live food left for the lions (just as we had to put up a sign pointing out that rhinoceros are
herbivores and do not eat goats).
What could be the explanation for zoomorphism? Can't a rhinoceros distinguish big from small, tough hide
from soft fur? Isn't it plain to a dolphin what a dolphin is like? I believe the answer lies in something I
mentioned earlier, that measure of madness that moves life in strange but saving ways. The golden agouti, like
the rhinoceros, was in need of companionship. The circus lions don't care to know that their leader is a
weakling human; the fiction guarantees their social well-being and staves off violent anarchy. As for the lion
cubs, they would positively keel over with fright if they knew their mother was a dog, for that would mean
they were motherless, the absolute worst condition imaginable for any young, warm-blooded life. I'm sure
even the adult viper, as it swallowed the mouse, must have felt somewhere in its undeveloped mind a twinge
of regret, a feeling that something greater was just missed, an imaginative leap away from the lonely, crude
reality of a reptile.
CHAPTER 33
He shows me family memorabilia. Wedding photos first. A Hindu wedding with Canada prominently on the
edges. A younger him, a younger her. They went to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon. Had a lovely time.
Smiles to prove it. We move back in time. Photos from his student days at U of T: with friends; in front of St.
Mike's; in his room; during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil's Church dressed in a white gown;
wearing another kind of white gown in a lab of the zoology department; on graduation day. A smile every
time, but his eyes tell another story.
Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ.
With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific-and there is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera did
click regularly-on all the usual important occasions-but everything was lost. What little there is consists of
what was assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events.
There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of a V.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to
me. The photo is crowded with people. A Union cabinet minister is the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in
the background. Near the edge of the group, I recognize a younger Mr. Adirubasamy.
"Mamaji?" I ask, pointing.
"Yes," he says.
There's a man next to the minister, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like a
plausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his son's.
"Is this your father?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."
There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's my father who took the picture."
Page 51
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Fading Memories and Lost Photos
- The narrator examines a sparse photo album that documents Pi's life from his youth in India to his time in Brazil.
- A significant portion of Pi's personal history was lost, leaving only a few salvaged images provided by his relative, Mamaji.
- Pi identifies a mysterious figure named Richard Parker in a blurry, out-of-focus childhood photograph.
- The most painful loss for Pi is the fading memory of his mother's face and voice, which he can no longer clearly visualize.
- The chapter concludes with the family's decision to leave India, framed by his father's optimistic comparison to Columbus.
As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she fades.
Mike's; in his room; during Diwali on Gerrard Street; reading at St. Basil's Church dressed in a white gown;
wearing another kind of white gown in a lab of the zoology department; on graduation day. A smile every
time, but his eyes tell another story.
Photos from Brazil, with plenty of three-toed sloths in situ.
With a turn of a page we jump over the Pacific-and there is next to nothing. He tells me that the camera did
click regularly-on all the usual important occasions-but everything was lost. What little there is consists of
what was assembled by Mamaji and mailed over after the events.
There is a photo taken at the zoo during the visit of a V.I.P. In black and white another world is revealed to
me. The photo is crowded with people. A Union cabinet minister is the focus of attention. There's a giraffe in
the background. Near the edge of the group, I recognize a younger Mr. Adirubasamy.
"Mamaji?" I ask, pointing.
"Yes," he says.
There's a man next to the minister, with horn-rimmed glasses and hair very cleanly combed. He looks like a
plausible Mr. Patel, face rounder than his son's.
"Is this your father?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I don't know who that is."
There's a pause of a few seconds. He says, "It's my father who took the picture."
Page 51
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
On the same page there's another group shot, mostly of schoolchildren. He taps the photo.
"That's Richard Parker," he says.
I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personality from appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white
again and a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days, casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He
doesn't even realize that his picture is being taken.
The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photo of the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's
a nice big outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean blue bottom and an attached diving pool.
The next page features a photo of the front gate of Petit Seminaire school An arch has the school's motto
painted on it: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness.
And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in four nearly irrelevant photographs.
He grows sombre.
"The worst of it," he says, "is that I can hardly remember what my mother looks like any more. I can see her in
my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with her voice. If
I saw her again in the street, it would all come back. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not to
remember what your mother looks like."
He closes the book.
CHAPTER 34
Father said, "We'll sail like Columbus!"
Fading Memories and New Horizons
- The narrator examines a few sparse, blurry photographs that serve as the only physical remnants of his entire childhood.
- He expresses a profound sense of loss regarding his mother, noting that her face and voice have begun to fade from his memory.
- The family decides to sell the Pondicherry Zoo and immigrate to Canada to seek a better life during a period of international regulatory shifts.
- The process of moving is delayed by over a year due to the complex logistics of transporting and selling the zoo's animals to various American institutions.
- Despite the financial benefits, the narrator and his brother Ravi are deeply reluctant to leave India for a cold, unfamiliar country.
As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she fades.
On the same page there's another group shot, mostly of schoolchildren. He taps the photo.
"That's Richard Parker," he says.
I'm amazed. I look closely, trying to extract personality from appearance. Unfortunately, it's black and white
again and a little out of focus. A photo taken in better days, casually. Richard Parker is looking away. He
doesn't even realize that his picture is being taken.
The opposing page is entirely taken up by a colour photo of the swimming pool of the Aurobindo Ashram. It's
a nice big outdoor pool with clear, sparkling water, a clean blue bottom and an attached diving pool.
The next page features a photo of the front gate of Petit Seminaire school An arch has the school's motto
painted on it: Nil magnum nisi bonum. No greatness without goodness.
And that's it. An entire childhood memorialized in four nearly irrelevant photographs.
He grows sombre.
"The worst of it," he says, "is that I can hardly remember what my mother looks like any more. I can see her in
my mind, but it's fleeting. As soon as I try to have a good look at her, she fades. It's the same with her voice. If
I saw her again in the street, it would all come back. But that's not likely to happen. It's very sad not to
remember what your mother looks like."
He closes the book.
CHAPTER 34
Father said, "We'll sail like Columbus!"
"He was hoping to find India," I pointed out sullenly.
We sold the zoo, lock, stock and barrel. To a new country, a new life. Besides assuring our collection of a
happy future, the transaction would pay for our immigration and leave us with a good sum to make a fresh
start in Canada (though now, when I think of it, the sum is laughable-how blinded we are by money). We
could have sold our animals to zoos in India, but American zoos were willing to pay higher prices. CITES, the
Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, had just come into effect, and the Window on the
trading of captured wild animals had slammed shut. The future of zoos would now lie with other zoos. The
Pondicherry Zoo closed shop at just the right time. There was a scramble to buy our animals. The final buyers
were a number of zoos, mainly the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and the soon-to-open Minnesota Zoo, but odd
animals were going to Los Angeles, Louisville, Oklahoma City and Cincinnati.
And two animals were being shipped to the Canada Zoo. That's how Ravi and I felt. We did not want to go.
We did not want to live in a country of gale-force winds and minus-two-hundred-degree winters. Canada was
not on the cricket map. Departure was made easier-as far as getting us used to the idea-by the time it took for
all the pre-departure preparations. It took well over a year. I don't mean for us. I mean for the animals.
Considering that animals dispense with clothes, footwear, linen, furniture, kitchenware, toiletries; that
nationality means nothing to them; that they care not a jot for passports, money, employment prospects,
Page 52
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Moving a City
- The Pondicherry Zoo closes its doors as the family prepares to immigrate to Canada for a fresh start.
- New international trade regulations (CITES) create a high demand for the zoo's animals among American institutions.
- The logistical process of moving the animals involves a year of colossal paperwork and bureaucratic hurdles that nearly break the father's spirit.
- American veterinarians arrive to conduct rigorous medical examinations on the animals, treating them like recruits for the U.S. Army.
It's a joke in the zoo business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a whale, never.
"He was hoping to find India," I pointed out sullenly.
We sold the zoo, lock, stock and barrel. To a new country, a new life. Besides assuring our collection of a
happy future, the transaction would pay for our immigration and leave us with a good sum to make a fresh
start in Canada (though now, when I think of it, the sum is laughable-how blinded we are by money). We
could have sold our animals to zoos in India, but American zoos were willing to pay higher prices. CITES, the
Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species, had just come into effect, and the Window on the
trading of captured wild animals had slammed shut. The future of zoos would now lie with other zoos. The
Pondicherry Zoo closed shop at just the right time. There was a scramble to buy our animals. The final buyers
were a number of zoos, mainly the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago and the soon-to-open Minnesota Zoo, but odd
animals were going to Los Angeles, Louisville, Oklahoma City and Cincinnati.
And two animals were being shipped to the Canada Zoo. That's how Ravi and I felt. We did not want to go.
We did not want to live in a country of gale-force winds and minus-two-hundred-degree winters. Canada was
not on the cricket map. Departure was made easier-as far as getting us used to the idea-by the time it took for
all the pre-departure preparations. It took well over a year. I don't mean for us. I mean for the animals.
Considering that animals dispense with clothes, footwear, linen, furniture, kitchenware, toiletries; that
nationality means nothing to them; that they care not a jot for passports, money, employment prospects,
Page 52
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
schools, cost of housing, healthcare facilities-considering, in short, their lightness of being, it's amazing how
hard it is to move them. Moving a zoo is like moving a city.
The paperwork was colossal. Litres of water used up in the wetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-and-so written
hundreds of times. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Haggling gone through. Decisions sent higher
up for approval. Prices agreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines signed. Congratulations given. Certificates
of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantine
regulations clarified. Transportation organized. A fortune spent on telephone calls. It's a joke in the zoo
business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the
paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a
whale, never. There seemed to be a single file of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolis via
Delhi and Washington, each with his form, his problem, his hesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon
couldn't possibly have been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair off his head and came close to
giving up on a number of occasions.
There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, and our lemurs, rhinos, orang-utans, mandrills, lion-tailed
macaques, giraffes, anteaters, tigers, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, zebras, Himalayan and sloth bears, Indian
elephants and Nilgiri tahrs, among others, were in demand, but others, Elfie for example, were met with
silence. "A cataract operation!" Father shouted, waving the letter. "They'll take her if we do a cataract
operation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?" Some of our other
animals were considered "too common", the lions and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these
for an extra orang-utan from the Mysore Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (As for Elfie, she lived
out the rest of her days at the Trivandrum Zoo.) One zoo asked for "an authentic Brahmin cow" for their
children's zoo. Father walked out into the urban jungle of Pondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a
nice fat hump and horns so straight and at such right angles to its head that it looked as if it had licked an
electrical outlet. Father had its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fitted to the tips, for added
authenticity.
A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. I had never seen real live Americans. They were
pink, fat, friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examined our animals. They put most of them
to sleep and then applied stethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as if horoscopes, drew blood in
syringes and analyzed it, fondled humps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded eyes with flashlights, pinched skins,
stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. They must have thought they were being drafted into the U.S. Army.
We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushing, handshakes.
The result was that the animals, like us, got their working papers. They were future Yankees, and we, future
Canucks.
The Logistics of Moving
- Moving a zoo is compared to moving an entire city, involving a colossal amount of bureaucratic paperwork and international regulations.
- The narrator's father faces immense frustration dealing with nit-picking bureaucrats and the specific, often absurd, demands of receiving zoos.
- Some animals are rejected for being too common or requiring specialized medical procedures, such as a cataract operation on a hippopotamus.
- A team of American experts arrives to conduct rigorous medical examinations on the animals, preparing them for their transition to the United States.
- The process concludes with both the animals and the family securing their necessary travel documents for their respective futures in North America.
It's a joke in the zoo business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a whale, never.
schools, cost of housing, healthcare facilities-considering, in short, their lightness of being, it's amazing how
hard it is to move them. Moving a zoo is like moving a city.
The paperwork was colossal. Litres of water used up in the wetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-and-so written
hundreds of times. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Haggling gone through. Decisions sent higher
up for approval. Prices agreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines signed. Congratulations given. Certificates
of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantine
regulations clarified. Transportation organized. A fortune spent on telephone calls. It's a joke in the zoo
business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the
paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a
whale, never. There seemed to be a single file of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolis via
Delhi and Washington, each with his form, his problem, his hesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon
couldn't possibly have been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair off his head and came close to
giving up on a number of occasions.
There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, and our lemurs, rhinos, orang-utans, mandrills, lion-tailed
macaques, giraffes, anteaters, tigers, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, zebras, Himalayan and sloth bears, Indian
elephants and Nilgiri tahrs, among others, were in demand, but others, Elfie for example, were met with
silence. "A cataract operation!" Father shouted, waving the letter. "They'll take her if we do a cataract
operation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?" Some of our other
animals were considered "too common", the lions and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these
for an extra orang-utan from the Mysore Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (As for Elfie, she lived
out the rest of her days at the Trivandrum Zoo.) One zoo asked for "an authentic Brahmin cow" for their
children's zoo. Father walked out into the urban jungle of Pondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a
nice fat hump and horns so straight and at such right angles to its head that it looked as if it had licked an
electrical outlet. Father had its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fitted to the tips, for added
authenticity.
A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. I had never seen real live Americans. They were
pink, fat, friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examined our animals. They put most of them
to sleep and then applied stethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as if horoscopes, drew blood in
syringes and analyzed it, fondled humps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded eyes with flashlights, pinched skins,
stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. They must have thought they were being drafted into the U.S. Army.
We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushing, handshakes.
The result was that the animals, like us, got their working papers. They were future Yankees, and we, future
Canucks.
CHAPTER 35
The Logistics of Departure
- Moving a zoo involves a colossal amount of bureaucratic paperwork that often outweighs the animals being traded.
- The narrator's father faces immense stress negotiating with international zoos, including absurd medical demands like cataract surgery for a hippopotamus.
- American officials arrive to conduct rigorous, invasive medical examinations on the animals to clear them for transport.
- The family and their selected animals finally depart from Madras aboard the Tsimtsum, marking a bittersweet farewell to their homeland.
It's a joke in the zoo business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a whale, never.
schools, cost of housing, healthcare facilities-considering, in short, their lightness of being, it's amazing how
hard it is to move them. Moving a zoo is like moving a city.
The paperwork was colossal. Litres of water used up in the wetting of stamps. Dear Mr. So-and-so written
hundreds of times. Offers made. Sighs heard. Doubts expressed. Haggling gone through. Decisions sent higher
up for approval. Prices agreed upon. Deals clinched. Dotted lines signed. Congratulations given. Certificates
of origin sought. Certificates of health sought. Export permits sought. Import permits sought. Quarantine
regulations clarified. Transportation organized. A fortune spent on telephone calls. It's a joke in the zoo
business, a weary joke, that the paperwork involved in trading a shrew weighs more than an elephant, that the
paperwork involved in trading an elephant weighs more than a whale, and that you must never try to trade a
whale, never. There seemed to be a single file of nit-picking bureaucrats from Pondicherry to Minneapolis via
Delhi and Washington, each with his form, his problem, his hesitation. Shipping the animals to the moon
couldn't possibly have been more complicated. Father pulled nearly every hair off his head and came close to
giving up on a number of occasions.
There were surprises. Most of our birds and reptiles, and our lemurs, rhinos, orang-utans, mandrills, lion-tailed
macaques, giraffes, anteaters, tigers, leopards, cheetahs, hyenas, zebras, Himalayan and sloth bears, Indian
elephants and Nilgiri tahrs, among others, were in demand, but others, Elfie for example, were met with
silence. "A cataract operation!" Father shouted, waving the letter. "They'll take her if we do a cataract
operation on her right eye. On a hippopotamus! What next? Nose jobs on the rhinos?" Some of our other
animals were considered "too common", the lions and baboons, for example. Father judiciously traded these
for an extra orang-utan from the Mysore Zoo and a chimpanzee from the Manila Zoo. (As for Elfie, she lived
out the rest of her days at the Trivandrum Zoo.) One zoo asked for "an authentic Brahmin cow" for their
children's zoo. Father walked out into the urban jungle of Pondicherry and bought a cow with dark wet eyes, a
nice fat hump and horns so straight and at such right angles to its head that it looked as if it had licked an
electrical outlet. Father had its horns painted bright orange and little plastic bells fitted to the tips, for added
authenticity.
A deputation of three Americans came. I was very curious. I had never seen real live Americans. They were
pink, fat, friendly, very competent and sweated profusely. They examined our animals. They put most of them
to sleep and then applied stethoscopes to hearts, examined urine and feces as if horoscopes, drew blood in
syringes and analyzed it, fondled humps and bumps, tapped teeth, blinded eyes with flashlights, pinched skins,
stroked and pulled hairs. Poor animals. They must have thought they were being drafted into the U.S. Army.
We got big smiles from the Americans and bone-crushing, handshakes.
The result was that the animals, like us, got their working papers. They were future Yankees, and we, future
Canucks.
CHAPTER 35
We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on the Panamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Her officers
were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she was large and impressive. On our last day in Pondicherry I
said goodbye to Mamaji, to Mr. and Mr. Kumar, to all my friends and even to many strangers. Mother was
apparelled in her finest sari. Her long tress, artfully folded back and attached to the back of her head, was
adorned with a garland of fresh jasmine flowers. She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India,
India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of
bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of
this and that, India so familiar to her and loved by her. While her men-I fancied myself one already, though I
Departures and Domesticity
- The Patel family departs from Madras aboard the Tsimtsum, a Japanese cargo ship carrying their family and their zoo animals.
- Pi's mother experiences a profound, quiet grief as she leaves behind the sensory details and familiar brands of her Indian homeland.
- The narrative shifts to the present day, where the author visits Pi's home and is shocked to discover he has a secret family.
- The introduction of Pi's son, daughter, and pets reveals a life of normalcy and domestic warmth that contrasts with his traumatic past.
She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India, India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of bullock carts and colourful trucks.
We left Madras on June 21st, 1977, on the Panamanian-registered Japanese cargo ship Tsimtsum. Her officers
were Japanese, her crew was Taiwanese, and she was large and impressive. On our last day in Pondicherry I
said goodbye to Mamaji, to Mr. and Mr. Kumar, to all my friends and even to many strangers. Mother was
apparelled in her finest sari. Her long tress, artfully folded back and attached to the back of her head, was
adorned with a garland of fresh jasmine flowers. She looked beautiful. And sad. For she was leaving India,
India of the heat and monsoons, of rice fields and the Cauvery River, of coastlines and stone temples, of
bullock carts and colourful trucks, of friends and known shopkeepers, of Nehru Street and Goubert Salai, of
this and that, India so familiar to her and loved by her. While her men-I fancied myself one already, though I
Page 53
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
was only sixteen-were in a hurry to get going, were Winnipeggers at heart already, she lingered.
The day before our departure she pointed at a cigarette wallah and earnestly asked, "Should we get a pack or
two?"
Father replied, "They have tobacco in Canada. And why do you want to buy cigarettes? We don't smoke."
Yes, they have tobacco in Canada-but do they have Gold Flake cigarettes? Do they have Arun ice cream? Are
the bicycles Heroes? Are the televisions Onidas? Are the cars Ambassadors? Are the bookshops
Higginbothams'? Such, I suspect, were the questions that swirled in Mother's mind as she contemplated buying
cigarettes.
Animals were sedated, cages were loaded and secured, feed was stored, bunks were assigned, lines were
tossed, and whistles were blown. As the ship was worked out of the dock and piloted out to sea, I wildly
waved goodbye to India. The sun was shining, the breeze was steady, and seagulls shrieked in the air above us.
I was terribly excited.
Things didn't turn out the way they were supposed to, but what can you do? You must take life the way it
comes at you and make the best of it.
CHAPTER 36
The cities are large and memorably crowded in India, but when you leave them you travel through vast
stretches of country where hardly a soul is to be seen. I remember wondering where 950 million Indians could
be hiding.
I could say the same of his house.
I'm a little early. I've just set foot on the cement steps of the front porch when a teenager bursts out the front
door. He's wearing a baseball uniform and carrying baseball equipment, and he's in a hurry. When he sees me
he stops dead in his tracks, startled. He turns around and hollers into the house, "Dad! The writer's here." To
me he says, "Hi," and rushes off.
His father comes to the front door. "Hello," he says.
"That was your son?" I ask, incredulous.
"Yes." To acknowledge the fact brings a smile to his lips. "I'm sorry you didn't meet properly. He's late for
practice. His name is Nikhil. He goes by Nick."
I'm in the entrance hall. "I didn't know you had a son," I say. 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.
Page 54
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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?"
Domestic Peace and Oceanic Terror
- The narrator meets Pi Patel's four-year-old daughter, Usha, revealing that Pi eventually finds a stable, happy family life.
- The narrative shifts abruptly from a peaceful domestic scene to the traumatic sinking of the ship, the Tsimtsum.
- Pi finds himself on a lifeboat, witnessing the chaotic and terrifying disappearance of his family and the ship.
- In a state of shock and desperation, Pi calls out to Richard Parker, urging the struggling figure to swim toward the boat.
- The emotional weight of the scene is heightened by Pi's frantic prayers to multiple deities and his pleas for his lost family.
Everything was screaming: the sea, the wind, my heart.
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
Page 55
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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!"
A Deadly Rescue
- In a moment of desperate grief and shock, Pi frantically encourages Richard Parker, a Bengal tiger, to swim toward the lifeboat.
- Pi experiences a philosophical crisis, questioning why reason fails to provide answers during such immense suffering and loss.
- The instinct for survival initially drives Pi to save the tiger, but he suddenly realizes the mortal danger of bringing a predator aboard.
- Despite Pi's last-minute attempts to push him away, the tiger boards the craft, forcing Pi to leap into the ocean to escape.
I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope. 'Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker!'
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 lifebuoy, Richard Parker? Do you see it? Catch hold of it! HUMPF! I'll try again. HUMPF!"
He was too far. But the sight of the lifebuoy flying his way gave him hope. He revived and started beating the
water with vigorous, desperate strokes.
"That's right! One, two. One, two. One, two. Breathe when you can. Watch for the waves. TREEEEEE!
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"
My heart was chilled to ice. I felt ill with grief. But there was no time for frozen shock. It was shock in
Page 56
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
activity. Something in me did not want to give up on life, was unwilling to let go, wanted to fight to the very
end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don't know.
"Isn't it ironic, Richard Parker? We're in hell yet still we're afraid of immortality. Look how close you are!
TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! Hurrah, hurrah! You've made it, Richard Parker, you've made it.
Catch! HUMPF!"
I threw the lifebuoy mightily. It fell in the water right in front of him. With his last energies he stretched
forward and took hold of it.
"Hold on tight, I'll pull you in. Don't let go. Pull with your eyes while I pull with my hands. In a few seconds
you'll be aboard and we'll be together. Wait a second. Together? We'll be together. Have I gone mad?"
I woke up to what I was doing. I yanked on the rope.
"Let go of that lifebuoy, Richard Parker! Let go, I said. I don't want you here, do you understand? Go
somewhere else. Leave me alone. Get lost. Drown! Drown!"
He was kicking vigorously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I
missed and lost hold of the oar.
I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat
away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end closer to Richard Parker.
I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air.
He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard.
"Oh my God!"
Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughing
three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin,
eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn. His head was the size and colour
of the lifebuoy, with teeth.
I turned around, stepped over the zebra and threw myself overboard.
CHAPTER 38
A Tiger Aboard
- Pi attempts to push Richard Parker away with an oar but inadvertently helps the tiger board the lifeboat.
- The Bengal tiger successfully climbs onto the tarpaulin, appearing as a terrifying and lethal presence.
- Overwhelmed by the immediate threat of the predator, Pi chooses to leap into the ocean to escape.
- The narrative shifts to a flashback of the Tsimtsum's journey, highlighting the ship's previous indifference to the sea's power.
- Pi recalls the routine of tracking their progress on a map and the exhausting work of caring for the animals during the voyage.
His head was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth.
He was kicking vigorously with his legs. I grabbed an oar. I thrust it at him, meaning to push him away. I
missed and lost hold of the oar.
I grabbed another oar. I dropped it in an oarlock and pulled as hard as I could, meaning to move the lifeboat
away. All I accomplished was to turn the lifeboat a little, bringing one end closer to Richard Parker.
I would hit him on the head! I lifted the oar in the air.
He was too fast. He reached up and pulled himself aboard.
"Oh my God!"
Ravi was right. Truly I was to be the next goat. I had a wet, trembling, half-drowned, heaving and coughing
three-year-old adult Bengal tiger in my lifeboat. Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin,
eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to his head, all weapons drawn. His head was the size and colour
of the lifebuoy, with teeth.
I turned around, stepped over the zebra and threw myself overboard.
CHAPTER 38
I don't understand. For days the ship had pushed on, bullishly indifferent to its surroundings. The sun shone,
rain fell, winds blew, currents flowed, the sea built up hills, the sea dug up valleys-the Tsimtsum did not care.
It moved with the slow, massive confidence of a continent.
I had bought a map of the world for the trip; I had set it up in our cabin against a cork billboard. Every
morning I got our position from the control bridge and marked it on the map with an orange tipped pin. We
sailed from Madras across the Bay of Bengal, down through the Strait of Malacca, around Singapore and up to
Manila. I loved every minute of it. It was a thrill to be on a ship. Taking care of the animals kept us very busy.
Every night we fell into bed weary to our bones. We were in Manila for two days, a question of fresh feed,
Page 57
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Sinking of the Tsimtsum
- The narrator meticulously tracks the cargo ship's progress across the Pacific, noting the routine of caring for animals and the addition of a chimpanzee in Manila.
- Despite the ship's massive and confident appearance, mechanical issues in the engine room are dismissed by the narrator in favor of more interesting sights like spiders and primates.
- A sudden, irregular noise at 4:30 in the morning wakes the narrator, who decides to explore the ship alone after his brother Ravi refuses to join him.
- The narrator's casual curiosity turns to tragedy as the ship unexpectedly sinks, an event he describes as a mountain collapsing and disappearing beneath his feet.
- The cause of the disaster remains an unsolved mystery, buried under thousands of feet of water along with the rest of the narrator's world.
The ship vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my feet.
I don't understand. For days the ship had pushed on, bullishly indifferent to its surroundings. The sun shone,
rain fell, winds blew, currents flowed, the sea built up hills, the sea dug up valleys-the Tsimtsum did not care.
It moved with the slow, massive confidence of a continent.
I had bought a map of the world for the trip; I had set it up in our cabin against a cork billboard. Every
morning I got our position from the control bridge and marked it on the map with an orange tipped pin. We
sailed from Madras across the Bay of Bengal, down through the Strait of Malacca, around Singapore and up to
Manila. I loved every minute of it. It was a thrill to be on a ship. Taking care of the animals kept us very busy.
Every night we fell into bed weary to our bones. We were in Manila for two days, a question of fresh feed,
Page 57
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only
to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part
of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders.
A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of
its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I
would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a
ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did
something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is
a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship
vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my
feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great
emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship
was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their
comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform
that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in
my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a
start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the
morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping.
I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't
know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he
would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise
was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring."
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at
Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding
against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would
see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels
below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the
weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly
wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts
would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough,
but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching
up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that
The Sinking of the Tsimtsum
- The narrator reflects on the mundane cargo and potential engine troubles that preceded the ship's sudden disaster in the Pacific.
- A mysterious irregular noise, possibly an explosion, wakes the narrator at four-thirty in the morning while the rest of the family sleeps.
- Despite the strange sound, the narrator initially perceives the weather and the sea as manageable, underestimating the danger to the massive cargo ship.
- The narrator describes the traumatic moment of the sinking as a mountain collapsing and the ship vanishing into a pinprick hole on a map.
- The cause of the tragedy remains an unsolved mystery, buried under thousands of feet of water in the deep ocean.
A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my feet.
new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only
to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part
of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders.
A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of
its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I
would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a
ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did
something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is
a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship
vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my
feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great
emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship
was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their
comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform
that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in
my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a
start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the
morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping.
I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't
know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he
would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise
was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring."
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at
Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding
against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would
see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels
below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the
weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly
wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts
would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough,
but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching
up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that
on other days and the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It's
designed to stay afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn't sink a ship? Why,
I only had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced the
elements. This was adventure.
The Sinking of the Tsimtsum
- The narrator describes the ship's cargo, including a ton of bananas and a female chimpanzee, while noting his brother Ravi's concern over engine repairs.
- A sudden, irregular noise wakes the narrator at 4:30 AM, prompting him to explore the ship while his family remains asleep in their cabins.
- The narrator reflects on the suddenness of the disaster, describing the ship's disappearance as a mountain collapsing into a pinprick hole on a map.
- Upon reaching the main deck, the narrator initially underestimates the severity of the weather, viewing the wind and rain as a manageable adventure rather than a fatal threat.
- The cause of the sinking remains an unsolved mystery, lost beneath thousands of feet of water in the Pacific Ocean.
All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship.
new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only
to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part
of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders.
A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of
its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I
would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a
ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did
something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is
a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship
vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my
feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great
emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship
was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their
comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform
that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in
my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a
start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the
morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping.
I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't
know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he
would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise
was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring."
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at
Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding
against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would
see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels
below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the
weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly
wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts
would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough,
but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching
up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that
on other days and the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It's
designed to stay afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn't sink a ship? Why,
I only had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced the
elements. This was adventure.
Page 58
The Sinking of the Tsimtsum
- The narrator reflects on the ship's cargo, including a ton of bananas and a female chimpanzee, while noting his brother Ravi's concern about engine maintenance.
- A sudden, irregular noise wakes the narrator at 4:30 a.m., prompting him to investigate while his family remains asleep in their cabins.
- The narrator describes the terrifying and surreal moment the ship vanished, comparing the sinking to a collapsing mountain and a 'pinprick hole' on a map.
- Upon reaching the main deck, the narrator initially underestimates the severity of the weather, viewing the rough seas as an exciting adventure rather than a fatal threat.
- The cause of the disaster remains an enigma, described as a mystery lying at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship.
new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only
to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part
of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders.
A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of
its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I
would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a
ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did
something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is
a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship
vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my
feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great
emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship
was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their
comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform
that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in
my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a
start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the
morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping.
I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't
know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he
would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise
was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring."
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at
Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding
against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would
see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels
below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the
weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly
wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts
would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough,
but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching
up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that
on other days and the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It's
designed to stay afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn't sink a ship? Why,
I only had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced the
elements. This was adventure.
Page 58
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Sinking of the Tsimtsum
- Pi awakens to an irregular noise in the middle of the night and decides to explore the ship while his family remains asleep.
- Initially perceiving the storm as a thrilling spectacle of nature, Pi soon realizes the ship is listing dangerously to port.
- Upon attempting to return to his cabin, Pi discovers the lower decks are already flooded, cutting him off from his family.
- The chaos escalates as wild animals, including a terrified gaur, are seen running loose on the deck as the ship rapidly takes on water.
- Pi seeks help from the ship's officers on the bridge, hoping for an explanation and rescue as the vessel begins its final descent.
My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
new cargo and, we were told, the performing of routine maintenance work on the engines. I paid attention only
to the first two. The fresh feed included a ton of bananas, and the new cargo, a female Congo chimpanzee, part
of Father's wheeling and dealing. A ton of bananas bristles with a good three, four pounds of big black spiders.
A chimpanzee is like a smaller, leaner gorilla, but meaner-looking, with less of the melancholy gentleness of
its larger cousin. A chimpanzee shudders and grimaces when it touches a big black spider, like you and I
would do, before squashing it angrily with its knuckles, not something you and I would do. I thought bananas
and a chimpanzee were more interesting than a loud, filthy mechanical contraption in the dark bowels of a
ship. Ravi spent his days there, watching the men work. Something was wrong with the engines, he said. Did
something go wrong with the fixing of them? I don't know. I don't think anyone will ever know. The answer is
a mystery lying at the bottom of thousands of feet of water.
We left Manila and entered the Pacific. On our fourth day out, midway to Midway, we sank. The ship
vanished into a pinprick hole on my map. A mountain collapsed before my eyes and disappeared beneath my
feet. All around me was the vomit of a dyspeptic ship. I felt sick to my stomach. I felt shock. I felt a great
emptiness within me, which then filled with silence. My chest hurt with pain and fear for days afterwards.
I think there was an explosion. But I can't be sure. It happened while I was sleeping. It woke me up. The ship
was no luxury liner. It was a grimy, hardworking cargo ship not designed for paying passengers or for their
comfort. There were all kinds of noises all the time. It was precisely because the level of noise was so uniform
that we slept like babies. It was a form of silence that nothing disturbed, not Ravi's snoring nor my talking in
my sleep. So the explosion, if there was one, was not a new noise. It was an irregular noise. I woke up with a
start, as if Ravi had burst a balloon in my ears. I looked at my watch. It was just after four-thirty in the
morning. I leaned over and looked down at the bunk below. Ravi was still sleeping.
I dressed and climbed down. Normally I'm a sound sleeper. Normally I would have gone back to sleep. I don't
know why I got up that night. It was more the sort of thing Ravi would do. He liked the word beckon; he
would have said, "Adventure beckons," and would have gone off to prowl around the ship. The level of noise
was back to normal again, but with a different quality perhaps, muffled maybe.
I shook Ravi. I said, "Ravi! There was a funny noise. Let's go exploring."
He looked at me sleepily. He shook his head and turned over, pulling the sheet up to his cheek. Oh, Ravi!
I opened the cabin door.
I remember walking down the corridor. Day or night it looked the same. But I felt the night in me. I stopped at
Father and Mother's door and considered knocking on it. I remember looking at my watch and deciding
against it. Father liked his sleep. I decided I would climb to the main deck and catch the dawn. Maybe I would
see a shooting star. I was thinking about that, about shooting stars, as I climbed the stairs. We were two levels
below the main deck. I had already forgotten about the funny noise.
It was only when I had pushed open the heavy door leading onto the main deck that I realized what the
weather was like. Did it qualify as a storm? It's true there was rain, but it wasn't so very hard. It certainly
wasn't a driving rain, like you see during the monsoons. And there was wind. I suppose some of the gusts
would have upset umbrellas. But I walked through it without much difficulty. As for the sea, it looked rough,
but to a landlubber the sea is always impresive and forbidding, beautiful and dangerous. Waves were reaching
up, and their white foam, caught by the wind, was being whipped against the side of the ship. But I'd seen that
on other days and the ship hadn't sunk. A cargo ship is a huge and stable structure, a feat of engineering. It's
designed to stay afloat under the most adverse conditions. Weather like this surely wouldn't sink a ship? Why,
I only had to close a door and the storm was gone. I advanced onto the deck. I gripped the railing and faced the
elements. This was adventure.
Page 58
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
The Sinking Spectacle
- The narrator initially views the storm as a thrilling theatrical spectacle, unaware of the ship's imminent danger.
- A realization of the ship's severe list and the sight of surging water in the lower decks shifts the mood from excitement to terror.
- Chaos erupts as wild animals escape their cages and the ship emits a 'monstrous metallic burp' while rapidly taking on water.
- Desperate for answers and safety, the narrator seeks out the ship's officers, hoping they can explain the catastrophe and save his family.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I
am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level
The Sinking Spectacle
- The narrator initially views the storm as a thrilling theatrical spectacle until he notices the ship's alarming list.
- Upon attempting to reach his family, he discovers the lower decks are already flooded with surging, boiling water.
- The chaos escalates as the ship groans and wild animals, including a terrified gaur, are seen running loose on the deck.
- In a state of panic and disbelief, the narrator seeks out the ship's officers for guidance and rescue.
- The realization of the sinking is described as a psychological shock, as inconceivable as the moon catching fire.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death?
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I
am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level
Page 59
The Sinking Spectacle
- The narrator initially views the storm as a thrilling theatrical spectacle, feeling safe as a spectator on the ship's deck.
- A sudden realization of the ship's list and the sight of surging water in the stairwells shifts the mood from excitement to terror.
- The narrator witnesses the surreal and chaotic escape of wild animals, including a berserk Indian wild ox, as the ship begins to founder.
- Desperate for answers and safety, the narrator seeks out the crew on the bridge, hoping they can explain the catastrophe and save his family.
- The ship's structural failure is punctuated by a 'monstrous metallic burp' and the sounds of screaming humans and animals.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I
am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level
Page 59
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Sinking Spectacle
- The narrator initially views the storm as a thrilling theatrical spectacle before realizing the ship is listing dangerously to port.
- Upon attempting to reach his family below deck, he is met by a terrifying surge of boiling water that blocks the stairwell.
- Chaos erupts on the main deck as the ship sinks rapidly and wild animals, including a terrified gaur, are seen running loose.
- In a state of panic and disbelief, the narrator seeks out the crew on the bridge, hoping for an explanation and rescue for his family.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I
am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level
Page 59
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
where our cabins are. Is this normal? Do you think-"
The Sinking Spectacle
- The narrator initially views the storm as a dramatic theatrical performance, feeling safe and detached from the danger.
- A sudden realization of the ship's severe list and the sight of rising water inside the stairwells shifts the mood from awe to terror.
- Chaos erupts as wild animals are seen loose on the deck, and the ship emits a haunting, metallic sound as it begins to go under.
- Seeking help from the crew, the narrator is met with frantic actions that culminate in him being unexpectedly thrown overboard into the sea.
Only when they threw me overboard did I begin to have doubts.
"Canada, here I come!" I shouted as I was soaked and chilled. I felt very brave. It was dark still, but there was
enough light to see by. Light on pandemonium it was. Nature can put on a thrilling show. The stage is vast, the
lighting is dramatic, the extras are innumerable, and the budget for special effects is absolutely unlimited.
What I had before me was a spectacle of wind and water, an earthquake of the senses, that even Hollywood
couldn't orchestrate. But the earthquake stopped at the ground beneath my feet. The ground beneath my feet
was solid. I was a spectator safely ensconced in his seat.
It was when I looked up at a lifeboat on the bridge castle that I started to worry. The lifeboat wasn't hanging
straight down. It was leaning in from its davits. I turned and looked at my hands. My knuckles were white.
The thing was, I wasn't holding on so tightly because of the weather, but because otherwise I would fall in
towards the ship. The ship was listing to port, to the other side. It wasn't a severe list, but enough to surprise
me. When I looked overboard the drop wasn't sheer any more. I could see the ship's great black side.
A shiver of cold went through me. I decided it was a storm after all. Time to return to safety. I let go,
hotfooted it to the wall, moved over and pulled open the door.
Inside the ship, there were noises. Deep structural groans. I stumbled and fell. No harm done. I got up. With
the help of the handrails I went down the stairwell four steps at a time. I had gone down just one level when I
saw water. Lots of water. It was blocking my way. It was surging from below like a riotous crowd, raging,
frothing and boiling. Stairs vanished into watery darkness. I couldn't believe my eyes. What was this water
doing here? Where had it come from? I stood nailed to the spot, frightened and incredulous and ignorant of
what I should do next. Down there was where my family was.
I ran up the stairs. I got to the main deck. The weather wasn't entertaining any more. I was very afraid. Now it
was plain and obvious: the ship was listing badly. And it wasn't level the other way either. There was a
noticeable incline going from bow to stern. I looked overboard. The water didn't look to be eighty feet away.
The ship was sinking. My mind could hardly conceive it. It was as unbelievable as the moon catching fire.
Where were the officers and the crew? What were they doing? Towards the bow I saw some men running in
the gloom. I thought I saw some animals too, but I dismissed the sight as illusion crafted by rain and shadow.
We had the hatch covers over their bay pulled open when the weather was good, but at all times the animals
were kept confined to their cages. These were dangerous wild animals we were transporting, not farm
livestock. Above me, on the bridge, I thought I heard some men shouting.
The ship shook and there was that sound, the monstrous metallic burp. What was it? Was it the collective
scream of humans and animals protesting their oncoming death? Was it the ship itself giving up the ghost? I
fell over. I got to my feet. I looked overboard again. The sea was rising. The waves were getting closer. We
were sinking fast.
I clearly heard monkeys shrieking. Something was shaking the deck, A gaur-an Indian wild ox-exploded out
of the rain and thundered by me, terrified, out of control, berserk. I looked at it, dumbstruck and amazed. Who
in God's name had let it out?
I ran for the stairs to the bridge. Up there was where the officers were, the only people on the ship who spoke
English, the masters of our destiny here, the ones who would right this wrong. They would explain everything.
They would take care of my family and me. I climbed to the middle bridge. There was no one on the starboard
side. I ran to the port side. I saw three men, crew members. I fell. I got up. They were looking overboard. I
shouted. They turned. They looked at me and at each other. They spoke a few words. They came towards me
quickly.
I felt gratitude and relief welling up in me. I said, "Thank God I've found you. What is happening? I
am very scared. There is water at the bottom of the ship. I am worried about my family. I can't get to the level
Page 59
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
where our cabins are. Is this normal? Do you think-"
One of the men interrupted me by thrusting a life jacket into my arms and shouting something in Chinese. I
noticed an orange whistle dangling from the life jacket. The men were nodding vigorously at me. When they
took hold of me and lifted me in their strong arms, I thought nothing of it. I thought they were helping me. I
was so full of trust in them that I felt grateful as they carried me in th air. Only when they threw me overboard
did I begin to have doubts.
Overboard into the Storm
- The narrator is abruptly thrown overboard by crew members, realizing too late that their actions were not helpful.
- A five-hundred-pound Grant's zebra leaps from the ship and crashes into the lifeboat, causing significant damage.
- The narrator struggles to survive in the freezing, violent sea while surrounded by circling shark fins.
- In a desperate bid for safety, the narrator uses an oar to create a makeshift perch on the bow of the lifeboat.
- The presence of Richard Parker and the injured zebra creates a terrifying and crowded environment within the small vessel.
Only when they threw me overboard did I begin to have doubts.
where our cabins are. Is this normal? Do you think-"
One of the men interrupted me by thrusting a life jacket into my arms and shouting something in Chinese. I
noticed an orange whistle dangling from the life jacket. The men were nodding vigorously at me. When they
took hold of me and lifted me in their strong arms, I thought nothing of it. I thought they were helping me. I
was so full of trust in them that I felt grateful as they carried me in th air. Only when they threw me overboard
did I begin to have doubts.
CHAPTER 39
I landed with a trampoline-like bounce on the half-unrolled tarpaulin covering a lifeboat forty feet below. It
was a miracle I didn't hurt myself. I lost the life jacket, except for the whistle, which stayed in my hand. The
lifeboat had been lowered partway and left to hang. It was leaning out from its davits, swinging in the storm,
some twenty feet above the water. I looked up. Two of the men were looking down at me, pointing wildly at
the lifeboat and shouting. I didn't understand what they wanted me to do. I thought they were going to jump in
after me. Instead they turned their heads, looked horrified, and this creature appeared in the air, leaping with
the grace of a racehorse. The zebra missed the tarpaulin. It was a male Grant, weighing over five hundred
pounds. It landed with a loud crash on the last bench, smashing it and shaking the whole lifeboat. The animal
called out. I might have expected the braying of an ass or the neighing of a horse. It was nothing of the sort. It
could only be called a burst of barking, a kwa-ha-ha, kwa-ha-ha, kwa-ha-ha put out at the highest pitch of
distress. The creature's lips were widely parted, standing upright and quivering, revealing yellow teeth and
dark pink gums. The lifeboat fell through the air and we hit the seething water.
CHAPTER 40
Richard Parker did not jump into the water after me. The oar I intended to use as a club floated. I held on to it
as I reached for the lifebuoy, now vacant of its previous occupant. It was terrifying to be in the water. It was
black and cold and in a rage. I felt as if I were at the bottom of a crumbling well. Water kept crashing down on
me. It stung my eyes. It pulled me down. I could hardly breathe. If there hadn't been the lifebuoy I wouldn't
have lasted a minute.
I saw a triangle slicing the water fifteen feet away. It was a shark's fin. An awful tingle, cold and liquid, went
up and down my spine. I swam as fast as I could to one end of the lifeboat, the end still covered by the
tarpaulin. I pushed myself up on the lifebuoy with my arms. I couldn't see Richard Parker. He wasn't on the
tarpaulin or on a bench. He was at the bottom of the lifeboat. I pushed myself up again. All I could see, briefly,
at the other end, was the zebra's head thrashing about. As I fell back into the water another shark's fin glided
right before me.
The bright orange tarpaulin was held down by a strong nylon rope that wove its way between metal grommets
in the tarpaulin and blunt hooks on the side of the boat. I happened to be treading water at the bow. The
tarpaulin was not as securely fixed going over the stem-which had a very short prow, what in a face would be
called a snub nose-as it was elsewhere around the boat. There was a little looseness in the tarpaulin as the rope
went from one hook on one side of the stem to the next hook on the other side. I lifted the oar in the air and I
shoved its handle into this looseness, into this life-saving detail. I pushed the oar in as far as it would go. The
lifeboat now had a prow projecting over the waves, if crookedly. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs
Page 60
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Hanging on an Oar
- Pi finds himself in the terrifying, freezing water of the Pacific, struggling to survive amidst crashing waves and a sense of drowning.
- The immediate threat of sharks circling nearby forces Pi to find a way to elevate himself out of the water.
- Using an oar and a loose section of the lifeboat's tarpaulin, Pi creates a precarious perch to stay just above the reach of the sea.
- Despite the overwhelming odds of a tiger on the boat and sharks below, Pi is driven by a primal instinct to survive rather than by reason.
- Pi eventually secures himself with a lifebuoy, deciding to prioritize the immediate danger of the ocean over the threat of the tiger.
I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in front of me, sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me.
Richard Parker did not jump into the water after me. The oar I intended to use as a club floated. I held on to it
as I reached for the lifebuoy, now vacant of its previous occupant. It was terrifying to be in the water. It was
black and cold and in a rage. I felt as if I were at the bottom of a crumbling well. Water kept crashing down on
me. It stung my eyes. It pulled me down. I could hardly breathe. If there hadn't been the lifebuoy I wouldn't
have lasted a minute.
I saw a triangle slicing the water fifteen feet away. It was a shark's fin. An awful tingle, cold and liquid, went
up and down my spine. I swam as fast as I could to one end of the lifeboat, the end still covered by the
tarpaulin. I pushed myself up on the lifebuoy with my arms. I couldn't see Richard Parker. He wasn't on the
tarpaulin or on a bench. He was at the bottom of the lifeboat. I pushed myself up again. All I could see, briefly,
at the other end, was the zebra's head thrashing about. As I fell back into the water another shark's fin glided
right before me.
The bright orange tarpaulin was held down by a strong nylon rope that wove its way between metal grommets
in the tarpaulin and blunt hooks on the side of the boat. I happened to be treading water at the bow. The
tarpaulin was not as securely fixed going over the stem-which had a very short prow, what in a face would be
called a snub nose-as it was elsewhere around the boat. There was a little looseness in the tarpaulin as the rope
went from one hook on one side of the stem to the next hook on the other side. I lifted the oar in the air and I
shoved its handle into this looseness, into this life-saving detail. I pushed the oar in as far as it would go. The
lifeboat now had a prow projecting over the waves, if crookedly. I pulled myself up and wrapped my legs
Page 60
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
around the oar. The oar handle pushed up against the tarpaulin, but tarpaulin, rope and oar held. I was out of
the water, if only by a fluctuating two, three feet. The crest of the larger waves kept striking me.
I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in front of me,
sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me. Had I considered my prospects in the light of reason, I surely
would have given up and let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before being eaten. But I don't recall that
I had a single thought during those first minutes of relative safety. I didn't even notice daybreak. I held on to
the oar, I just held on, God only knows why.
After a while I made good use of the lifebuoy. I lifted it out of the water and put the oar through its hole. I
worked it down until the ring was hugging me. Now it was only with my legs that I had to hold on. If Richard
Parker appeared, it would be more awkward to drop from the oar, but one terror at a time, Pacific before tiger.
CHAPTER 41
Clinging to the Oar
- Pi survives the immediate aftermath of the shipwreck by clinging to an oar suspended over the Pacific Ocean.
- He finds himself trapped in a terrifying stalemate between a raging storm, circling sharks, and a tiger hidden beneath the lifeboat's tarpaulin.
- Despite the logical conclusion that his situation is hopeless, Pi is driven by a primal instinct to hold on and survive.
- Pi begins a cautious, trembling maneuver to move from the oar onto the gunnel of the boat, banking on the tiger's inability to see or smell him in the chaos.
- A psychological battle ensues between Pi's paralyzing fear of the 450-pound carnivore and his rational assessment of the sturdy canvas tarpaulin.
Had I considered my prospects in the light of reason, I surely would have given up and let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before being eaten.
around the oar. The oar handle pushed up against the tarpaulin, but tarpaulin, rope and oar held. I was out of
the water, if only by a fluctuating two, three feet. The crest of the larger waves kept striking me.
I was alone and orphaned, in the middle of the Pacific, hanging on to an oar, an adult tiger in front of me,
sharks beneath me, a storm raging about me. Had I considered my prospects in the light of reason, I surely
would have given up and let go of the oar, hoping that I might drown before being eaten. But I don't recall that
I had a single thought during those first minutes of relative safety. I didn't even notice daybreak. I held on to
the oar, I just held on, God only knows why.
After a while I made good use of the lifebuoy. I lifted it out of the water and put the oar through its hole. I
worked it down until the ring was hugging me. Now it was only with my legs that I had to hold on. If Richard
Parker appeared, it would be more awkward to drop from the oar, but one terror at a time, Pacific before tiger.
CHAPTER 41
The elements allowed me to go on living. The lifeboat did not sink. Richard Parker kept out of sight. The
sharks prowled but did not lunge. The waves splashed me but did not pull me off.
I watched the ship as it disappeared with much burbling and belching. Lights flickered and went out. I looked
about for my family, for survivors, for another lifeboat, for anything that might bring me hope. There was
nothing. Only rain, marauding waves of black ocean and the flotsam of tragedy.
The darkness melted away from the sky. The rain stopped.
I could not stay in the position I was in forever. I was cold. My neck was sore from holding up my head and
from all the craning I had been doing. My back hurt from leaning against the lifebuoy. And I needed to be
higher up if I were to see other lifeboats.
I inched my way along the oar till my feet were against the bow of the boat. I had to proceed with extreme
caution. My guess was that Richard Parker was on the floor of the lifeboat beneath the tarpaulin, his back to
me, facing the zebra, which he had no doubt killed by now. Of the five senses, tigers rely the most on their
sight. Their eyesight is very keen, especially in detecting motion. Their hearing is good. Their smell is
average. I mean compared to other animals, of course. Next to Richard Parker, I was deaf, blind and
nose-dead. But at the moment he could not see me, and in my wet condition could probably not smell me, and
what with the whistling of the wind and the hissing of the sea as waves broke, if I were careful, he would not
hear me. I had a chance so long as he did not sense me. If he did, he would kill me right away. Could he burst
through the tarpaulin, I wondered.
Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. He was a fierce, 450-pound carnivore. Each of his
claws was as sharp as a knife. Reason said No. The tarpaulin was sturdy canvas, not a Japanese paper wall. I
had landed upon it from a height. Richard Parker could shred it with his claws with a little time and effort, but
he couldn't pop through it like a jack-in-the-box. And he had not seen me. Since he had not seen me, he had no
reason to claw his way through it.
I slid along the oar. I brought both my legs to one side of the oar and placed my feet on the gunnel. The gunnel
is the top edge of a boat, the rim if you want. I moved a little more till my legs were on the boat. I kept my
eyes fixed on the horizon of the tarpaulin. Any second I expected to see Richard Parker rising up and coming
for me. Several times I had fits of fearful trembling. Precisely where I wanted to be most still-my legs-was
Page 61
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Survival on the Gunnel
- Pi survives the immediate aftermath of the shipwreck, watching the vessel disappear into the dark ocean with no other survivors in sight.
- He attempts to move from his precarious position on the oar to the boat's gunnel, paralyzed by the fear of alerting the tiger, Richard Parker.
- Pi analyzes the sensory capabilities of tigers, hoping the noise of the sea and his own wet scent will mask his presence from the predator.
- Upon reaching a vantage point, Pi is shocked to find the zebra still alive and suffering from a gruesome leg injury despite the tiger's presence.
- The narrative highlights the internal conflict between Pi's paralyzing fear and the logical reasoning required to navigate his survival.
Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. He was a fierce, 450-pound carnivore.
The elements allowed me to go on living. The lifeboat did not sink. Richard Parker kept out of sight. The
sharks prowled but did not lunge. The waves splashed me but did not pull me off.
I watched the ship as it disappeared with much burbling and belching. Lights flickered and went out. I looked
about for my family, for survivors, for another lifeboat, for anything that might bring me hope. There was
nothing. Only rain, marauding waves of black ocean and the flotsam of tragedy.
The darkness melted away from the sky. The rain stopped.
I could not stay in the position I was in forever. I was cold. My neck was sore from holding up my head and
from all the craning I had been doing. My back hurt from leaning against the lifebuoy. And I needed to be
higher up if I were to see other lifeboats.
I inched my way along the oar till my feet were against the bow of the boat. I had to proceed with extreme
caution. My guess was that Richard Parker was on the floor of the lifeboat beneath the tarpaulin, his back to
me, facing the zebra, which he had no doubt killed by now. Of the five senses, tigers rely the most on their
sight. Their eyesight is very keen, especially in detecting motion. Their hearing is good. Their smell is
average. I mean compared to other animals, of course. Next to Richard Parker, I was deaf, blind and
nose-dead. But at the moment he could not see me, and in my wet condition could probably not smell me, and
what with the whistling of the wind and the hissing of the sea as waves broke, if I were careful, he would not
hear me. I had a chance so long as he did not sense me. If he did, he would kill me right away. Could he burst
through the tarpaulin, I wondered.
Fear and reason fought over the answer. Fear said Yes. He was a fierce, 450-pound carnivore. Each of his
claws was as sharp as a knife. Reason said No. The tarpaulin was sturdy canvas, not a Japanese paper wall. I
had landed upon it from a height. Richard Parker could shred it with his claws with a little time and effort, but
he couldn't pop through it like a jack-in-the-box. And he had not seen me. Since he had not seen me, he had no
reason to claw his way through it.
I slid along the oar. I brought both my legs to one side of the oar and placed my feet on the gunnel. The gunnel
is the top edge of a boat, the rim if you want. I moved a little more till my legs were on the boat. I kept my
eyes fixed on the horizon of the tarpaulin. Any second I expected to see Richard Parker rising up and coming
for me. Several times I had fits of fearful trembling. Precisely where I wanted to be most still-my legs-was
Page 61
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
where I trembled most. My legs drummed upon the tarpaulin. A more obvious rapping on Richard Parker's
door couldn't be imagined. The trembling spread to my arms and it was all I could do to hold on. Each fit
passed.
When enough of my body was on the boat I pulled myself up. I looked beyond the end of the tarpaulin. I was
surprised to see that the zebra was still alive. It lay near the stern, where it had fallen, listless, but its stomach
was still panting and its eyes were still moving, expressing terror. It was on its side, facing me, its head and
neck awkwardly propped against the boat's side bench. It had badly broken a rear leg. The angle of it was
completely unnatural. Bone protruded through skin and there was bleeding. Only its slim front legs had a
semblance of normal position. They were bent and neatly tucked against its twisted torso. From time to time
the zebra shook its head and barked and snorted. Otherwise it lay quietly.
It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly white and intensely black. I was so eaten up by
anxiety that I couldn't dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, the queer, clean, artistic boldness of
its design and the fineness of its head struck me. Of greater significance to me was the strange fact that
Richard Parker had not killed it. In the normal course of things he should have killed the zebra. That's what
The Hyena and the Zebra
- The narrator manages to pull himself onto the lifeboat, trembling with fear and physical exhaustion.
- He discovers the zebra is still alive despite a gruesome compound fracture in its rear leg and a state of shock.
- The narrator is puzzled by the zebra's survival, noting that a predator like Richard Parker should have killed it by now.
- A spotted hyena with a torn ear reveals itself, leading the narrator to conclude that Richard Parker is no longer on the boat.
- The presence of the hyena explains the lack of immediate carnage, as it is a different type of threat than the tiger.
It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly white and intensely black. I was so eaten up by anxiety that I couldn't dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, the queer, clean, artistic boldness of its design and the fineness of its head struck me.
where I trembled most. My legs drummed upon the tarpaulin. A more obvious rapping on Richard Parker's
door couldn't be imagined. The trembling spread to my arms and it was all I could do to hold on. Each fit
passed.
When enough of my body was on the boat I pulled myself up. I looked beyond the end of the tarpaulin. I was
surprised to see that the zebra was still alive. It lay near the stern, where it had fallen, listless, but its stomach
was still panting and its eyes were still moving, expressing terror. It was on its side, facing me, its head and
neck awkwardly propped against the boat's side bench. It had badly broken a rear leg. The angle of it was
completely unnatural. Bone protruded through skin and there was bleeding. Only its slim front legs had a
semblance of normal position. They were bent and neatly tucked against its twisted torso. From time to time
the zebra shook its head and barked and snorted. Otherwise it lay quietly.
It was a lovely animal. Its wet markings glowed brightly white and intensely black. I was so eaten up by
anxiety that I couldn't dwell on it; still, in passing, as a faint afterthought, the queer, clean, artistic boldness of
its design and the fineness of its head struck me. Of greater significance to me was the strange fact that
Richard Parker had not killed it. In the normal course of things he should have killed the zebra. That's what
predators do: they kill prey. In the present
circumstances, where Richard Parker would be under tremendous mental strain, fear should have brought out
an exceptional level of aggression. The zebra should have been properly butchered.
The reason behind its spared life was revealed shortly. It froze my blood-and then brought a slight measure of
relief. A head appeared beyond the end of the tarpaulin. It looked at me in a direct, frightened way, ducked
under, appeared again, ducked under again, appeared once more, disappeared a last time. It was the bear-like,
balding-looking head of a spotted hyena. Our zoo had a clan of six, two dominant females and four
subordinate males. They were supposed to be going to Minnesota. The one here was a male. I recognized it by
its right ear, which was badly torn, its healed jagged edge testimony to old violence. Now I understood why
Richard Parker had not killed the zebra: he was no longer aboard. There couldn't be both a hyena and a tiger in
The Hyena and the Fodder
- Pi discovers that the predator on the lifeboat is a spotted hyena, not the tiger Richard Parker as he initially feared.
- The presence of the hyena leads Pi to conclude that Richard Parker must have fallen overboard and drowned during the chaos.
- Pi realizes the sailors threw him into the lifeboat not to save him, but to use him as live bait to distract the hyena.
- Despite the danger, Pi feels a momentary relief that he is facing a hyena rather than a tiger, though he remains stranded and alone.
- As the storm clears and a beautiful day dawns, Pi begins to process the devastating loss of his family and the reality of his situation.
They were using me as fodder. They were hoping that the hyena would attack me and that somehow I would get rid of it and make the boat safe for them, no matter if it cost me my life.
circumstances, where Richard Parker would be under tremendous mental strain, fear should have brought out
an exceptional level of aggression. The zebra should have been properly butchered.
The reason behind its spared life was revealed shortly. It froze my blood-and then brought a slight measure of
relief. A head appeared beyond the end of the tarpaulin. It looked at me in a direct, frightened way, ducked
under, appeared again, ducked under again, appeared once more, disappeared a last time. It was the bear-like,
balding-looking head of a spotted hyena. Our zoo had a clan of six, two dominant females and four
subordinate males. They were supposed to be going to Minnesota. The one here was a male. I recognized it by
its right ear, which was badly torn, its healed jagged edge testimony to old violence. Now I understood why
Richard Parker had not killed the zebra: he was no longer aboard. There couldn't be both a hyena and a tiger in
such a small space. He must have fallen off the tarpaulin and drowned.
I had to explain to myself how a hyena had come to be on the lifeboat. I doubted hyenas were capable of
swimming in open seas. I concluded that it must have been on board all along, hiding under the tarpaulin, and
that I hadn't noticed it when I landed with a bounce. I realized something else: the hyena was the reason those
sailors had thrown me into the lifeboat. They weren't trying to save my life. That was the last of their
concerns. They were using me as fodder. They were hoping that the hyena would attack me and that somehow
I would get rid of it and make the boat safe for them, no matter if it cost me my life. Now I knew what they
were pointing at so furiously just before the zebra appeared.
I never thought that finding myself confined in a small space with a spotted hyena would be good news, but
there you go. In fact, the good news was double: if it weren't for this hyena, the sailor wouldn't have thrown
me into the lifeboat and I would have stayed on the ship and I surely would have drowned; and if I had to
share quarters with a wild animal, better the upfront ferocity of a dog than the power and stealth of a cat. I
breathed the smallest sigh of relief. As a precautionary measure I moved onto the oar. I sat astride it, on the
rounded edge of the speared lifebuoy, my left foot against the tip of the prow, my right foot on the gunnel. It
was comfortable enough and I was facing the boat.
I looked about. Nothing but sea and sky. The same when we were at the top of a swell. The sea briefly
imitated every land feature-every hill, every valley, every plain. Accelerated geotectonics. Around the world
in eighty swells. But nowhere on it could I find my family. Things floated in the water but none that brought
me hope. I could see no other lifeboats.
The weather was changing rapidly. The sea, so immense, so breathtakingly immense, was settling into a
Page 62
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
smooth and steady motion, with the waves at heel; the wind was softening to a tuneful breeze; fluffy, radiantly
white clouds were beginning to light up in a vast fathomless dome of delicate pale blue. It was the dawn of a
beautiful day in the Pacific Ocean. My shirt was already beginning to dry. The night had vanished as quickly
as the ship.
I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was either fixed on practical details of immediate survival or
transfixed by pain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands at my head.
CHAPTER 42
Orange Juice and Banana Manna
- The protagonist experiences a beautiful Pacific dawn while oscillating between practical survival thoughts and intense emotional pain.
- Orange Juice, a matriarchal orangutan from the zoo, miraculously appears floating on a net of bananas like a religious vision.
- In a moment of instinct, the narrator salvages the nylon net from the sinking fruit, unaware that it will become a vital survival tool.
- The narrator fails to salvage any of the floating bananas before they are lost to the sea, a mistake that causes him future regret.
- Orange Juice enters the lifeboat in a state of profound shock, just as the last traces of the sunken ship vanish from the surface.
She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light, as lovely the Virgin Mary.
smooth and steady motion, with the waves at heel; the wind was softening to a tuneful breeze; fluffy, radiantly
white clouds were beginning to light up in a vast fathomless dome of delicate pale blue. It was the dawn of a
beautiful day in the Pacific Ocean. My shirt was already beginning to dry. The night had vanished as quickly
as the ship.
I began to wait. My thoughts swung wildly. I was either fixed on practical details of immediate survival or
transfixed by pain, weeping silently, my mouth open and my hands at my head.
CHAPTER 42
She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light, as lovely the Virgin Mary. The rising sun was
behind her. Her flaming hair looked stunning.
I cried, "Oh blessed Great Mother, Pondicherry fertility goddess, provider of milk and love, wondrous arm
spread of comfort, terror of ticks, picker-up of crying ones, are you to witness this tragedy too? It's not right
that gentleness meet horror. Better that you had died right away. How bitterly glad I am to see you. You bring
joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be for long. What do
you know about the sea? Nothing. What do I know about the sea? Nothing. Without a driver this bus is lost.
Our lives are over. Come aboard if your destination is oblivion-it should be our next stop. We can sit together.
You can have the window seat, if you want. But it's a sad view. Oh, enough of this dissembling. Let me say it
plainly: I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Not the spiders, please."
It was Orange Juice-so called because she tended to drool-our prize Borneo orang-utan matriarch, zoo star and
mother of two fine boys, surrounded by a mass of black spiders that crawled around her like malevolent
worshippers. The bananas on which she floated were held together by the nylon net with which they had been
lowered into the ship. When she stepped off the bananas into the boat, they bobbed up and rolled over. The net
became loose. Without thinking about it, only because it was at hand's reach and about to sink, I took hold of
the net and pulled it aboard, a casual gesture that would turn out to be a lifesaver in many ways; this net would
become one of my most precious possessions.
The bananas came apart. The black spiders crawled as fast as they could, but their situation was hopeless. The
island crumbled beneath them. They all drowned. The lifeboat briefly floated in a sea of fruit.
I had picked up what I thought was a useless net, but did I think of reaping from this banana manna? No. Not a
single one. It was banana split in the wrong sense of the term: the sea dispersed them. This colossal waste
would later weigh on me heavily. I would nearly go into convulsions of dismay at my stupidity.
Orange Juice was in a fog. Her gestures were slow and tentative and her eyes reflected deep mental confusion.
She was in a state of profound shock. She lay flat on the tarpaulin for several minutes, quiet and still, before
reaching over and falling into the lifeboat proper. I heard a hyena's scream.
CHAPTER 43
The last trace I saw of the ship was a patch of oil glimmering on the surface of the water.
Page 63
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Orange Juice and the Hyena
- Pi witnesses the arrival of Orange Juice, the zoo's orangutan matriarch, who floats to the lifeboat on a makeshift island of bananas.
- In a moment of instinct, Pi retrieves a nylon net from the water, a casual gesture that he realizes will become a vital tool for his survival.
- Pi experiences deep regret for failing to salvage the bananas before they drifted away, viewing the loss as a colossal waste of resources.
- The lifeboat becomes a site of intense tension as a frantic hyena begins running laps around the boat, terrifying Pi and the injured zebra.
- Despite the dire circumstances, Pi clings to a desperate hope that a global rescue mission is already underway to find the sunken ship.
She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light, as lovely the Virgin Mary.
She came floating on an island of bananas in a halo of light, as lovely the Virgin Mary. The rising sun was
behind her. Her flaming hair looked stunning.
I cried, "Oh blessed Great Mother, Pondicherry fertility goddess, provider of milk and love, wondrous arm
spread of comfort, terror of ticks, picker-up of crying ones, are you to witness this tragedy too? It's not right
that gentleness meet horror. Better that you had died right away. How bitterly glad I am to see you. You bring
joy and pain in equal measure. Joy because you are with me, but pain because it won't be for long. What do
you know about the sea? Nothing. What do I know about the sea? Nothing. Without a driver this bus is lost.
Our lives are over. Come aboard if your destination is oblivion-it should be our next stop. We can sit together.
You can have the window seat, if you want. But it's a sad view. Oh, enough of this dissembling. Let me say it
plainly: I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you. Not the spiders, please."
It was Orange Juice-so called because she tended to drool-our prize Borneo orang-utan matriarch, zoo star and
mother of two fine boys, surrounded by a mass of black spiders that crawled around her like malevolent
worshippers. The bananas on which she floated were held together by the nylon net with which they had been
lowered into the ship. When she stepped off the bananas into the boat, they bobbed up and rolled over. The net
became loose. Without thinking about it, only because it was at hand's reach and about to sink, I took hold of
the net and pulled it aboard, a casual gesture that would turn out to be a lifesaver in many ways; this net would
become one of my most precious possessions.
The bananas came apart. The black spiders crawled as fast as they could, but their situation was hopeless. The
island crumbled beneath them. They all drowned. The lifeboat briefly floated in a sea of fruit.
I had picked up what I thought was a useless net, but did I think of reaping from this banana manna? No. Not a
single one. It was banana split in the wrong sense of the term: the sea dispersed them. This colossal waste
would later weigh on me heavily. I would nearly go into convulsions of dismay at my stupidity.
Orange Juice was in a fog. Her gestures were slow and tentative and her eyes reflected deep mental confusion.
She was in a state of profound shock. She lay flat on the tarpaulin for several minutes, quiet and still, before
reaching over and falling into the lifeboat proper. I heard a hyena's scream.
CHAPTER 43
The last trace I saw of the ship was a patch of oil glimmering on the surface of the water.
Page 63
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I was certain I wasn't alone. It was inconceivable that the Tsimtsum should sink without eliciting a peep of
concern. Right now in Tokyo, in Panama City, in Madras, in Honolulu, why, even in Winnipeg, red lights
were blinking on consoles, alarm bells were ringing, eyes were opening wide in horror, mouths were gasping,
"My God! The Tsimtsum has sunk!" and hands were reaching for phones. More red lights were starting to
blink and more alarm bells were starting to ring. Pilots were running to their planes with their shoelaces still
untied, such was their hurry. Ship officers were spinning their wheels till they were feeling dizzy. Even
submarines were swerving underwater to join in the rescue effort. We would be rescued soon. A ship would
appear on the horizon. A gun would be found to kill the hyena and put the zebra out of its misery. Perhaps
Orange Juice could be saved. I would climb aboard and be greeted by my family. They would have been
picked up in another lifeboat. I only had to ensure my survival for the next few hours until this rescue ship
came.
I reached from my perch for the net. I rolled it up and tossed it midway on the tarpaulin to act as a barrier,
however small. Orange Juice had seemed practically cataleptic. My guess was she was dying of shock. It was
the hyena that worried me. I could hear it whining. I clung to the hope that a zebra, a familiar prey, and an
orang-utan, an unfamiliar one, would distract it from thoughts of me.
I kept one eye on the horizon, one eye on the other end of the lifeboat. Other than the hyena's whining, I heard
very little from the animals, no more than claws scuffing against a hard surface and occasional groans and
arrested cries. No major fight seemed to be taking place.
Mid-morning the hyena appeared again. In the preceding minutes its whining had been rising in volume to a
scream. It jumped over the zebra onto the stern, where the lifeboat's side benches came together to form a
triangular bench. It was a fairly exposed position, the distance between bench and gunnel being about twelve
inches. The animal nervously peered beyond the boat. Beholding a vast expanse of shifting water seemed to be
the last thing it wanted to see, for it instantly brought its head down and dropped to the bottom of the boat
behind the zebra. That was a cramped space; between the broad back of the zebra and the sides of the
buoyancy tanks that went all round the boat beneath the benches, there wasn't much room left for a hyena. It
thrashed about for a moment before climbing to the stern again and jumping back over the zebra to the middle
of the boat, disappearing beneath the tarpaulin. This burst of activity lasted less than ten seconds. The hyena
came to within fifteen feet of me. My only reaction was to freeze with fear. The zebra, by comparison, swiftly
reared its head and barked.
I was hoping the hyena would stay under the tarpaulin. I was disappointed. Nearly immediately it leapt over
the zebra and onto the stern bench again. There it turned on itself a few times, whimpering and hesitating. I
wondered what it was going to do next. The answer came quickly: it brought its head low and ran around the
zebra in a circle, transforming the stern bench, the side benches and the cross bench just beyond the tarpaulin
into a twenty-five-foot indoor track. It did one lap-two-three-four-five-and onwards, non-stop, till I lost count.
And the whole time, lap after lap, it went yip yip yip yip yip in a high-pitched way. My reaction, once again,
was very slow. I was seized by fear and could only watch. The beast was going at a good clip, and it was no
small animal; it was an adult male that looked to be about 140 pounds. The beating of its legs against the
benches made the whole boat shake, and its claws were loudly clicking on their surface. Each time it came
from the stern I tensed. It was hair-raising enough to see the thing racing my way; worse still was the fear that
it would keep going straight.
False Hope and Feral Fear
- The narrator maintains a desperate, elaborate fantasy that a global rescue mission is already underway to find the sunken Tsimtsum.
- A fragile sense of security is sought by using a rolled-up net as a symbolic barrier against the predatory animals on the lifeboat.
- The hyena exhibits signs of extreme distress and agitation, frantically running laps around the boat's perimeter while making high-pitched noises.
- The narrator realizes that the other animals, including the cataleptic orangutan and the injured zebra, offer no protection against the unpredictable hyena.
- Fear paralyzes the narrator as the physical weight and speed of the hyena make the entire lifeboat shake during its manic pacing.
Pilots were running to their planes with their shoelaces still untied, such was their hurry.
I was certain I wasn't alone. It was inconceivable that the Tsimtsum should sink without eliciting a peep of
concern. Right now in Tokyo, in Panama City, in Madras, in Honolulu, why, even in Winnipeg, red lights
were blinking on consoles, alarm bells were ringing, eyes were opening wide in horror, mouths were gasping,
"My God! The Tsimtsum has sunk!" and hands were reaching for phones. More red lights were starting to
blink and more alarm bells were starting to ring. Pilots were running to their planes with their shoelaces still
untied, such was their hurry. Ship officers were spinning their wheels till they were feeling dizzy. Even
submarines were swerving underwater to join in the rescue effort. We would be rescued soon. A ship would
appear on the horizon. A gun would be found to kill the hyena and put the zebra out of its misery. Perhaps
Orange Juice could be saved. I would climb aboard and be greeted by my family. They would have been
picked up in another lifeboat. I only had to ensure my survival for the next few hours until this rescue ship
came.
I reached from my perch for the net. I rolled it up and tossed it midway on the tarpaulin to act as a barrier,
however small. Orange Juice had seemed practically cataleptic. My guess was she was dying of shock. It was
the hyena that worried me. I could hear it whining. I clung to the hope that a zebra, a familiar prey, and an
orang-utan, an unfamiliar one, would distract it from thoughts of me.
I kept one eye on the horizon, one eye on the other end of the lifeboat. Other than the hyena's whining, I heard
very little from the animals, no more than claws scuffing against a hard surface and occasional groans and
arrested cries. No major fight seemed to be taking place.
Mid-morning the hyena appeared again. In the preceding minutes its whining had been rising in volume to a
scream. It jumped over the zebra onto the stern, where the lifeboat's side benches came together to form a
triangular bench. It was a fairly exposed position, the distance between bench and gunnel being about twelve
inches. The animal nervously peered beyond the boat. Beholding a vast expanse of shifting water seemed to be
the last thing it wanted to see, for it instantly brought its head down and dropped to the bottom of the boat
behind the zebra. That was a cramped space; between the broad back of the zebra and the sides of the
buoyancy tanks that went all round the boat beneath the benches, there wasn't much room left for a hyena. It
thrashed about for a moment before climbing to the stern again and jumping back over the zebra to the middle
of the boat, disappearing beneath the tarpaulin. This burst of activity lasted less than ten seconds. The hyena
came to within fifteen feet of me. My only reaction was to freeze with fear. The zebra, by comparison, swiftly
reared its head and barked.
I was hoping the hyena would stay under the tarpaulin. I was disappointed. Nearly immediately it leapt over
the zebra and onto the stern bench again. There it turned on itself a few times, whimpering and hesitating. I
wondered what it was going to do next. The answer came quickly: it brought its head low and ran around the
zebra in a circle, transforming the stern bench, the side benches and the cross bench just beyond the tarpaulin
into a twenty-five-foot indoor track. It did one lap-two-three-four-five-and onwards, non-stop, till I lost count.
And the whole time, lap after lap, it went yip yip yip yip yip in a high-pitched way. My reaction, once again,
was very slow. I was seized by fear and could only watch. The beast was going at a good clip, and it was no
small animal; it was an adult male that looked to be about 140 pounds. The beating of its legs against the
benches made the whole boat shake, and its claws were loudly clicking on their surface. Each time it came
from the stern I tensed. It was hair-raising enough to see the thing racing my way; worse still was the fear that
it would keep going straight.
Clearly, Orange Juice, wherever she was, would not be an obstacle. And the
rolled-up tarpaulin and the bulge of the net were even more pitiful defences. With the slightest of efforts the
hyena could be at the bow right at my feet. It didn't seem intent on that course of action; every time it came to
the cross bench, it took it, and I saw the upper half of its body moving rapidly along the edge of the tarpaulin.
But in this state, the hyena's behaviour was highly unpredictable and it could decide to attack me without
warning.
After a number of laps it stopped short at the stern bench and crouched, directing its gaze downwards, to the
The Hyena's Feverish Circles
- Pi observes that the hyena is highly unpredictable and could easily bypass his meager defenses to attack him at the bow.
- The hyena exhibits a strange physical strain and anxiety that makes it appear to glow as if suffering from a fever.
- Driven by a repetitive instinct, the animal begins running incessant counter-clockwise laps around the lifeboat while yipping shrilly.
- The monotony of the predator's behavior is so extreme that it eventually lulls both Pi and the injured zebra into a state of weary stupor.
- Despite the tedious nature of the hyena's movement, Pi remains in a state of constant terror every time the animal pauses near him.
The look was nearly the typical look of a hyena-blank and frank, the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed, jaw hanging open, big ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright and black-were it not for the strain that exuded from every cell of its body, an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever.
Clearly, Orange Juice, wherever she was, would not be an obstacle. And the
rolled-up tarpaulin and the bulge of the net were even more pitiful defences. With the slightest of efforts the
hyena could be at the bow right at my feet. It didn't seem intent on that course of action; every time it came to
the cross bench, it took it, and I saw the upper half of its body moving rapidly along the edge of the tarpaulin.
But in this state, the hyena's behaviour was highly unpredictable and it could decide to attack me without
warning.
After a number of laps it stopped short at the stern bench and crouched, directing its gaze downwards, to the
Page 64
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
space below the tarpaulin. It lifted its eyes and rested them upon me. The look was nearly the typical look of a
hyena-blank and frank, the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed, jaw hanging open, big
ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright and black-were it not for the strain that exuded from every cell of its body,
an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever. I prepared for my end. For nothing. It started running
in circles again.
When an animal decides to do something, it can do it for a very long time. All morning the hyena ran in circles
going yip yip yip yip yip. Once in a while it briefly stopped at the stern bench, but otherwise every lap was
identical to the previous one, with no variations in movement, in speed, in the pitch or the volume of the
yipping, in the counter-clockwise direction of travel. Its yipping was shrill and annoying in the extreme. It
became so tedious and draining to watch that I eventually turned my head to the side, trying to keep guard
with the corner of my eyes. Even the zebra, which at first snorted each time the hyena raced by its head, fell
into a stupor.
Yet every time the hyena paused at the stern bench, my heart jumped. And as much as I wanted to direct my
attention to the
The Maniacal Hyena
- The narrator observes a hyena trapped on a lifeboat, which exhibits a frantic and repetitive behavior of running in circles for hours.
- The physical appearance of the hyena is described as a grotesque, mismatched collection of animal parts that look like the leftovers of creation.
- Despite their reputation as cowardly scavengers, the narrator recalls his father's warning that hyenas are actually devastating and relentless hunters.
- The hyena's indiscriminate nature is highlighted by its lack of disgust, eating everything from blood-soaked grass to its own kind.
- The animal's extreme survival instincts and 'catholicity of taste' allow it to thrive in conditions that would repel most other creatures.
It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation.
space below the tarpaulin. It lifted its eyes and rested them upon me. The look was nearly the typical look of a
hyena-blank and frank, the curiosity apparent with nothing of the mental set revealed, jaw hanging open, big
ears sticking up rigidly, eyes bright and black-were it not for the strain that exuded from every cell of its body,
an anxiety that made the animal glow, as if with a fever. I prepared for my end. For nothing. It started running
in circles again.
When an animal decides to do something, it can do it for a very long time. All morning the hyena ran in circles
going yip yip yip yip yip. Once in a while it briefly stopped at the stern bench, but otherwise every lap was
identical to the previous one, with no variations in movement, in speed, in the pitch or the volume of the
yipping, in the counter-clockwise direction of travel. Its yipping was shrill and annoying in the extreme. It
became so tedious and draining to watch that I eventually turned my head to the side, trying to keep guard
with the corner of my eyes. Even the zebra, which at first snorted each time the hyena raced by its head, fell
into a stupor.
Yet every time the hyena paused at the stern bench, my heart jumped. And as much as I wanted to direct my
attention to the
horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying back to this maniacal beast.
I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but it is a plain fact that the spotted hyena is not well
served by its appearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the
hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat
seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation. The colour is a bungled mix of tan, black,
yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classy ostentation of a leopard's rosettes; they look rather like
the symptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. The head is broad and too massive, with a high
forehead, like that of a bear, but suffering from a receding hairline, and with ears that look ridiculously
mouse-like, large and round, when they haven't been torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open and panting.
The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly and unwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put together
look doglike, but like no dog anyone would want as a pet.
But I had not forgotten Father's words. These were not cowardly carrion-eaters. If National Geographic
portrayed them as such, it was because National Geographic filmed during the day. It is when the moon rises
that the hyena's day starts, and it proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas attack in packs whatever animal
can be run down, its flanks opened while still in full motion. They go for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes, and
not only the old or the infirm in a herd-full-grown members too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from
buttings and kickings immediately, never giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that
can be distracted from its mother is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, but hyenas also eat
young lions and young rhinoceros. They are diligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat,
all that will be left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet be dragged away and gnawed down at leisure by
young ones in the lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which blood has been spilt will be eaten.
Hyenas' stomachs swell visibly as they swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, they become so full
they have difficulty moving. Once they've digested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which they pick
clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidental cannibalism is a common occurrence during the excitement
of a feeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take in the ear or nostril of a clan member, no hard
feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are too many to admit to disgust at
anything.
In fact, a hyena's catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate it nearly forces admiration. A hyena will drink from
water even as it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use for its urine: in hot, dry weather it will
cool itself by relieving its bladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing mud bath with its paws. Hyenas
snack on the excrement of herbivores with clucks of pleasure. It's an open question as to what hyenas won't
eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of those whose ears and noses they gobbled down as appetizers) once
The Ugly, Devastating Hyena
- The narrator describes the spotted hyena as an aesthetic failure, appearing to be a mismatched collection of leftover animal parts.
- Despite their reputation as cowardly scavengers, hyenas are actually formidable and relentless hunters that can take down healthy, full-grown prey.
- The hyena's feeding habits are characterized by extreme speed and a total lack of waste, consuming everything from bone to blood-soaked grass.
- Hyenas exhibit a complete lack of disgust, engaging in accidental cannibalism during feeding frenzies and using their own urine to create cooling mud baths.
- The animal's indiscriminate diet and hardy nature make it a highly successful, if repulsive, survivor in the wild.
Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation.
horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying back to this maniacal beast.
I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but it is a plain fact that the spotted hyena is not well
served by its appearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the
hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat
seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation. The colour is a bungled mix of tan, black,
yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classy ostentation of a leopard's rosettes; they look rather like
the symptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. The head is broad and too massive, with a high
forehead, like that of a bear, but suffering from a receding hairline, and with ears that look ridiculously
mouse-like, large and round, when they haven't been torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open and panting.
The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly and unwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put together
look doglike, but like no dog anyone would want as a pet.
But I had not forgotten Father's words. These were not cowardly carrion-eaters. If National Geographic
portrayed them as such, it was because National Geographic filmed during the day. It is when the moon rises
that the hyena's day starts, and it proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas attack in packs whatever animal
can be run down, its flanks opened while still in full motion. They go for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes, and
not only the old or the infirm in a herd-full-grown members too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from
buttings and kickings immediately, never giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that
can be distracted from its mother is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, but hyenas also eat
young lions and young rhinoceros. They are diligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat,
all that will be left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet be dragged away and gnawed down at leisure by
young ones in the lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which blood has been spilt will be eaten.
Hyenas' stomachs swell visibly as they swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, they become so full
they have difficulty moving. Once they've digested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which they pick
clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidental cannibalism is a common occurrence during the excitement
of a feeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take in the ear or nostril of a clan member, no hard
feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are too many to admit to disgust at
anything.
In fact, a hyena's catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate it nearly forces admiration. A hyena will drink from
water even as it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use for its urine: in hot, dry weather it will
cool itself by relieving its bladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing mud bath with its paws. Hyenas
snack on the excrement of herbivores with clucks of pleasure. It's an open question as to what hyenas won't
eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of those whose ears and noses they gobbled down as appetizers) once
Page 65
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Grotesque Spotted Hyena
- The narrator describes the spotted hyena as an aesthetic failure, possessing a mismatched body that looks like a 'discarded prototype' for other animals.
- Contrary to their reputation as cowardly scavengers, hyenas are revealed to be devastatingly efficient and hardy hunters capable of taking down large, healthy prey.
- The animal exhibits an indiscriminate 'catholicity of taste,' consuming everything from blood-soaked grass and excrement to the ears of its own clan members.
- The hyena's physical power is centered in its formidable jaws, which allow it to consume almost anything, including the metal parts of motor vehicles.
- The encounter concludes with the hyena collapsing into its own vomit in a display of 'animal anguish,' leaving the narrator and a wounded zebra in a state of tense silence.
Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation.
horizon, to where my salvation lay, it kept straying back to this maniacal beast.
I am not one to hold a prejudice against any animal, but it is a plain fact that the spotted hyena is not well
served by its appearance. It is ugly beyond redemption. Its thick neck and high shoulders that slope to the
hindquarters look as if they've come from a discarded prototype for the giraffe, and its shaggy, coarse coat
seems to have been patched together from the leftovers of creation. The colour is a bungled mix of tan, black,
yellow, grey, with the spots having none of the classy ostentation of a leopard's rosettes; they look rather like
the symptoms of a skin disease, a virulent form of mange. The head is broad and too massive, with a high
forehead, like that of a bear, but suffering from a receding hairline, and with ears that look ridiculously
mouse-like, large and round, when they haven't been torn off in battle. The mouth is forever open and panting.
The nostrils are too big. The tail is scraggly and unwagging. The gait is shambling. All the parts put together
look doglike, but like no dog anyone would want as a pet.
But I had not forgotten Father's words. These were not cowardly carrion-eaters. If National Geographic
portrayed them as such, it was because National Geographic filmed during the day. It is when the moon rises
that the hyena's day starts, and it proves to be a devastating hunter. Hyenas attack in packs whatever animal
can be run down, its flanks opened while still in full motion. They go for zebras, gnus and water buffaloes, and
not only the old or the infirm in a herd-full-grown members too. They are hardy attackers, rising up from
buttings and kickings immediately, never giving up for simple lack of will. And they are clever; anything that
can be distracted from its mother is good. The ten-minute-old gnu is a favourite dish, but hyenas also eat
young lions and young rhinoceros. They are diligent when their efforts are rewarded. In fifteen minutes flat,
all that will be left of a zebra is the skull, which may yet be dragged away and gnawed down at leisure by
young ones in the lair. Nothing goes to waste; even grass upon which blood has been spilt will be eaten.
Hyenas' stomachs swell visibly as they swallow huge chunks of kill. If they are lucky, they become so full
they have difficulty moving. Once they've digested their kill, they cough up dense hairballs, which they pick
clean of edibles before rolling in them. Accidental cannibalism is a common occurrence during the excitement
of a feeding; in reaching for a bite of zebra, a hyena will take in the ear or nostril of a clan member, no hard
feelings intended. The hyena feels no disgust at this mistake. Its delights are too many to admit to disgust at
anything.
In fact, a hyena's catholicity of taste is so indiscriminate it nearly forces admiration. A hyena will drink from
water even as it is urinating in it. The animal has another original use for its urine: in hot, dry weather it will
cool itself by relieving its bladder on the ground and stirring up a refreshing mud bath with its paws. Hyenas
snack on the excrement of herbivores with clucks of pleasure. It's an open question as to what hyenas won't
eat. They eat their own kind (the rest of those whose ears and noses they gobbled down as appetizers) once
Page 65
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
they're dead, after a period of aversion that lasts about one day. They will even attack motor vehicles-the
headlights, the exhaust pipe, the side mirrors. It is not their gastric juices that limit hyenas, but the power of
their jaws, which is formidable.
That was the animal I had racing around in circles before me. An animal to pain the eye and chill the heart.
Things ended in typical hyena fashion. It stopped at the stern and started producing deep groans interrupted by
fits of heavy panting. I pushed myself away on the oar till only the tips of my feet were holding on to the boat.
The animal hacked and coughed. Abruptly it vomited. A gush landed behind the zebra. The hyena dropped
into what it had just produced. It stayed there, shaking and whining and turning around on itself, exploring the
furthest confines of animal anguish. It did not move from the restricted space for the rest of the day. At times
the zebra made noises about the predator just behind it, but mostly it lay in hopeless and sullen silence.
Anguish in the Lifeboat
- The narrator observes the hyena's formidable power and physical distress as it collapses into its own vomit after a period of frantic activity.
- A sense of tense, breathless boredom defines the day as the narrator perches precariously on an oar, waiting for a rescue that does not come.
- The presence of flies on the boat provides a strange, temporary distraction before they are eventually consumed by the hyena or lost to the sea.
- As night falls, the narrator is plunged into a terrifying, abstract blackness where the sounds of animal struggle and unseen marine life heighten his fear.
- The narrator experiences a moment of profound vulnerability, admitting to losing physical control of himself out of sheer terror during the night.
Everything disappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. I seemed to be floating in pure, abstract blackness.
they're dead, after a period of aversion that lasts about one day. They will even attack motor vehicles-the
headlights, the exhaust pipe, the side mirrors. It is not their gastric juices that limit hyenas, but the power of
their jaws, which is formidable.
That was the animal I had racing around in circles before me. An animal to pain the eye and chill the heart.
Things ended in typical hyena fashion. It stopped at the stern and started producing deep groans interrupted by
fits of heavy panting. I pushed myself away on the oar till only the tips of my feet were holding on to the boat.
The animal hacked and coughed. Abruptly it vomited. A gush landed behind the zebra. The hyena dropped
into what it had just produced. It stayed there, shaking and whining and turning around on itself, exploring the
furthest confines of animal anguish. It did not move from the restricted space for the rest of the day. At times
the zebra made noises about the predator just behind it, but mostly it lay in hopeless and sullen silence.
CHAPTER 44
The sun climbed through the sky, reached its zenith, began to come down. I spent the entire day perched on
the oar, moving only as much as was necessary to stay balanced. My whole being tended towards the spot on
the horizon that would appear and save me. It was a state of tense, breathless boredom. Those first hours are
associated in my memory with one sound, not one you'd guess, not the yipping of the hyena or the hissing of
the sea: it was the buzzing of flies. There were flies aboard the lifeboat. They emerged and flew about in the
way of flies, in great, lazy orbits except when they came close to each other, when they spiralled together with
dizzying speed and a burst of buzzing. Some were brave enough to venture out to where I was. They looped
around me, sounding like sputtering, single-prop airplanes, before hurrying home. Whether they were native to
the boat or had come with one of the animals, the hyena most likely, I can't say. But whatever their origin,
they didn't last long; they all disappeared within two days. The hyena, from behind the zebra, snapped at them
and ate a number. Others were probably swept out to sea by the wind. Perhaps a few lucky ones came to their
life's term and died of old age.
As evening approached, my anxiety grew. Everything about the end of the day scared me. At night a ship
would have difficulty seeing me. At night the hyena might become active again and maybe Orange Juice too.
Darkness came. There was no moon. Clouds hid the stars. The contours of things became hard to distinguish.
Everything disappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. The sea was quiet and there was hardly any wind,
so I couldn't even ground myself in sound. I seemed to be floating in pure, abstract blackness. I kept my eyes
fixed on where I thought the horizon was, while my ears were on guard for any sign of the animals. I couldn't
imagine lasting the night.
Sometime during the night the hyena began snarling and the zebra barking and squealing, and I heard a
repeated knocking sound. I shook with fright and-I will hide nothing here-relieved myself in my pants. But
these sounds came from the other end of the lifeboat. I couldn't feel any shaking that indicated movement. The
hellish beast was apparently staying away from me. From nearer in the blackness I began hearing loud
expirations and groans and grunts and various wet mouth sounds. The idea of Orange Juice stirring was too
much for my nerves to bear, so I did not consider it. I simply ignored the thought. There were also noises
coming from beneath me, from the water, sudden flapping sounds and swishing sounds that were over and
done with in an instant. The battle for life was taking place there too.
The night passed, minute by slow minute.
Page 66
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 45
Hope and Brutality at Sea
- Pi endures a day of tense boredom and a night of sensory deprivation, floating in an abstract blackness where only the sounds of animals and the sea exist.
- The arrival of dawn brings a surge of intense hope and vivid fantasies of a rescue and a joyful reunion with his family.
- The harsh reality of the lifeboat returns as Pi discovers the hyena has brutally bitten off the zebra's broken leg while the animal suffers in silence.
- Pi experiences a blunting of empathy, noting that the desperate need for personal survival makes him callous toward the zebra's agony.
When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival.
The sun climbed through the sky, reached its zenith, began to come down. I spent the entire day perched on
the oar, moving only as much as was necessary to stay balanced. My whole being tended towards the spot on
the horizon that would appear and save me. It was a state of tense, breathless boredom. Those first hours are
associated in my memory with one sound, not one you'd guess, not the yipping of the hyena or the hissing of
the sea: it was the buzzing of flies. There were flies aboard the lifeboat. They emerged and flew about in the
way of flies, in great, lazy orbits except when they came close to each other, when they spiralled together with
dizzying speed and a burst of buzzing. Some were brave enough to venture out to where I was. They looped
around me, sounding like sputtering, single-prop airplanes, before hurrying home. Whether they were native to
the boat or had come with one of the animals, the hyena most likely, I can't say. But whatever their origin,
they didn't last long; they all disappeared within two days. The hyena, from behind the zebra, snapped at them
and ate a number. Others were probably swept out to sea by the wind. Perhaps a few lucky ones came to their
life's term and died of old age.
As evening approached, my anxiety grew. Everything about the end of the day scared me. At night a ship
would have difficulty seeing me. At night the hyena might become active again and maybe Orange Juice too.
Darkness came. There was no moon. Clouds hid the stars. The contours of things became hard to distinguish.
Everything disappeared, the sea, the lifeboat, my own body. The sea was quiet and there was hardly any wind,
so I couldn't even ground myself in sound. I seemed to be floating in pure, abstract blackness. I kept my eyes
fixed on where I thought the horizon was, while my ears were on guard for any sign of the animals. I couldn't
imagine lasting the night.
Sometime during the night the hyena began snarling and the zebra barking and squealing, and I heard a
repeated knocking sound. I shook with fright and-I will hide nothing here-relieved myself in my pants. But
these sounds came from the other end of the lifeboat. I couldn't feel any shaking that indicated movement. The
hellish beast was apparently staying away from me. From nearer in the blackness I began hearing loud
expirations and groans and grunts and various wet mouth sounds. The idea of Orange Juice stirring was too
much for my nerves to bear, so I did not consider it. I simply ignored the thought. There were also noises
coming from beneath me, from the water, sudden flapping sounds and swishing sounds that were over and
done with in an instant. The battle for life was taking place there too.
The night passed, minute by slow minute.
Page 66
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 45
I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet
by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea
opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't
need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged
in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in
it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To
think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the
horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I
imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great
big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and
dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it
was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon
might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat.
The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes
automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror.
The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A
flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently,
without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress.
Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing
something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't
have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted
by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much-and being such a big,
strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal- but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and
then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not
forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it.
There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it
floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of
freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also
meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the
waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made
for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making
me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing
the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring.
It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I
Hope and Brutality at Sea
- The arrival of daybreak brings a surge of irrational hope and vivid fantasies of a joyful family reunion on a rescue ship.
- The narrator discovers the hyena has brutally maimed the zebra, biting off its broken leg while the victim suffers in silent distress.
- A profound shift in morality occurs as the narrator realizes that the desperate need for personal survival blunts his capacity for empathy.
- The physical mechanics of the lifeboat cause a nauseating rolling motion, forcing the narrator to change positions and move closer to the predators.
- The narrator experiences a mix of intense hatred for the hyena and a shameful, callous indifference toward the zebra's ongoing agony.
When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival.
I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet
by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea
opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't
need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged
in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in
it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To
think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the
horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I
imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great
big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and
dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it
was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon
might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat.
The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes
automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror.
The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A
flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently,
without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress.
Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing
something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't
have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted
by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much-and being such a big,
strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal- but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and
then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not
forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it.
There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it
floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of
freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also
meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the
waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made
for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making
me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing
the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring.
It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I
had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she
Hope and Brutality at Sea
- The arrival of dawn brings a surge of hope and vivid fantasies of a joyful family reunion on a rescue ship.
- The narrator discovers the hyena has brutally bitten off the zebra's broken leg, leaving the animal in silent agony.
- A profound shift occurs in the narrator's psyche as the instinct for self-preservation blunts his empathy for the suffering zebra.
- The physical mechanics of the lifeboat cause a nauseating rolling motion, forcing the narrator to change positions.
- While managing his seasickness, the narrator finally spots Orange Juice the orangutan hiding under the tarpaulin.
When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival.
I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet
by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea
opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't
need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged
in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in
it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To
think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the
horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I
imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great
big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and
dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it
was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon
might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat.
The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes
automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror.
The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A
flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently,
without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress.
Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing
something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't
have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted
by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much-and being such a big,
strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal- but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and
then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not
forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it.
There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it
floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of
freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also
meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the
waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made
for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making
me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing
the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring.
It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I
had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she
Page 67
Hope and Brutality at Sea
- The arrival of dawn brings a surge of optimism and vivid fantasies of a joyful rescue and family reunion.
- The narrator discovers the hyena has brutally mutilated the zebra, biting off its broken leg while it is still alive.
- A profound shift in morality occurs as the narrator's empathy is blunted by the primal, selfish necessity of survival.
- The physical dynamics of the lifeboat cause a nauseating rolling motion as it sits high in the water and catches the wind.
- The narrator relocates on the boat to manage seasickness and unexpectedly spots Orange Juice the orangutan.
When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival.
I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet
by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea
opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't
need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged
in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in
it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To
think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the
horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I
imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great
big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and
dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it
was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon
might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat.
The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes
automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror.
The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A
flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently,
without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress.
Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing
something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't
have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted
by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much-and being such a big,
strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal- but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and
then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not
forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it.
There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it
floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of
freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also
meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the
waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made
for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making
me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing
the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring.
It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I
had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she
Page 67
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Hope and Brutality at Sea
- The arrival of daybreak brings a surge of intense hope and vivid fantasies of a joyful rescue and family reunion.
- The narrator witnesses the hyena's brutal attack on the zebra, which has had its leg bitten off and remains in a state of quiet distress.
- A sense of moral conflict arises as the narrator admits that the instinct for self-preservation quickly blunts his empathy for the suffering zebra.
- The discovery of a seasick orangutan named Orange Juice provides a moment of unexpected levity and human-like connection amidst the tragedy.
- The narrator observes the bizarre and unpredictable ecosystem forming on the lifeboat between species that would never meet in the wild.
When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival.
I was cold. It was a distracted observation, as if it didn't concern me. Daybreak came. It happened quickly, yet
by imperceptible degrees. A corner of the sky changed colours. The air began filling with light. The calm sea
opened up around me like a great book. Still it felt like night. Suddenly it was day.
Warmth came only when the sun, looking like an electrically lit orange, broke across the horizon, but I didn't
need to wait that long to feel it. With the very first rays of light it came alive in me: hope. As things emerged
in outline and filled with colour, hope increased until it was like a song in my heart. Oh, what it was to bask in
it! Things would work out yet. The worst was over. I had survived the night. Today I would be rescued. To
think that, to string those words together in my mind, was itself a source of hope. Hope fed on hope. As the
horizon became a neat, sharp line, I scanned it eagerly. The day was clear again and visibility was perfect. I
imagined Ravi would greet me first and with a tease. "What's this?" he would say. "You find yourself a great
big lifeboat and you fill it with animals? You think you're Noah or something?" Father would be unshaven and
dishevelled. Mother would look to the sky and take me in her arms. I went through a dozen versions of what it
was going to be like on the rescue ship, variations on the theme of sweet reunion. That morning the horizon
might curve one way, my lips resolutely curved the other, in a smile.
Strange as it might sound, it was only after a long time that I looked to see what was happening in the lifeboat.
The hyena had attacked the zebra. Its mouth was bright red and it was chewing on a piece of hide. My eyes
automatically searched for the wound, for the area under attack. I gasped with horror.
The zebra's broken leg was missing. The hyena had bitten it off and dragged it to the stern, behind the zebra. A
flap of skin hung limply over the raw stump. Blood was still dripping. The victim bore its suffering patiently,
without showy remonstrations. A slow and constant grinding of its teeth was the only visible sign of distress.
Shock, revulsion and anger surged through me. I felt intense hatred for the hyena. I thought of doing
something to kill it. But I did nothing. And my outrage was short-lived. I must be honest about that. I didn't
have pity to spare for long for the zebra. When your own life is threatened, your sense of empathy is blunted
by a terrible, selfish hunger for survival. It was sad that it was suffering so much-and being such a big,
strapping creature it wasn't at the end of its ordeal- but there was nothing I could do about it. I felt pity and
then I moved on. This is not something I am proud of. I am sorry I was so callous about the matter. I have not
forgotten that poor zebra and what it went through. Not a prayer goes by that I don't think of it.
There was still no sign of Orange Juice. I turned my eyes to the horizon again.
That afternoon the wind picked up a little and I noticed something about the lifeboat: despite its weight, it
floated lightly on the water, no doubt because it was carrying less than its capacity. We had plenty of
freeboard, the distance between the water and the gunnel; it would take a mean sea to swamp us. But it also
meant that whatever end of the boat was facing the wind tended to fall away, bringing us broadside to the
waves. With small waves the result was a ceaseless, fist-like beating against the hull, while larger waves made
for a tiresome rolling of the boat as it leaned from side to side. This jerky and incessant motion was making
me feel queasy.
Perhaps I would feel better in a new position. I slid down the oar and shifted back onto the bow. I sat facing
the waves, with the rest of the boat to my left. I was closer to the hyena, but it wasn't stirring.
It was as I was breathing deeply and concentrating on making my nausea go away that I saw Orange Juice. I
had imagined her completely out of sight, near the bow beneath the tarpaulin, as far from the hyena as she
Page 67
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
could get. Not so. She was on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the hyena's indoor track and barely
hidden from me by the bulge of rolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her head only an inch or so and right away I saw
her.
Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despite the rolling of the boat I brought myself to a
kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juice came into sight. She was deeply
slouched and holding on to the gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very low between her arms. Her
mouth was open and her tongue was lolling about. She was visibly panting. Despite the tragedy afflicting me,
despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word:
seasickness. The image of a new species popped into my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned
to my sitting position. The poor dear looked so humanly sick! It is a particularly funny thing to read human
traits in animals, especially in apes and monkeys, where it is so easy. Simians are the clearest mirrors we have
in the animal world. That is why they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I brought my hands to my chest,
surprised at how I felt. Oh my. This laughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. And Orange
Juice had not only cheered me up; she had also taken on both our feelings of seasickness. I was feeling fine
now.
I returned to scrutinizing the horizon, my hopes high.
Besides being deathly seasick, there was something else about Orange Juice that was remarkable: she was
uninjured. And she had her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she could safely ignore it. The ecosystem on
this lifeboat was decidedly baffling. Since there are no natural conditions in which a spotted hyena and an
orangutan can meet, there being none of the first in Borneo and none of the second in Africa, there is no way
of knowing how they would relate. But it seemed to me highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that when
The Seasick Orangutan
- The narrator discovers Orange Juice the orangutan hiding on the lifeboat, suffering from extreme seasickness.
- The sight of the ape's human-like distress provides a moment of unexpected levity and emotional relief for the narrator.
- The narrator reflects on how simians act as mirrors for human traits, making them particularly relatable and popular.
- Despite the presence of a predatory hyena, the orangutan appears uninjured and strangely indifferent to its presence.
- The narrator notes the biological impossibility of these two species meeting in the wild, creating a baffling new ecosystem.
Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word: seasickness.
could get. Not so. She was on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the hyena's indoor track and barely
hidden from me by the bulge of rolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her head only an inch or so and right away I saw
her.
Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despite the rolling of the boat I brought myself to a
kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juice came into sight. She was deeply
slouched and holding on to the gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very low between her arms. Her
mouth was open and her tongue was lolling about. She was visibly panting. Despite the tragedy afflicting me,
despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word:
seasickness. The image of a new species popped into my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned
to my sitting position. The poor dear looked so humanly sick! It is a particularly funny thing to read human
traits in animals, especially in apes and monkeys, where it is so easy. Simians are the clearest mirrors we have
in the animal world. That is why they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I brought my hands to my chest,
surprised at how I felt. Oh my. This laughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. And Orange
Juice had not only cheered me up; she had also taken on both our feelings of seasickness. I was feeling fine
now.
I returned to scrutinizing the horizon, my hopes high.
Besides being deathly seasick, there was something else about Orange Juice that was remarkable: she was
uninjured. And she had her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she could safely ignore it. The ecosystem on
this lifeboat was decidedly baffling. Since there are no natural conditions in which a spotted hyena and an
orangutan can meet, there being none of the first in Borneo and none of the second in Africa, there is no way
of knowing how they would relate. But it seemed to me highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that when
brought together these frugivorous tree-dwellers and carnivorous savannah-dwellers would so radically carve
The Seafaring Orangutan
- The narrator discovers Orange Juice the orangutan hiding on the lifeboat, suffering from a comical and human-like case of seasickness.
- The sight of the sick ape provides a moment of levity and psychological relief for the narrator, momentarily breaking his despair.
- The narrator observes a strange truce between the predatory hyena and the uninjured orangutan, noting the lack of natural precedent for their interaction.
- A hawksbill sea turtle appears near the boat, described as a haughty and severe creature that seems more at home in the ocean than the narrator.
- In a moment of desperation, the narrator speaks to the turtle, pleading with it to find a ship and signal for his rescue.
The image of a new species popped into my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan.
could get. Not so. She was on the side bench, just beyond the edge of the hyena's indoor track and barely
hidden from me by the bulge of rolled-up tarpaulin. She lifted her head only an inch or so and right away I saw
her.
Curiosity got the best of me. I had to see her better. Despite the rolling of the boat I brought myself to a
kneeling position. The hyena looked at me, but did not move. Orange Juice came into sight. She was deeply
slouched and holding on to the gunnel with both her hands, her head sunk very low between her arms. Her
mouth was open and her tongue was lolling about. She was visibly panting. Despite the tragedy afflicting me,
despite not feeling well, I let out a laugh. Everything about Orange Juice at that moment spelled one word:
seasickness. The image of a new species popped into my head: the rare seafaring green orang-utan. I returned
to my sitting position. The poor dear looked so humanly sick! It is a particularly funny thing to read human
traits in animals, especially in apes and monkeys, where it is so easy. Simians are the clearest mirrors we have
in the animal world. That is why they are so popular in zoos. I laughed again. I brought my hands to my chest,
surprised at how I felt. Oh my. This laughter was like a volcano of happiness erupting in me. And Orange
Juice had not only cheered me up; she had also taken on both our feelings of seasickness. I was feeling fine
now.
I returned to scrutinizing the horizon, my hopes high.
Besides being deathly seasick, there was something else about Orange Juice that was remarkable: she was
uninjured. And she had her back turned to the hyena, as if she felt she could safely ignore it. The ecosystem on
this lifeboat was decidedly baffling. Since there are no natural conditions in which a spotted hyena and an
orangutan can meet, there being none of the first in Borneo and none of the second in Africa, there is no way
of knowing how they would relate. But it seemed to me highly improbable, if not totally incredible, that when
brought together these frugivorous tree-dwellers and carnivorous savannah-dwellers would so radically carve
out their niches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely an orang-utan would smell of prey to a hyena,
albeit a strange one, one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendous hairballs, nonetheless
better-tasting than an exhaust pipe and well worth looking out for when near trees. And surely a hyena would
smell of a predator to an orangutan, a reason for being vigilant when a piece of durian has been dropped to the
ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If goats could be brought to live
amicably with rhinoceros, why not orang-utans with hyenas? That would be a big winner at a zoo. A sign
would have to be put up. I could see it already: "Dear Public, Do not be afraid for the orang-utans! They are in
the trees because that is where they live, not because they are afraid of the spotted hyenas. Come back at
mealtime, or at sunset when they get thirsty, and you will see them climbing down from their trees and
moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by the hyenas." Father would be fascinated.
Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of what would become a dear, reliable friend of mine. There
was a bumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. A few seconds later, so close to the boat I
could have leaned down and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a hawksbill, flippers lazily turning, head
sticking out of the water. It was striking-looking in an ugly sort of way, with a rugged, yellowish brown shell
about three feet long and spotted with patches of algae, and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, two
solid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that stared at me intently. The expression was haughty and severe, like
that of an ill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind. The queerest thing about the reptile was
simply that it was. It looked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in its shape compared to the sleek,
slippery design of fish. Yet it was plainly in its element and it was I who was the odd one out. It hovered by
the boat for several minutes.
I said to it, "Go tell a ship I'm here. Go, go." It turned and sank out of sight, back flippers pushing water in
alternate strokes.
Incongruous Encounters at Sea
- The narrator reflects on the strange potential for interspecies coexistence, imagining a zoo exhibit where orangutans and hyenas live together peacefully.
- He notes that while nature usually dictates a predator-prey relationship, animals often surprise observers by carving out peaceful niches.
- A hawksbill sea turtle appears near the lifeboat, described as having a haughty and severe expression like an ill-tempered old man.
- The narrator experiences a moment of existential displacement, realizing the turtle is in its element while he is the intruder on the ocean.
- In a desperate plea for rescue, the narrator asks the departing turtle to find a ship and signal his location.
The expression was haughty and severe, like that of an ill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind.
out their niches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely an orang-utan would smell of prey to a hyena,
albeit a strange one, one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendous hairballs, nonetheless
better-tasting than an exhaust pipe and well worth looking out for when near trees. And surely a hyena would
smell of a predator to an orangutan, a reason for being vigilant when a piece of durian has been dropped to the
ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If goats could be brought to live
amicably with rhinoceros, why not orang-utans with hyenas? That would be a big winner at a zoo. A sign
would have to be put up. I could see it already: "Dear Public, Do not be afraid for the orang-utans! They are in
the trees because that is where they live, not because they are afraid of the spotted hyenas. Come back at
mealtime, or at sunset when they get thirsty, and you will see them climbing down from their trees and
moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by the hyenas." Father would be fascinated.
Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of what would become a dear, reliable friend of mine. There
was a bumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. A few seconds later, so close to the boat I
could have leaned down and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a hawksbill, flippers lazily turning, head
sticking out of the water. It was striking-looking in an ugly sort of way, with a rugged, yellowish brown shell
about three feet long and spotted with patches of algae, and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, two
solid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that stared at me intently. The expression was haughty and severe, like
that of an ill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind. The queerest thing about the reptile was
simply that it was. It looked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in its shape compared to the sleek,
slippery design of fish. Yet it was plainly in its element and it was I who was the odd one out. It hovered by
the boat for several minutes.
I said to it, "Go tell a ship I'm here. Go, go." It turned and sank out of sight, back flippers pushing water in
alternate strokes.
Page 68
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 46
The Brutality of Survival
- Pi observes a hawksbill sea turtle and experiences a moment of existential displacement, feeling like the 'odd one out' in the creature's natural element.
- The second night at sea brings a deep, spiritual suffering as the initial shock of the shipwreck fades into a profound awareness of loss.
- Orange Juice the orangutan emerges in a state of mourning, searching the horizon for her lost offspring in a hauntingly human-like display of grief.
- The hyena breaks its day-long silence by violently attacking the injured zebra, tearing into its living flesh and consuming its internal organs in a chaotic frenzy.
She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death.
out their niches as to pay no attention to each other. Surely an orang-utan would smell of prey to a hyena,
albeit a strange one, one to be remembered afterwards for producing stupendous hairballs, nonetheless
better-tasting than an exhaust pipe and well worth looking out for when near trees. And surely a hyena would
smell of a predator to an orangutan, a reason for being vigilant when a piece of durian has been dropped to the
ground accidentally. But nature forever holds surprises. Perhaps it was not so. If goats could be brought to live
amicably with rhinoceros, why not orang-utans with hyenas? That would be a big winner at a zoo. A sign
would have to be put up. I could see it already: "Dear Public, Do not be afraid for the orang-utans! They are in
the trees because that is where they live, not because they are afraid of the spotted hyenas. Come back at
mealtime, or at sunset when they get thirsty, and you will see them climbing down from their trees and
moving about the grounds, absolutely unmolested by the hyenas." Father would be fascinated.
Sometime that afternoon I saw the first specimen of what would become a dear, reliable friend of mine. There
was a bumping and scraping sound against the hull of the lifeboat. A few seconds later, so close to the boat I
could have leaned down and grabbed it, a large sea turtle appeared, a hawksbill, flippers lazily turning, head
sticking out of the water. It was striking-looking in an ugly sort of way, with a rugged, yellowish brown shell
about three feet long and spotted with patches of algae, and a dark green face with a sharp beak, no lips, two
solid holes for nostrils, and black eyes that stared at me intently. The expression was haughty and severe, like
that of an ill-tempered old man who has complaining on his mind. The queerest thing about the reptile was
simply that it was. It looked incongruous, floating there in the water, so odd in its shape compared to the sleek,
slippery design of fish. Yet it was plainly in its element and it was I who was the odd one out. It hovered by
the boat for several minutes.
I said to it, "Go tell a ship I'm here. Go, go." It turned and sank out of sight, back flippers pushing water in
alternate strokes.
Page 68
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 46
Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of
unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad
nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as
one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional
sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different
from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was
preceded by a dreadful evening.
I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It
was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural
proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos-swift, pointy-snouted
predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or
seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if
to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us
and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The
other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach
below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful,
differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere:
Orange Juice's head came into sight.
She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would
bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But
such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look
about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She
had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her-and
our-pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally
mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I
was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted.
Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It
put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A
strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only
silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river.
Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared
its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no
more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the
boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It
made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the
zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera.
There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches
before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was
Suffering and Savage Instincts
- The narrator experiences a second night of profound spiritual pain and weeping, distinct from the initial shock of the shipwreck.
- A majestic Pacific sunset is juxtaposed against the presence of predatory mako sharks circling the lifeboat.
- Orange Juice the orangutan emerges in a state of deep mourning, searching the horizon for her lost offspring with human-like grief.
- The hyena suddenly attacks the injured zebra, brutally tearing it open and beginning to eat the animal alive from the inside out.
- The zebra's desperate attempts at self-defense only fuel the hyena's frenzy, leading to a scene of chaotic and visceral carnage.
It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours.
Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of
unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad
nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as
one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional
sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different
from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was
preceded by a dreadful evening.
I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It
was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural
proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos-swift, pointy-snouted
predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or
seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if
to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us
and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The
other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach
below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful,
differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere:
Orange Juice's head came into sight.
She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would
bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But
such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look
about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She
had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her-and
our-pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally
mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I
was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted.
Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It
put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A
strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only
silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river.
Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared
its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no
more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the
boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It
made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the
zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera.
There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches
before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was
heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly-and blood being slippery-the hyena started to
slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It
pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was
being eaten alive from the inside.
It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head
A Night of Exceptional Suffering
- The narrator experiences a second night of profound spiritual pain and weeping, distinct from the initial shock of the first night.
- A majestic Pacific sunset is juxtaposed against the presence of predatory mako sharks circling the lifeboat.
- The orangutan, Orange Juice, displays a human-like expression of mourning as she searches the horizon for her lost offspring.
- The hyena enters a violent frenzy, attacking the injured zebra and beginning to eat the animal alive from the inside out.
- The narrator observes the brutal reality of nature as the zebra's attempts at self-preservation fail against the hyena's relentless assault.
A strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance.
Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of
unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad
nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as
one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional
sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different
from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was
preceded by a dreadful evening.
I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It
was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural
proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos-swift, pointy-snouted
predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or
seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if
to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us
and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The
other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach
below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful,
differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere:
Orange Juice's head came into sight.
She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would
bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But
such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look
about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She
had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her-and
our-pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally
mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I
was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted.
Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It
put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A
strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only
silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river.
Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared
its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no
more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the
boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It
made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the
zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera.
There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches
before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was
heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly-and blood being slippery-the hyena started to
slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It
pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was
being eaten alive from the inside.
It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head
Page 69
Suffering and Savagery at Sea
- The narrator experiences a second night of profound spiritual pain and weeping, distinct from the initial shock of the shipwreck.
- A stunning Pacific sunset is juxtaposed against the presence of mako sharks circling the lifeboat with fearsome grace.
- Orange Juice the orangutan emerges in a state of deep mourning, searching the horizon for her lost offspring in a hauntingly human-like manner.
- The hyena breaks its stillness and brutally attacks the injured zebra, beginning to eat the animal alive from the inside out.
- The narrator observes the zebra's futile attempts at self-preservation as the hyena descends into a frenzy of visceral consumption.
A strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance.
Clouds that gathered where ships were supposed to appear, and the passing of the day, slowly did the job of
unbending my smile. It is pointless to say that this or that night was the worst of my life. I have so many bad
nights to choose from that I've made none the champion. Still, that second night at sea stands in my memory as
one of exceptional suffering, different from the frozen anxiety of the first night in being a more conventional
sort of suffering, the broken-down kind consisting of weeping and sadness and spiritual pain, and different
from later ones in that I still had the strength to appreciate fully what I felt. And that dreadful night was
preceded by a dreadful evening.
I noticed the presence of sharks around the lifeboat. The sun was beginning to pull the curtains on the day. It
was a placid explosion of orange and red, a great chromatic symphony, a colour canvas of supernatural
proportions, truly a splendid Pacific sunset, quite wasted on me. The sharks were makos-swift, pointy-snouted
predators with long, murderous teeth that protruded noticeably from their mouths. They were about six or
seven feet long, one was larger still. I watched them anxiously. The largest one came at the boat quickly, as if
to attack, its dorsal fin rising out of the water by several inches, but it dipped below just before reaching us
and glided underfoot with fearsome grace. It returned, not coming so close this time, then disappeared. The
other sharks paid a longer visit, coming and going at different depths, some in plain sight at hand's reach
below the surface of the water, others deeper down. There were other fish too, big and small, colourful,
differently shaped. I might have considered them more closely had my attention not been drawn elsewhere:
Orange Juice's head came into sight.
She turned and brought her arm onto the tarpaulin in a motion that imitated exactly the way you or I would
bring out an arm and place it on the back of the chair next to our own in a gesture of expansive relaxation. But
such was clearly not her disposition. Bearing an expression profoundly sad and mournful, she began to look
about, slowly turning her head from side to side. Instantly the likeness of apes lost its amusing character. She
had given birth at the zoo to two young ones, strapping males five and eight years old that were her-and
our-pride. It was unmistakably these she had on her mind as she searched over the water, unintentionally
mimicking what I had been doing these last thirty-six hours. She noticed me and expressed nothing about it. I
was just another animal that had lost everything and was vowed to death. My mood plummeted.
Then, with only a snarl for notice, the hyena went amok. It hadn't moved from its cramped quarters all day. It
put its front legs on the zebra's side, reached over and gathered a fold of skin in its jaws. It pulled roughly. A
strip of hide came off the zebra's belly like gift-wrap paper comes off a gift, in a smooth-edged swath, only
silently, in the way of tearing skin, and with greater resistance. Immediately blood poured forth like a river.
Barking, snorting and squealing, the zebra came to life to defend itself. It pushed on its front legs and reared
its head in an attempt to bite the hyena, but the beast was out of reach. It shook its good hind leg, which did no
more than explain the origin of the previous night's knocking: it was the hoof beating against the side of the
boat. The zebras attempts at self-preservation only whipped the hyena into a frenzy of snarling and biting. It
made a gaping wound in the zebra's side. When it was no longer satisfied with the reach it had from behind the
zebra, the hyena climbed onto its haunches. It started pulling out coils of intestines and other viscera.
There was no order to what it was doing. It bit here, swallowed there, seemingly overwhelmed by the riches
before it. After devouring half the liver, it started tugging on the whitish, balloon-like stomach bag. But it was
heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly-and blood being slippery-the hyena started to
slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It
pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was
being eaten alive from the inside.
It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head
Page 69
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
A Symphony of Brutality
- The hyena begins eating the zebra alive from the inside out, creating a scene of visceral horror and suffering.
- Orange Juice the orangutan breaks her silence with a powerful roar to challenge the hyena's savagery.
- The cacophony of the animals' standoff attracts a swarm of sharks that repeatedly strike the lifeboat's hull.
- As the sun sets, the narrator finally moves past disbelief to acknowledge the devastating loss of his entire family.
Once or twice it reared its head straight up, as if appealing to heavenโthe abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
heavy, and with the zebra's haunches being higher than its belly-and blood being slippery-the hyena started to
slide into its victim. It plunged head and shoulders into the zebra's guts, up to the knees of its front legs. It
pushed itself out, only to slide back down. It finally settled in this position, half in, half out. The zebra was
being eaten alive from the inside.
It protested with diminishing vigour. Blood started coming out its nostrils. Once or twice it reared its head
Page 69
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
A Symphony of Roars
- Orange Juice the orangutan confronts the hyena in a terrifying vocal standoff over the dying zebra.
- The scent of blood attracts a swarm of sharks that repeatedly strike the hull of the lifeboat.
- The animal conflict ends in an abrupt, uneasy stalemate as the predators retreat to their respective corners.
- The narrator experiences a profound psychological shift, finally accepting the permanent loss of his family.
- The night is spent in a harrowing contrast between the narrator's weeping and the hyena's scavenging.
A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity.
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
It is like losing-I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole
night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating.
A Symphony of Savagery
- Orange Juice the orangutan confronts the hyena in a terrifying vocal standoff, displaying unexpected power and aggression.
- The scent of the zebra's blood attracts a swarm of sharks that repeatedly strike the lifeboat's hull, threatening to sink it.
- The cacophony of animal roars and the violent churning of the sea create an overwhelming sensory experience of primal chaos.
- As the sun sets, the protagonist finally accepts the devastating reality that his family has perished in the shipwreck.
- The night is spent in a stark contrast of human grief and animal instinct, with Pi weeping while the hyena continues to feed.
The hyena's roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra.
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
It is like losing-I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole
night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating.
CHAPTER 47
A Symphony of Savagery
- Orange Juice the orangutan confronts the hyena in a terrifying vocal standoff that fills the air with an appalling noise.
- The scent of blood from the dying zebra attracts a swarm of sharks that repeatedly strike the hull of the lifeboat.
- The animal conflict ends in an uneasy stalemate, leaving the boat covered in blood and a pungent, earthy stench.
- As the sun sets, the narrator finally accepts the devastating reality that his entire family has perished.
- The narrator compares the loss of his mother to the loss of the sun, spending the night in deep grief while the hyena continues to feed.
The hyena's roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra.
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
It is like losing-I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole
night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating.
CHAPTER 47
Page 70
The Roar of Despair
- Orange Juice the orangutan breaks her silence to confront the hyena in a terrifying vocal standoff.
- The scent of the zebra's blood attracts a swarm of sharks that physically batter the lifeboat's hull.
- The animal conflict subsides into a foul-smelling silence as the day ends without any sign of rescue.
- Pi finally accepts the permanent loss of his family, equating the death of his mother to the loss of the sun.
- The night is spent in a harrowing contrast of Pi's weeping and the hyena's rhythmic feeding.
The hyena's roar filled the higher range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I could hear the cries of the helpless zebra.
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
It is like losing-I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole
night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating.
CHAPTER 47
Page 70
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Roar of Despair
- A violent vocal confrontation erupts between Orange Juice the orangutan and the hyena, creating a deafening wall of sound that overwhelms the narrator.
- The scent of blood from the dying zebra attracts a swarm of sharks that repeatedly strike the lifeboat's hull, heightening the sense of imminent doom.
- As night falls, the narrator finally accepts the tragic reality that his mother, father, and brother have perished in the shipwreck.
- Despite her gentle history as a former pet and maternal figure at the zoo, Orange Juice displays unexpected ferocity by physically defending herself against the hyena.
- The zebra's incredible and horrifying resilience finally ends at noon the following day, leaving the remaining animals in a state of high-tension aggression.
To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek, who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun above you.
straight up, as if appealing to heaven-the abomination of the moment was perfectly expressed.
Orange Juice did not view these doings indifferently. She raised herself to her full height on her bench. With
her incongruously small legs and massive torso, she looked like a refrigerator on crooked wheels. But with her
giant arms lifted in the air, she looked impressive. Their span was greater than her height-one hand hung over
the water, the other reached across the width of the lifeboat nearly to the opposite side. She pulled back her
lips, showing off enormous canines, and began to roar. It was a deep, powerful, huffing roar, amazing for an
animal normally as silent as a giraffe. The hyena was as startled as I was by the outburst. It cringed and
retreated. But not for long. After an intense stare at Orange Juice, the hairs on its neck and shoulders stood up
and its tail rose straight in the air. It climbed back onto the dying zebra. There, blood dripping from its mouth,
it responded to Orange Juice in kind, with a higher-pitched roar. The two animals were three feet apart,
wide-open jaws directly facing. They put all their energies into their cries, their bodies shaking with the effort.
I could see deep down the hyena's throat. The Pacific air, which until a minute before had been carrying the
whistling and whispering of the sea, a natural melody I would have called soothing had the circumstances
been happier, was all at once filled with this appalling noise, like the fury of an all-out battle, with the
ear-splitting firing of guns and cannons and the thunderous blasts of bombs. The hyena's roar filled the higher
range of what my ears could hear, Orange Juice's bass roar filled the lower range, and somewhere in between I
could hear the cries of the helpless zebra. My ears were full. Nothing more, not one more sound, could push
into them and be registered.
I began to tremble uncontrollably. I was convinced the hyena was going to lunge at Orange Juice.
I could not imagine that matters could get worse, but they did. The zebra snorted some of its blood overboard.
Seconds later there was a hard knock against the boat, followed by another. The water began to churn around
us with sharks. They were searching for the source of the blood, for the food so close at hand. Their tail fins
flashed out of the water, their heads swung out. The boat was hit repeatedly. I was not afraid we would
capsize-I thought the sharks would actually punch through the metal hull and sink us.
With every bang the animals jumped and looked alarmed, but they were not to be distracted from their main
business of roaring in each others faces. I was certain the shouting match would turn physical. Instead it broke
off abruptly after a few minutes. Orange Juice, with huffs and lip-smacking noises, turned away, and the hyena
lowered its head and retreated behind the zebra's butchered body. The sharks, finding nothing, stopped
knocking on the boat and eventually left. Silence fell at last.
A foul and pungent smell, an earthy mix of rust and excrement, hung in the air. There was blood everywhere,
coagulating to a deep red crust. A single fly buzzed about, sounding to me like an alarm bell of insanity. No
ship, nothing at all, had appeared on the horizon that day, and now the day was ending. When the sun slipped
below the horizon, it was not only the day that died and the poor zebra, but my family as well. With that
second sunset, disbelief gave way to pain and grief. They were dead; I could no longer deny it. What a thing to
acknowledge in your heart! To lose a brother is to lose someone with whom you can share the experience of
growing old, who is supposed to bring you a sister-in-law and nieces and nephews, creatures to people the tree
of your life and give it new branches. To lose your father is to lose the one whose guidance and help you seek,
who supports you like a tree trunk supports its branches. To lose your mother, well, that is like losing the sun
above you.
It is like losing-I'm sorry, I would rather not go on. I lay down on the tarpaulin and spent the whole
night weeping and grieving, my face buried in my arms. The hyena spent a good part of the night eating.
CHAPTER 47
Page 70
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that
looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a
regular motion.
The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly
erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its
strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the
rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so
much injury and go on living.
The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of
taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was
fidgeting and showing her teeth.
I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into
the water if I tried to balance on the oar.
The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's
occasional assaults.
Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange
Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up
to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice.
I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on
Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit.
She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and
admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her
story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small
and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself
incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the
sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its
hands-over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened.
The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human
brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A
clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and
the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It
has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are.
It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly
it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked
by dogs.
Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She
remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her
never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a
young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance.
I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also
her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had
known only a part of her.
Violence on the Lifeboat
- The zebra finally succumbs to its horrific injuries after surviving for hours with a massive open wound.
- Tensions between the remaining animals reach a breaking point under the humid, overcast sky.
- The hyena attacks Orange Juice the orangutan, who surprises the narrator by fighting back with unexpected ferocity.
- The narrator reflects on Orange Juice's history as a discarded pet and realizes he never truly understood her wild potential.
- Despite his physical and emotional exhaustion, the narrator watches the brutal struggle for survival unfold from the prow.
This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong.
The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that
looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a
regular motion.
The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly
erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its
strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the
rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so
much injury and go on living.
The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of
taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was
fidgeting and showing her teeth.
I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into
the water if I tried to balance on the oar.
The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's
occasional assaults.
Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange
Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up
to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice.
I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on
Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit.
She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and
admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her
story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small
and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself
incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the
sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its
hands-over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened.
The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human
brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A
clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and
the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It
has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are.
It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly
it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked
by dogs.
Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She
remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her
never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a
young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance.
I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also
her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had
known only a part of her.
Page 71
Savage Courage at Sea
- The zebra finally succumbs to its horrific injuries by noon after surviving a night with a massive abdominal fistula.
- Tensions on the lifeboat reach a breaking point as the hyena and the orangutan, Orange Juice, engage in a violent confrontation.
- The narrator reflects on Orange Juice's history as a discarded pet, highlighting the tragic cycle of exotic animal ownership.
- Orange Juice defies the narrator's expectations by displaying fierce, maternal grit and striking the hyena in self-defense.
- The narrator realizes that his previous understanding of the orangutan's nature was limited and failed to account for her hidden ferocity.
It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine.
The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that
looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a
regular motion.
The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly
erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its
strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the
rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so
much injury and go on living.
The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of
taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was
fidgeting and showing her teeth.
I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into
the water if I tried to balance on the oar.
The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's
occasional assaults.
Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange
Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up
to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice.
I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on
Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit.
She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and
admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her
story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small
and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself
incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the
sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its
hands-over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened.
The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human
brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A
clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and
the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It
has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are.
It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly
it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked
by dogs.
Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She
remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her
never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a
young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance.
I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also
her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had
known only a part of her.
Page 71
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Savagery of Survival
- The zebra finally succumbs to its horrific injuries after hours of suffering, leaving the hyena and the orang-utan, Orange Juice, in a state of heightened tension.
- Orange Juice displays unexpected ferocity and maternal grit by striking the hyena, momentarily challenging the predatory hierarchy of the lifeboat.
- The narrator reflects on Orange Juice's history as a discarded pet, noting how her gentle zoo upbringing left her ill-equipped for a lethal confrontation with a predator.
- The hyena eventually overpowers and decapitates Orange Juice, leaving the narrator in a state of despair and ready to face his own death.
- In a final moment of shock, the narrator discovers that the tiger, Richard Parker, has been hiding beneath his feet the entire time.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
The day broke, humid and overcast, with the wind warm and the sky a dense blanket of grey clouds that
looked like bunched-up, dirty cotton sheets. The sea had not changed. It heaved the lifeboat up and down in a
regular motion.
The zebra was still alive. I couldn't believe it. It had a two-foot-wide hole in its body, a fistula like a freshly
erupted volcano, spewed half-eaten organs glistening in the light or giving off a dull, dry shine, yet, in its
strictly essential parts, it continued to pump with life, if weakly. Movement was confined to a tremor in the
rear leg and an occasional blinking of the eyes. I was horrified. I had no idea a living being could sustain so
much injury and go on living.
The hyena was tense. It was not settling down to its night of rest despite the daylight. Perhaps it was a result of
taking in so much food; its stomach was grossly dilated. Orange Juice was in a dangerous mood too. She was
fidgeting and showing her teeth.
I stayed where I was, curled up near the prow. I was weak in body and in soul. I was afraid I would fall into
the water if I tried to balance on the oar.
The zebra was dead by noon. It was glassy-eyed and had become perfectly indifferent to the hyena's
occasional assaults.
Violence broke out in the afternoon. Tension had risen to an unbearable level. The hyena was yipping. Orange
Juice was grunting and making loud lip-smacking noises. All of a sudden their complaining fused and shot up
to top volume. The hyena jumped over the remains of the zebra and made for Orange Juice.
I believe I have made clear the menace of a hyena. It was certainly so clear in my mind that I gave up on
Orange Juice's life before she even had a chance to defend it. I underestimated her. I underestimated her grit.
She thumped the beast on the head. It was something shocking. It made my heart melt with love and
admiration and fear. Did I mention she was a former pet, callously discarded by her Indonesian owners? Her
story was like that of every inappropriate pet. It goes something like this: The pet is bought when it is small
and cute. It gives much amusement to its owners. Then it grows in size and in appetite. It reveals itself
incapable of being house-trained. Its increasing strength makes it harder to handle. One day the maid pulls the
sheet from its nest because she has decided to wash it, or the son jokingly pinches a morsel of food from its
hands-over some such seemingly small matter, the pet flashes its teeth in anger and the family is frightened.
The very next day the pet finds itself bouncing at the back of the family Jeep in the company of its human
brothers and sisters. A jungle is entered. Everyone in the vehicle finds it a strange and formidable place. A
clearing is come to. It is briefly explored. All of a sudden the Jeep roars to life and its wheels kick up dirt and
the pet sees all the ones it has known and loved looking at it from the back window as the Jeep speeds away. It
has been left behind. The pet does not understand. It is as unprepared for this jungle as its human siblings are.
It waits around for their return, trying to quell the panic rising in it. They do not return. The sun sets. Quickly
it becomes depressed and gives up on life. It dies of hunger and exposure in the next few days. Or is attacked
by dogs.
Orange Juice could have been one of these forlorn pets. Instead she ended up at the Pondicherry Zoo. She
remained gentle and unaggressive her whole life. I have memories from when I was a child of her
never-ending arms surrounding me, her fingers, each as long as my whole hand, picking at my hair. She was a
young female practising her maternal skills. As she matured into her full wild self, I observed her at a distance.
I thought I knew her so well that I could predict her every move. I thought I knew not only her habits but also
her limits. This display of ferocity, of savage courage, made me realize that I was wrong. All my life I had
known only a part of her.
Page 71
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
The Simian Christ
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave but futile defense against the predatory spotted hyena.
- The narrator reflects on the empirical reality that a fruit-eater's lack of killing instinct cannot overcome a predator's specialized knowledge of violence.
- The hyena brutally kills and decapitates Orange Juice, leaving her body in a pose reminiscent of a crucifixion.
- Driven by despair and exhaustion, the narrator prepares to attack the hyena, only to discover Richard Parker the tiger hiding beneath the bench.
- The sudden realization of the tiger's presence causes the narrator to retreat in shock, momentarily delaying his confrontation with death.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
The Simian Christ
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave but futile defense against the predatory spotted hyena.
- The narrator reflects on the biological reality that a fruit-eater's lack of killing instinct makes it no match for a carnivore's precision.
- The hyena brutally kills and decapitates Orange Juice, leaving the narrator in a state of numb, spiritual despair.
- Preparing to face his own death, the narrator discovers the massive head of the tiger, Richard Parker, hidden beneath the lifeboat bench.
- The overwhelming presence of the tiger causes the narrator to retreat to the bow and collapse in exhaustion.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
Page 72
The Death of Orange Juice
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave but futile defense against the predatory hyena.
- The narrator reflects on the biological reality that a fruit-eater's lack of killing instinct cannot overcome a predator's specialized aggression.
- The hyena brutally kills and decapitates Orange Juice, leaving the narrator in a state of numb, spiritual despair.
- Believing he is the next victim, the narrator prepares to confront the hyena but discovers the tiger, Richard Parker, hiding beneath the bench.
- The overwhelming presence of the tiger causes the narrator to retreat to the bow of the boat in a state of total collapse.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
Page 72
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Simian Christ
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave but futile defense against the predatory spotted hyena.
- The narrator reflects on the biological disparity between a fruit eater and a natural killer, noting that weight and strength are secondary to predatory instinct.
- The hyena brutally decapitates Orange Juice, leaving her body in a pose that evokes religious martyrdom.
- Driven by despair and exhaustion, the narrator prepares to confront the hyena but is stopped by a shocking discovery.
- The narrator realizes that Richard Parker, a massive Bengal tiger, has been hiding beneath the lifeboat bench the entire time.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
Page 72
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I had slept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger.
The Simian Christ
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave but futile defense against the predatory spotted hyena.
- The narrator reflects on the biological reality that a fruit-eater's lack of killing instinct is a fatal disadvantage against a carnivore.
- The hyena brutally kills and beheads Orange Juice, leaving the narrator in a state of numb, spiritual despair.
- Driven by a sense of 'frightened sublimity,' the narrator prepares to attack the hyena but is stopped by a shocking discovery.
- The narrator realizes that Richard Parker, the tiger, is alive and hiding directly beneath the lifeboat bench.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except for her head. She was beheaded.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
Page 72
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I had slept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger.
CHAPTER 48
The Hyena and the Tiger
- Orange Juice the orang-utan attempts a brave defense against the hyena but is ultimately overwhelmed by the predator's superior killing instincts.
- The narrator experiences a moment of profound despair and 'frightened sublimity' as he prepares to sacrifice himself to the hyena.
- The gruesome sight of the beheaded orang-utan is interrupted by the shocking discovery of Richard Parker, a massive tiger, hiding under the lifeboat bench.
- The narrative shifts to the backstory of Richard Parker, revealing how a tiger and her cub were captured by a professional hunter in Bangladesh.
She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross.
She thumped the beast on the head. And what a thump it was. The beast's head hit the bench it had just
reached, making such a sharp noise, besides splaying its front legs flat out, that I thought surely either the
bench or its jaw or both must break. The hyena was up again in an instant, every hair on its body as erect as
the hairs on my head, but its hostility wasn't quite so kinetic now. It withdrew. I exulted. Orange Juice's
stirring defence brought a glow to my heart.
It didn't last long.
An adult female orang-utan cannot defeat an adult male spotted hyena. That is the plain empirical truth. Let it
become known among zoologists. Had Orange Juice been a male, had she loomed as large on the scales as she
did in my heart, it might have been another matter. But portly and overfed though she was from living in the
comfort of a zoo, even so she tipped the scales at barely 110 pounds. Female orang-utans are half the size of
males. But it is not simply a question of weight and brute strength. Orange Juice was far from defenceless.
What it comes down to is attitude and knowledge. What does a fruit eater know about killing? Where would it
learn where to bite, how hard, for how long? An orang-utan may be taller, may have very strong and agile
arms and long canines, but if it does not know how to use these as weapons, they are of little use. The hyena,
with only its jaws, will overcome the ape because it knows what it wants and how to get it.
The hyena came back. It jumped on the bench and caught Orange Juice at the wrist before she could strike.
Orange Juice hit the hyena on the head with her other arm, but the blow only made the beast snarl viciously.
She made to bite, but the hyena moved faster. Alas, Orange Juice's defence lacked precision and coherence.
Her fear was something useless that only hampered her. The hyena let go of her wrist and expertly got to her
throat.
Dumb with pain and horror, I watched as Orange Juice thumped the hyena ineffectually and pulled at its hair
while her throat was being squeezed by its jaws. To the end she reminded me of us: her eyes expressed fear in
such a humanlike way, as did her strained whimpers. She made an attempt to climb onto the tarpaulin. The
hyena violently shook her. She fell off the bench to the bottom of the lifeboat, the hyena with her. I heard
noises but no longer saw anything.
I was next. That much was clear to me. With some difficulty I stood up. I could hardly see through the tears in
my eyes. I was no longer crying because of my family or because of my impending death. I was far too numb
to consider either. I was crying because I was exceedingly tired and it was time to get rest.
I advanced over the tarpaulin. Though tautly stretched at the end of the boat, it sagged a little in the middle; it
made for three or four toilsome, bouncy steps. And I had to reach over the net and the rolled-up tarpaulin. And
these efforts in a lifeboat that was constantly rolling. In the condition I was in, it felt like a great trek. When I
laid my foot on the middle cross bench, its hardness had an invigorating effect on me, as if I had just stepped
on solid ground. I planted both my feet on the bench and enjoyed my firm stand. I was feeling dizzy, but since
the capital moment of my life was coming up this dizziness only added to my sense of frightened sublimity. I
raised my hands to the level of my chest-the weapons I had against the hyena. It looked up at me. Its mouth
was red. Orange Juice lay next to it, against the dead zebra. Her arms were spread wide open and her short
legs were folded together and slightly turned to one side. She looked like a simian Christ on the Cross. Except
for her head. She was beheaded. The neck wound was still bleeding. It was a sight horrible to the eyes and
killing to the spirit. Just before throwing myself upon the hyena, to collect myself before the final struggle, I
looked down.
Between my feet, under the bench, I beheld Richard Parker's head. It was gigantic.
It looked the size of the
planet Jupiter to my dazed senses. His paws were like volumes of Encyclopaedia Britannica.
I made my way back to the bow and collapsed.
Page 72
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I spent the night in a state of delirium. I kept thinking I had slept and was awaking after dreaming of a tiger.
CHAPTER 48
Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. A panther was terrorizing the Khulna district of
Bangladesh, just outside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was found of her was a
tiny hand with a henna pattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was the seventh person killed in two
months by the marauder. And it was growing bolder. The previous victim was a man who had been attacked in
broad daylight in his field. The beast dragged him off into the forest, where it ate a good part of his head, the
flesh off his right leg and all his innards. His corpse was found hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept
a watch nearby that night, hoping to surprise the panther and kill it, but it never appeared. The Forest
Department hired a professional hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in a tree near a river where two of
the attacks had taken place. A goat was tied to a stake on the river's bank. The hunter waited several nights. He
assumed the panther would be an old, wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anything more
difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger that stepped into the open one night. A female with a single
cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be about three months old, paid little attention to the
goat. It raced to the water's edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followed suit. Of hunger and thirst, thirst
is the greater imperative. Only once the tiger had quenched her thirst did she turn to the goat to satisfy her
hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the other with immobilizing darts. This
animal was not the man-eater, but so close to human habitation she might pose a threat to the villagers,
especially as she was with cub. He picked up the gun with the darts. He fired as the tiger was about to fell the
goat. The tiger reared up and snarled and raced away. But immobilizing darts don't bring on sleep gently, like
a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity on the animal's
The Naming of Richard Parker
- A predatory panther terrorizing a district in Bangladesh leads to the hiring of a professional hunter named Richard Parker.
- Instead of the panther, the hunter captures a mother tiger and her cub after they emerge from the forest to drink at a river.
- The cub is originally named Thirsty by the hunter, but a clerical error at the train station swaps the names of the hunter and the animal.
- Pi's father finds the bureaucratic mistake amusing and decides to keep the human name for the tiger cub.
- The narrative shifts to the present, where Pi finds himself immobilized by extreme physical and mental exhaustion on the lifeboat.
All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its name was Richard Parker, that the hunter's first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None Given.
Richard Parker was so named because of a clerical error. A panther was terrorizing the Khulna district of
Bangladesh, just outside the Sundarbans. It had recently carried off a little girl. All that was found of her was a
tiny hand with a henna pattern on the palm and a few plastic bangles. She was the seventh person killed in two
months by the marauder. And it was growing bolder. The previous victim was a man who had been attacked in
broad daylight in his field. The beast dragged him off into the forest, where it ate a good part of his head, the
flesh off his right leg and all his innards. His corpse was found hanging in the fork of a tree. The villagers kept
a watch nearby that night, hoping to surprise the panther and kill it, but it never appeared. The Forest
Department hired a professional hunter. He set up a small, hidden platform in a tree near a river where two of
the attacks had taken place. A goat was tied to a stake on the river's bank. The hunter waited several nights. He
assumed the panther would be an old, wasted male with worn teeth, incapable of catching anything more
difficult than a human. But it was a sleek tiger that stepped into the open one night. A female with a single
cub. The goat bleated. Oddly, the cub, who looked to be about three months old, paid little attention to the
goat. It raced to the water's edge, where it drank eagerly. Its mother followed suit. Of hunger and thirst, thirst
is the greater imperative. Only once the tiger had quenched her thirst did she turn to the goat to satisfy her
hunger. The hunter had two rifles with him: one with real bullets, the other with immobilizing darts. This
animal was not the man-eater, but so close to human habitation she might pose a threat to the villagers,
especially as she was with cub. He picked up the gun with the darts. He fired as the tiger was about to fell the
goat. The tiger reared up and snarled and raced away. But immobilizing darts don't bring on sleep gently, like
a good cup of tea; they knock out like a bottle of hard liquor straight up. A burst of activity on the animal's
part makes it act all the faster. The hunter called his assistants on the radio. They found the tiger about two
hundred yards from the river. She was still conscious. Her back legs had given way and her balance on her
front legs was woozy. When the men got close, she tried to get away but could not manage it. She turned on
them, lifting a paw that was meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. She collapsed and the
Pondicherry Zoo had two new tigers. The cub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. The hunter,
whose name was Richard Parker, picked it up with his bare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to
drink in the river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at the Howrah train station was evidently a man
both befuddled and diligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its name was Richard
Parker, that the hunter's first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None Given. Father had had a
good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker's name had stuck.
I don't know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eating panther.
CHAPTER 49
In the morning I could not move. I was pinned by weakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was exhausting. I
applied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as a caravan of camels crossing a desert, some
thoughts came together.
The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, the clouds low, the breeze light. That was one thought.
The boat was rocking gently, that was another.
Page 73
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Thirst and the Tiger
- The tiger Richard Parker received his name through a clerical error that swapped the identities of the hunter and the cub.
- Pi realizes that a 450-pound Bengal tiger has been his silent companion on the lifeboat for over two days.
- The absolute certainty of death by tiger paradoxically brings Pi a sense of peace and the motivation to focus on survival.
- Overwhelming physical thirst becomes a more pressing agony than the fear of predators, driving Pi to search for water.
- Pi concludes that a regulation lifeboat must contain supplies and overcomes his paralysis to investigate the vessel's interior.
To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about.
hundred yards from the river. She was still conscious. Her back legs had given way and her balance on her
front legs was woozy. When the men got close, she tried to get away but could not manage it. She turned on
them, lifting a paw that was meant to kill. It only made her lose her balance. She collapsed and the
Pondicherry Zoo had two new tigers. The cub was found in a bush close by, meowing with fear. The hunter,
whose name was Richard Parker, picked it up with his bare hands and, remembering how it had rushed to
drink in the river, baptized it Thirsty. But the shipping clerk at the Howrah train station was evidently a man
both befuddled and diligent. All the papers we received with the cub clearly stated that its name was Richard
Parker, that the hunter's first name was Thirsty and that his family name was None Given. Father had had a
good chuckle over the mix-up and Richard Parker's name had stuck.
I don't know if Thirsty None Given ever got the man-eating panther.
CHAPTER 49
In the morning I could not move. I was pinned by weakness to the tarpaulin. Even thinking was exhausting. I
applied myself to thinking straight. At length, as slowly as a caravan of camels crossing a desert, some
thoughts came together.
The day was like the previous one, warm and overcast, the clouds low, the breeze light. That was one thought.
The boat was rocking gently, that was another.
Page 73
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in
three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need
consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of
view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other
such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would
be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.
How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long
was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard
Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of
tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see
that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his
playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he
becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work
hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so
obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my
life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the
word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I
thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the
thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation
goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only
complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the
effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell
than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this
sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was
nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a
genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a
perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his
crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving
lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it.
Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the
side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I
carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The
hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat.
Thirst and the Tiger
- The narrator realizes that his extreme physical weakness is the result of three days without food, water, or sleep.
- He finally accepts the impossible reality that a 450-pound Bengal tiger named Richard Parker is sharing his small lifeboat.
- Paradoxically, the total loss of hope regarding the tiger makes the narrator feel relaxed and daring, as he no longer fears the lesser threat of the hyena.
- The agony of thirst becomes so overwhelming that it eclipses the fear of the predator, driving the narrator to search for water supplies.
- He reasons that a regulation lifeboat must contain emergency provisions and begins a perilous crawl toward the center of the vessel.
To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down.
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in
three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need
consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of
view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other
such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would
be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.
How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long
was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard
Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of
tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see
that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his
playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he
becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work
hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so
obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my
life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the
word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I
thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the
thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation
goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only
complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the
effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell
than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this
sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was
nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a
genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a
perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his
crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving
lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it.
Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the
side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I
carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The
hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat.
Richard Parker's presence
had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being
afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I
Thirst and the Tiger
- The narrator realizes that Richard Parker, a 450-pound Bengal tiger, is a physical reality on the lifeboat rather than a delusion.
- Losing all hope of survival against a tiger paradoxically grants the narrator a sense of calm and daring, similar to a sports challenger with nothing left to lose.
- The physical agony of extreme thirst becomes so overwhelming that it eclipses the fear of being killed by a predator.
- The narrator begins to view the hyena with contempt rather than terror, noting that fearing a 'dog' is irrational when a tiger is present.
- Driven by a desperate need for water, the narrator decides to explore the lifeboat's supplies despite the lethal risks involved.
To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down.
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in
three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need
consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of
view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other
such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would
be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.
How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long
was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard
Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of
tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see
that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his
playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he
becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work
hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so
obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my
life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the
word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I
thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the
thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation
goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only
complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the
effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell
than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this
sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was
nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a
genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a
perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his
crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving
lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it.
Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the
side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I
carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The
hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat.
Richard Parker's presence
had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being
afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I
Page 74
Thirst and the Tiger
- Pi realizes that Richard Parker, a 450-pound Bengal tiger, is indeed physically present on the lifeboat, occupying a third of its length.
- The sheer impossibility of surviving a tiger leads Pi to a state of hopeless peace, allowing him to focus on immediate survival rather than fear.
- Pi describes the agony of extreme thirst as a physical hell more taxing than the threat of a predator, comparing his suffering to that of Christ on the Cross.
- Driven by a desperate need for water, Pi overcomes his paralysis and begins exploring the lifeboat's supplies, ignoring the danger posed by the hyena.
- The presence of the tiger recontextualizes Pi's other fears, making the once-threatening hyena seem insignificant by comparison.
To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down.
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in
three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need
consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of
view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other
such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would
be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.
How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long
was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard
Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of
tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see
that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his
playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he
becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work
hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so
obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my
life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the
word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I
thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the
thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation
goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only
complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the
effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell
than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this
sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was
nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a
genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a
perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his
crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving
lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it.
Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the
side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I
carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The
hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat.
Richard Parker's presence
had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being
afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I
Page 74
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Logic of Thirst
- Pi realizes that the presence of a 450-pound Bengal tiger on his lifeboat is a physical reality rather than a hallucination brought on by his weakened state.
- The absolute hopelessness of facing a tiger paradoxically grants Pi a sense of calm and daring, allowing him to focus on his immediate survival needs.
- Pi describes the agony of thirst as a sensation so overwhelming that it eclipses the fear of death and makes the presence of a predator seem insignificant.
- The presence of Richard Parker explains the hyena's previous passivity, as all other animals on the boat have been rendered equal in their status as prey.
- Pi hypothesizes that the tiger has remained inactive for three days due to a combination of zoo-administered sedatives and debilitating seasickness.
To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being afraid of splinters when trees are falling down.
I thought of sustenance for the first time. I had not had a drop to drink or a bite to eat or a minute of sleep in
three days. Finding this obvious explanation for my weakness brought me a little strength.
Richard Parker was still on board. In fact, he was directly beneath me. Incredible that such a thing should need
consent to be true, but it was only after much deliberation, upon assessing various mental items and points of
view, that I concluded that it was not a dream or a delusion or a misplaced memory or a fancy or any other
such falsity, but a solid, true thing witnessed while in a weakened, highly agitated state. The truth of it would
be confirmed as soon as I felt well enough to investigate.
How I had failed to notice for two and a half days a 450-pound Bengal tiger in a lifeboat twenty-six feet long
was a conundrum I would have to try to crack later, when I had more energy. The feat surely made Richard
Parker the largest stowaway, proportionally speaking, in the history of navigation. From tip of nose to tip of
tail he took up over a third of the length of the ship he was on.
You might think I lost all hope at that point. I did. And as a result I perked up and felt much better. We see
that in sports all the time, don't we? The tennis challenger starts strong but soon loses confidence in his
playing. The champion racks up the games. But in the final set, when the challenger has nothing left to lose, he
becomes relaxed again, insouciant, daring. Suddenly he's playing like the devil and the champion must work
hard to get those last points. So it was with me. To cope with a hyena seemed remotely possible, but I was so
obviously outmatched by Richard Parker that it wasn't even worth worrying about. With a tiger aboard, my
life was over. That being settled, why not do something about my parched throat?
I believe it was this that saved my life that morning, that I was quite literally dying of thirst. Now that the
word had popped into my head I couldn't think of anything else, as if the word itself were salty and the more I
thought of it, the worse the effect. I have heard that the hunger for air exceeds as a compelling sensation the
thirst for water. Only for a few minutes, I say. After a few minutes you die and the discomfort of asphyxiation
goes away. Whereas thirst is a drawn-out affair. Look: Christ on the Cross died of suffocation, but His only
complaint was of thirst. If thirst can be so taxing that even God Incarnate complains about it, imagine the
effect on a regular human. It was enough to make me go raving mad. I have never known a worse physical hell
than this putrid taste and pasty feeling in the mouth, this unbearable pressure at the back of the throat, this
sensation that my blood was turning to a thick syrup that barely flowed. Truly, by comparison, a tiger was
nothing.
And so I pushed aside all thoughts of Richard Parker and fearlessly went exploring for fresh water.
The divining rod in my mind dipped sharply and a spring gushed water when I remembered that I was on a
genuine, regulation lifeboat and that such a lifeboat was surely outfitted with supplies. That seemed like a
perfectly reasonable proposition. What captain would fail in so elementary a way to ensure the safety of his
crew? What ship chandler would not think of making a little extra money under the noble guise of saving
lives? It was settled. There was water aboard. All I had to do was find it.
Which meant I had to move.
I made it to the middle of the boat, to the edge of the tarpaulin. It was a hard crawl. I felt I was climbing the
side of a volcano and I was about to look over the rim into a boiling cauldron of orange lava. I lay flat. I
carefully brought my head over. I did not look over any more than I had to. I did not see Richard Parker. The
hyena was plainly visible, though. It was back behind what was left of the zebra. It was looking at me.
I was no longer afraid of it. It wasn't ten feet away, yet my heart didn't skip a beat.
Richard Parker's presence
had at least that useful aspect. To be afraid of this ridiculous dog when there was a tiger about was like being
afraid of splinters when trees are falling down. I became very angry at the animal. "You ugly, foul creature," I
Page 74
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
muttered. The only reason I didn't stand up and beat it off the lifeboat with a stick was lack of strength and
stick, not lack of heart.
Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say to itself, "Super alpha is watching me-I better not
move"? I don't know. At any rate, it didn't move. In fact, in the way it ducked its head it seemed to want to
hide from me. But it was no use hiding. It would get its just deserts soon enough.
Richard Parker also explained the animals' strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena had confined
itself to such an absurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waited so long before killing it. It was
fear of the greater beast and fear of touching the greater beast's food. The strained, temporary peace between
Orange Juice and the hyena, and my reprieve, were no doubt due to the same reason: in the face of such a
superior predator, all of us were prey, and normal ways of preying were affected. It seemed the presence of a
tiger had saved me from a hyena-surely a textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, to such an extent that the hyena had taken liberties.
Richard Parker's passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways could I account for
it: sedation and seasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animals to lessen their stress. Might he
have sedated Richard Parker shortly before the ship sank? Had the shock of the shipwreck-the noises, the
falling into the sea, the terrible struggle to swim to the lifeboat-increased the effect of the sedative? Had
seasickness taken over after that? These were the only plausible explanations I could come up with.
I lost interest in the question. Only water interested me.
I took stock of the lifeboat.
The Tiger's Shadow
- Pi realizes that the hyena's uncharacteristic hesitation and fear were caused by the presence of Richard Parker, the tiger.
- The presence of a superior predator creates a temporary, strained peace among the prey animals on the lifeboat.
- Pi attributes the tiger's unusual passivity over the last three days to a combination of sedation and seasickness.
- Despite the danger, Pi begins a meticulous physical survey of the lifeboat's dimensions and interior layout.
- The lifeboat is revealed to be a white aluminum vessel designed for thirty-two people, now occupied by three survivors.
It seemed the presence of a tiger had saved me from a hyenaโsurely a textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
muttered. The only reason I didn't stand up and beat it off the lifeboat with a stick was lack of strength and
stick, not lack of heart.
Did the hyena sense something of my mastery? Did it say to itself, "Super alpha is watching me-I better not
move"? I don't know. At any rate, it didn't move. In fact, in the way it ducked its head it seemed to want to
hide from me. But it was no use hiding. It would get its just deserts soon enough.
Richard Parker also explained the animals' strange behaviour. Now it was clear why the hyena had confined
itself to such an absurdly small space behind the zebra and why it had waited so long before killing it. It was
fear of the greater beast and fear of touching the greater beast's food. The strained, temporary peace between
Orange Juice and the hyena, and my reprieve, were no doubt due to the same reason: in the face of such a
superior predator, all of us were prey, and normal ways of preying were affected. It seemed the presence of a
tiger had saved me from a hyena-surely a textbook example of jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
But the great beast was not behaving like a great beast, to such an extent that the hyena had taken liberties.
Richard Parker's passivity, and for three long days, needed explaining. Only in two ways could I account for
it: sedation and seasickness. Father regularly sedated a number of the animals to lessen their stress. Might he
have sedated Richard Parker shortly before the ship sank? Had the shock of the shipwreck-the noises, the
falling into the sea, the terrible struggle to swim to the lifeboat-increased the effect of the sedative? Had
seasickness taken over after that? These were the only plausible explanations I could come up with.
I lost interest in the question. Only water interested me.
I took stock of the lifeboat.
CHAPTER 50
It was three and a half feet deep, eight feet wide and twenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it was
printed on one of the side benches in black letters. It also said that the lifeboat was designed to accommodate a
maximum of thirty-two people. Wouldn't that have been merry, sharing it with so many? Instead we were
three and it was awfully crowded. The boat was symmetrically shaped, with rounded ends that were hard to
tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixed rudder, no more than a rearward extension of the keel, while
the bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with the saddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The
aluminum hull was studded with rivets and painted white.
That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not as spacious as might be expected because of the side
benches and the buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length of the boat, merging at the bow and
stern to form end benches that were roughly triangular in shape. The benches were the top surfaces of the
sealed buoyancy tanks. The side benches were one and a half feet wide and the end benches were three feet
deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twenty feet long and five feet wide. That made a territory of one
hundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this space width-wise were three cross benches, including
the one smashed by the zebra. These benches were two feet wide and were evenly spaced. They were two feet
above the floor of the boat-the play Richard Parker had before he would knock his head against the ceiling, so
to speak, if he were beneath a bench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches of space, the distance
between the gunnel, which supported the tarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enough for him
to stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks of treated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the
buoyancy tanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat had rounded ends and rounded sides, but the
interior volume was rectangular.
Page 75
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Anatomy of Survival
- The narrator provides a meticulous physical description of the lifeboat, noting its dimensions, aluminum hull, and blunt prow.
- The interior space is severely restricted by buoyancy tanks and benches, leaving a rectangular territory of one hundred square feet for the tiger, Richard Parker.
- Orange is identified as the dominant color of survival, coating the tarpaulin, life jackets, and even the plastic whistles.
- The lifeboat is built for stolid floating rather than navigation, making the oars nearly useless for propulsion in such a heavy vessel.
- The narrator reflects on how dire necessity transforms mundane objects into the most important tools for life-saving invention.
It seems orangeโsuch a nice Hindu colourโis the colour of survival because the whole inside of the boat and the tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other significant object aboard was orange.
It was three and a half feet deep, eight feet wide and twenty-six feet long, exactly. I know because it was
printed on one of the side benches in black letters. It also said that the lifeboat was designed to accommodate a
maximum of thirty-two people. Wouldn't that have been merry, sharing it with so many? Instead we were
three and it was awfully crowded. The boat was symmetrically shaped, with rounded ends that were hard to
tell apart. The stern was hinted at by a small fixed rudder, no more than a rearward extension of the keel, while
the bow, except for my addition, featured a stem with the saddest, bluntest prow in boat-building history. The
aluminum hull was studded with rivets and painted white.
That was the outside of the lifeboat. Inside, it was not as spacious as might be expected because of the side
benches and the buoyancy tanks. The side benches ran the whole length of the boat, merging at the bow and
stern to form end benches that were roughly triangular in shape. The benches were the top surfaces of the
sealed buoyancy tanks. The side benches were one and a half feet wide and the end benches were three feet
deep; the open space of the lifeboat was thus twenty feet long and five feet wide. That made a territory of one
hundred square feet for Richard Parker. Spanning this space width-wise were three cross benches, including
the one smashed by the zebra. These benches were two feet wide and were evenly spaced. They were two feet
above the floor of the boat-the play Richard Parker had before he would knock his head against the ceiling, so
to speak, if he were beneath a bench. Under the tarpaulin, he had another twelve inches of space, the distance
between the gunnel, which supported the tarpaulin, and the benches, so three feet in all, barely enough for him
to stand. The floor, consisting of narrow planks of treated wood, was flat and the vertical sides of the
buoyancy tanks were at right angles to it. So, curiously, the boat had rounded ends and rounded sides, but the
interior volume was rectangular.
Page 75
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
It seems orange-such a nice Hindu colour-is the colour of survival because the whole inside of the boat and the
tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other significant object aboard was
orange. Even the plastic, beadless whistles were orange.
The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on each side of the bow in stark, black, roman capitals.
The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough on the skin after a while. It had been unrolled to just
past the middle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneath the tarpaulin, in Richard Parker's den; the
middle cross bench was just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open; and the third cross bench lay broken
beneath the dead zebra.
There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel for holding an oar in place, and five oars, since I had
lost one trying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on one side bench, one rested on the other and
one made up my life-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars as a means of propulsion. This
lifeboat was no racing shell. It was a heavy, solid construction designed for stolid floating, not for navigating,
though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two to row we could have made some headway.
I did not grasp all these details-and many more-right away. They came to my notice with time and as a result
of necessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleak future, when some small thing, some detail,
would transform itself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would no longer be the small thing it was
before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would save my life. This happened time and
again. How true it is that necessity is the mother of invention, how very true.
CHAPTER 51
The Color of Survival
- Pi observes that the lifeboat and its equipment are almost entirely orange, a color he associates with Hindu spirituality and survival.
- The physical layout of the boat is divided into zones, with a dangerous section hidden under a tarpaulin where the tiger, Richard Parker, resides.
- Driven by a desperate thirst, Pi overcomes his fear of the tiger to investigate the bow for hidden supplies or a storage locker.
- Pi discovers a glittered hasp and a lid beneath the tarpaulin, signaling the potential presence of life-saving resources.
- The narrative emphasizes how dire necessity transforms mundane objects into the most important tools for staying alive.
It would no longer be the small thing it was before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would save my life.
It seems orange-such a nice Hindu colour-is the colour of survival because the whole inside of the boat and the
tarpaulin and the life jackets and the lifebuoy and the oars and most every other significant object aboard was
orange. Even the plastic, beadless whistles were orange.
The words Tsimtsum and Panama were printed on each side of the bow in stark, black, roman capitals.
The tarpaulin was made of tough, treated canvas, rough on the skin after a while. It had been unrolled to just
past the middle cross bench. So one cross bench was hidden beneath the tarpaulin, in Richard Parker's den; the
middle cross bench was just beyond the edge of the tarpaulin, in the open; and the third cross bench lay broken
beneath the dead zebra.
There were six oarlocks, U-shaped notches in the gunnel for holding an oar in place, and five oars, since I had
lost one trying to push Richard Parker away. Three oars rested on one side bench, one rested on the other and
one made up my life-saving prow. I doubted the usefulness of these oars as a means of propulsion. This
lifeboat was no racing shell. It was a heavy, solid construction designed for stolid floating, not for navigating,
though I suppose that if we had been thirty-two to row we could have made some headway.
I did not grasp all these details-and many more-right away. They came to my notice with time and as a result
of necessity. I would be in the direst of dire straits, facing a bleak future, when some small thing, some detail,
would transform itself and appear in my mind in a new light. It would no longer be the small thing it was
before, but the most important thing in the world, the thing that would save my life. This happened time and
again. How true it is that necessity is the mother of invention, how very true.
CHAPTER 51
But that first time I had a good look at the lifeboat I did not see the detail I wanted. The surface of the stern
and side benches was continuous and unbroken, as were the sides of the buoyancy tanks. The floor lay flat
against the hull; there could be no cache beneath it. It was certain: there was no locker or box or any other sort
of container anywhere. Only smooth, uninterrupted orange surfaces.
My estimation of captains and ship chandlers wavered. My hopes for survival flickered. My thirst remained.
And what if the supplies were at the bow, beneath the tarpaulin? I turned and crawled back. I felt like a
dried-out lizard. I pushed down on the tarpaulin. It was tautly stretched. If I unrolled it, I would give myself
access to what supplies might be stored below. But that meant creating an opening onto Richard Parker's den.
There was no question. Thirst pushed me on. I eased the oar from under the tarpaulin. I placed the lifebuoy
around my waist. I laid the oar across the bow. I leaned over the gunnel and with my thumbs pushed from
under one of the hooks the rope that held down the tarpaulin. I had a difficult time of it. But after the first
hook, it was easier with the second and the third. I did the same on the other side of the stem. The tarpaulin
became slack beneath my elbows. I was lying flat on it, my legs pointed towards the stern.
I unrolled it a little. Immediately I was rewarded. The bow was like the stern; it had an end bench. And upon
it, just a few inches from the stem, a hasp glittered like a diamond. There was the outline of a lid. My heart
began to pound. I unrolled the tarpaulin further. I peeked under. The lid was shaped like a rounded-out
triangle, three feet wide and two feet deep. At that moment I perceived an orange mass. I jerked my head back.
But the orange wasn't moving and didn't look right. I looked again. It wasn't a tiger. It was a life jacket. There
Page 76
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Locker and the Tiger
- The narrator searches the lifeboat for a storage locker but initially finds only smooth, unbroken surfaces.
- Driven by extreme thirst, he risks unrolling the tarpaulin at the bow despite the danger of the tiger below.
- While peeling back the cover, he discovers a locker hasp and catches a terrifyingly close glimpse of Richard Parker.
- The tiger is revealed to be lying just two feet beneath the narrator, separated only by a thin layer of fabric.
- Despite his paralyzing fear, the narrator manages to open the locker in his desperate quest for water.
Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but a thin tarpaulin, easily got round.
But that first time I had a good look at the lifeboat I did not see the detail I wanted. The surface of the stern
and side benches was continuous and unbroken, as were the sides of the buoyancy tanks. The floor lay flat
against the hull; there could be no cache beneath it. It was certain: there was no locker or box or any other sort
of container anywhere. Only smooth, uninterrupted orange surfaces.
My estimation of captains and ship chandlers wavered. My hopes for survival flickered. My thirst remained.
And what if the supplies were at the bow, beneath the tarpaulin? I turned and crawled back. I felt like a
dried-out lizard. I pushed down on the tarpaulin. It was tautly stretched. If I unrolled it, I would give myself
access to what supplies might be stored below. But that meant creating an opening onto Richard Parker's den.
There was no question. Thirst pushed me on. I eased the oar from under the tarpaulin. I placed the lifebuoy
around my waist. I laid the oar across the bow. I leaned over the gunnel and with my thumbs pushed from
under one of the hooks the rope that held down the tarpaulin. I had a difficult time of it. But after the first
hook, it was easier with the second and the third. I did the same on the other side of the stem. The tarpaulin
became slack beneath my elbows. I was lying flat on it, my legs pointed towards the stern.
I unrolled it a little. Immediately I was rewarded. The bow was like the stern; it had an end bench. And upon
it, just a few inches from the stem, a hasp glittered like a diamond. There was the outline of a lid. My heart
began to pound. I unrolled the tarpaulin further. I peeked under. The lid was shaped like a rounded-out
triangle, three feet wide and two feet deep. At that moment I perceived an orange mass. I jerked my head back.
But the orange wasn't moving and didn't look right. I looked again. It wasn't a tiger. It was a life jacket. There
Page 76
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
were a number of life jackets at the back of Richard Parker's den.
A shiver went through my body. Between the life jackets, partially, as if through some leaves, I had my first,
unambiguous, clear-headed glimpse of Richard Parker. It was his haunches I could see, and part of his back.
Tawny and striped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flat on his stomach. He was still
except for the breathing motion of his sides. I blinked in disbelief at how close he was. He was right there, two
feet beneath me. Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but a thin
tarpaulin, easily got round.
"God preserve me!" No supplication was ever more passionate yet more gently carried by the breath. I lay
absolutely motionless.
I had to have water. I brought my hand down and quietly undid the hasp. I pulled on the lid. It opened onto a
locker.
I have just mentioned the notion of details that become lifesavers. Here was one: the lid was hinged an inch or
The Wine of Life
- The narrator comes face-to-face with the sleeping Richard Parker, separated only by a thin tarpaulin and a few feet of space.
- A hinged locker lid provides a strategic defensive barrier and a potential escape route should the tiger decide to attack.
- The discovery of a survival locker filled with manufactured goods triggers a spiritual and material revelation more intense than any holiday.
- Desperate with thirst, the narrator finds stacks of canned water but must improvise a way to open them using the boat's tarpaulin hooks.
- The narrator successfully punctures a can through sheer persistence, finally reaching the water that will deliver him from his suffering.
Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing! That moment of material revelation brought an intensity of pleasureโa heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief, thrill, gratitude, all crushed into oneโunequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving occasion.
were a number of life jackets at the back of Richard Parker's den.
A shiver went through my body. Between the life jackets, partially, as if through some leaves, I had my first,
unambiguous, clear-headed glimpse of Richard Parker. It was his haunches I could see, and part of his back.
Tawny and striped and simply enormous. He was facing the stern, lying flat on his stomach. He was still
except for the breathing motion of his sides. I blinked in disbelief at how close he was. He was right there, two
feet beneath me. Stretching, I could have pinched his bottom. And between us there was nothing but a thin
tarpaulin, easily got round.
"God preserve me!" No supplication was ever more passionate yet more gently carried by the breath. I lay
absolutely motionless.
I had to have water. I brought my hand down and quietly undid the hasp. I pulled on the lid. It opened onto a
locker.
I have just mentioned the notion of details that become lifesavers. Here was one: the lid was hinged an inch or
so from the edge of the bow bench-which meant that as the lid opened, it became a barrier that closed off the
twelve inches of open space between tarpaulin and bench through which Richard Parker could get to me after
pushing aside the life jackets. I opened the lid till it fell against the crosswise oar and the edge of the tarpaulin.
I moved onto the stem, facing the boat, one foot on the edge of the open locker, the other against the lid. If
Richard Parker decided to attack me from below, he would have to push on the lid. Such a push would both
warn me and help me fall backwards into the water with the lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop
the tarpaulin from astern, I was in the best position to see him early and, again, take to the water. I looked
about the lifeboat. I couldn't see any sharks.
I looked down between my legs. I thought I would faint for joy. The open locker glistened with shiny new
things. Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing! That moment of
material revelation brought an intensity of pleasure-a heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief, thrill, gratitude,
all crushed into one-unequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving
occasion. I was positively giddy with happiness.
My eyes immediately fell upon what I was looking for. Whether in a bottle, a tin can or a carton, water is
unmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life was served in pale golden cans that fit nicely in the
hand. Drinking Water said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the vintners. 500 ml were the
contents. There were stacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance.
With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. It was cool to the touch and heavy. I shook it. The
bubble of air inside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to be delivered from my hellish thirst. My
pulse raced at the thought. I only had to open the can.
I paused. How would I do that?
I had a can-surely I had a can opener? I looked in the locker. There was a great quantity of things. I rummaged
about. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run its fruitful course. I had to drink now-or I would die.
I could not find the desired instrument. But there was no time for useless distress. Action was needed. Could I
prise it open with my fingernails? I tried. I couldn't. My teeth? It wasn't worth trying. I looked over the gunnel.
The tarpaulin hooks. Short, blunt, solid. I kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holding the can with both my
hands, I sharply brought it up against a hook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint
of dinting, I managed the trick. A pearl of water appeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged the
opposite side of the top against the hook to make another hole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat
back on the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened my mouth. I tilted the can.
The Wine of Life
- Pi strategically positions himself on the lifeboat's locker to create a defensive barrier against Richard Parker.
- Upon opening the locker, Pi experiences an overwhelming sense of joy and material revelation at the sight of manufactured goods.
- He discovers a vast supply of emergency drinking water packaged in golden cans, which he describes as a 'heady mix of hope' and relief.
- Driven by a desperate, hellish thirst, Pi struggles to find a can opener and eventually uses the tarpaulin hooks to puncture the metal.
- The act of finally tasting a single pearl of water marks a transition from agonizing expectation to physical salvation.
Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing!
so from the edge of the bow bench-which meant that as the lid opened, it became a barrier that closed off the
twelve inches of open space between tarpaulin and bench through which Richard Parker could get to me after
pushing aside the life jackets. I opened the lid till it fell against the crosswise oar and the edge of the tarpaulin.
I moved onto the stem, facing the boat, one foot on the edge of the open locker, the other against the lid. If
Richard Parker decided to attack me from below, he would have to push on the lid. Such a push would both
warn me and help me fall backwards into the water with the lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop
the tarpaulin from astern, I was in the best position to see him early and, again, take to the water. I looked
about the lifeboat. I couldn't see any sharks.
I looked down between my legs. I thought I would faint for joy. The open locker glistened with shiny new
things. Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing! That moment of
material revelation brought an intensity of pleasure-a heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief, thrill, gratitude,
all crushed into one-unequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving
occasion. I was positively giddy with happiness.
My eyes immediately fell upon what I was looking for. Whether in a bottle, a tin can or a carton, water is
unmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life was served in pale golden cans that fit nicely in the
hand. Drinking Water said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the vintners. 500 ml were the
contents. There were stacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance.
With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. It was cool to the touch and heavy. I shook it. The
bubble of air inside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to be delivered from my hellish thirst. My
pulse raced at the thought. I only had to open the can.
I paused. How would I do that?
I had a can-surely I had a can opener? I looked in the locker. There was a great quantity of things. I rummaged
about. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run its fruitful course. I had to drink now-or I would die.
I could not find the desired instrument. But there was no time for useless distress. Action was needed. Could I
prise it open with my fingernails? I tried. I couldn't. My teeth? It wasn't worth trying. I looked over the gunnel.
The tarpaulin hooks. Short, blunt, solid. I kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holding the can with both my
hands, I sharply brought it up against a hook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint
of dinting, I managed the trick. A pearl of water appeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged the
opposite side of the top against the hook to make another hole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat
back on the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened my mouth. I tilted the can.
Page 77
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Drunk on Water
- Pi carefully navigates the lifeboat's locker, using the lid as a protective shield against the potential threat of Richard Parker.
- He discovers a cache of emergency supplies, experiencing a profound spiritual and physical ecstasy at the sight of manufactured goods.
- Desperate with thirst, Pi uses a tarpaulin hook to puncture cans of emergency water, drinking two liters in a state of pure bliss.
- After satisfying his thirst, he consumes a full package of Norwegian emergency rations, finding the simple wheat biscuits to be the finest cuisine he has ever tasted.
I tell you, to be drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk on water is noble and ecstatic.
so from the edge of the bow bench-which meant that as the lid opened, it became a barrier that closed off the
twelve inches of open space between tarpaulin and bench through which Richard Parker could get to me after
pushing aside the life jackets. I opened the lid till it fell against the crosswise oar and the edge of the tarpaulin.
I moved onto the stem, facing the boat, one foot on the edge of the open locker, the other against the lid. If
Richard Parker decided to attack me from below, he would have to push on the lid. Such a push would both
warn me and help me fall backwards into the water with the lifebuoy. If he came the other way, climbing atop
the tarpaulin from astern, I was in the best position to see him early and, again, take to the water. I looked
about the lifeboat. I couldn't see any sharks.
I looked down between my legs. I thought I would faint for joy. The open locker glistened with shiny new
things. Oh, the delight of the manufactured good, the man-made device, the created thing! That moment of
material revelation brought an intensity of pleasure-a heady mix of hope, surprise, disbelief, thrill, gratitude,
all crushed into one-unequalled in my life by any Christmas, birthday, wedding, Diwali or other gift-giving
occasion. I was positively giddy with happiness.
My eyes immediately fell upon what I was looking for. Whether in a bottle, a tin can or a carton, water is
unmistakably packaged. On this lifeboat, the wine of life was served in pale golden cans that fit nicely in the
hand. Drinking Water said the vintage label in black letters. HP Foods Ltd. were the vintners. 500 ml were the
contents. There were stacks of these cans, too many to count at a glance.
With a shaking hand I reached down and picked one up. It was cool to the touch and heavy. I shook it. The
bubble of air inside made a dull glub glub glub sound. I was about to be delivered from my hellish thirst. My
pulse raced at the thought. I only had to open the can.
I paused. How would I do that?
I had a can-surely I had a can opener? I looked in the locker. There was a great quantity of things. I rummaged
about. I was losing patience. Aching expectation had run its fruitful course. I had to drink now-or I would die.
I could not find the desired instrument. But there was no time for useless distress. Action was needed. Could I
prise it open with my fingernails? I tried. I couldn't. My teeth? It wasn't worth trying. I looked over the gunnel.
The tarpaulin hooks. Short, blunt, solid. I kneeled on the bench and leaned over. Holding the can with both my
hands, I sharply brought it up against a hook. A good dint. I did it again. Another dint next to the first. By dint
of dinting, I managed the trick. A pearl of water appeared. I licked it off. I turned the can and banged the
opposite side of the top against the hook to make another hole. I worked like a fiend. I made a larger hole. I sat
back on the gunnel. I held the can up to my face. I opened my mouth. I tilted the can.
Page 77
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be described. To the gurgling beat of my greedy
throat, pure, delicious, beautiful, crystalline water flowed into my system. Liquid life, it was. I drained that
golden cup to the very last drop, sucking at the hole to catch any remaining moisture. I went, "Ahhhhhh!",
tossed the can overboard and got another one. I opened it the way I had the first and its contents vanished just
as quickly. That can sailed overboard too, and I opened the next one. Which, shortly, also ended up in the
ocean. Another can was dispatched. I drank four cans, two litres of that most exquisite of nectars, before I
stopped. You might think such a rapid intake of water after prolonged thirst might upset my system.
Nonsense! I never felt better in my life. Why, feel my brow! My forehead was wet with fresh, clean,
refreshing perspiration. Everything in me, right down to the pores of my skin, was expressing joy.
A sense of well-being quickly overcame me. My mouth became moist and soft. I forgot about the back of my
throat. My skin relaxed. My joints moved with greater ease. My heart began to beat like a merry drum and
blood started flowing through my veins like cars from a wedding party honking their way through town.
Strength and suppleness came back to my muscles. My head became clearer. Truly, I was coming back to life
from the dead. It was glorious, it was glorious. I tell you, to be drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk
on water is noble and ecstatic. I basked in bliss and plenitude for several minutes.
A certain emptiness made itself felt. I touched my belly. It was a hard and hollow cavity. Food would be nice
now. A masala dosai with a coconut chutney-hmmmmm! Even better: oothappam! HMMMMM! Oh! I
brought my hands to my mouth-IDLI! The mere thought of the word provoked a shot of pain behind my jaws
and a deluge of saliva in my mouth. My right hand started twitching. It reached and nearly touched the
delicious flattened balls of parboiled rice in my imagination. It sank its fingers into their steaming hot flesh...
It formed a ball soaked with sauce... It brought it to my mouth... I chewed... Oh, it was exquisitely painful!
I looked into the locker for food. I found cartons of Seven Oceans Standard Emergency Ration, from faraway,
exotic Bergen, Norway. The breakfast that was to make up for nine missed meals, not to mention odd tiffins
that Mother had brought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid and vacuum-packed in silver-coloured
plastic that was covered with instructions in twelve languages. In English it said the ration consisted of
eighteen fortified biscuits of baked wheat, animal fat and glucose, and that no more than six should be eaten in
a twenty-four-hour period. Pity about the fat, but given the exceptional circumstances the vegetarian part of
me would simply pinch its nose and bear it.
At the top of the block were the words Tear here to open and a black arrow pointing to the edge of the plastic.
The edge gave way under my fingers. Nine wax-paper-wrapped rectangular bars tumbled out. I unwrapped
one. It naturally broke into two. Two nearly square biscuits, pale in colour and fragrant in smell. I bit into one.
Lord, who would have thought? I never suspected. It was a secret held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the
best in the world! These biscuits were amazingly good. They were savoury and delicate to the palate, neither
too sweet nor too salty. They broke up under the teeth with a delightful crunching sound. Mixed with saliva,
they made a granular paste that was enchantment to the tongue and mouth. And when I swallowed, my
stomach had only one thing to say: Hallelujah!
The whole package disappeared in a few minutes, wrapping paper flying away in the wind. I considered
opening another carton, but I thought better. No harm in exercising a little restraint. Actually, with half a kilo
of emergency ration in my stomach, I felt quite heavy.
Drunk on Water
- The narrator experiences a profound physical and spiritual rebirth after consuming two litres of fresh water from the lifeboat's emergency supply.
- The restoration of hydration triggers an immediate physiological recovery, clearing the narrator's mind and returning strength to his muscles.
- Intense hunger follows the thirst, leading the narrator to discover and consume a half-kilo block of Norwegian emergency rations.
- Despite his vegetarian principles, the narrator decides to overlook the presence of animal fat in the biscuits due to his desperate circumstances.
- An inventory of the locker reveals thirty-one remaining food cartons, providing a calculated survival window of approximately ninety-three days.
I tell you, to be drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk on water is noble and ecstatic.
My feelings can perhaps be imagined, but they can hardly be described. To the gurgling beat of my greedy
throat, pure, delicious, beautiful, crystalline water flowed into my system. Liquid life, it was. I drained that
golden cup to the very last drop, sucking at the hole to catch any remaining moisture. I went, "Ahhhhhh!",
tossed the can overboard and got another one. I opened it the way I had the first and its contents vanished just
as quickly. That can sailed overboard too, and I opened the next one. Which, shortly, also ended up in the
ocean. Another can was dispatched. I drank four cans, two litres of that most exquisite of nectars, before I
stopped. You might think such a rapid intake of water after prolonged thirst might upset my system.
Nonsense! I never felt better in my life. Why, feel my brow! My forehead was wet with fresh, clean,
refreshing perspiration. Everything in me, right down to the pores of my skin, was expressing joy.
A sense of well-being quickly overcame me. My mouth became moist and soft. I forgot about the back of my
throat. My skin relaxed. My joints moved with greater ease. My heart began to beat like a merry drum and
blood started flowing through my veins like cars from a wedding party honking their way through town.
Strength and suppleness came back to my muscles. My head became clearer. Truly, I was coming back to life
from the dead. It was glorious, it was glorious. I tell you, to be drunk on alcohol is disgraceful, but to be drunk
on water is noble and ecstatic. I basked in bliss and plenitude for several minutes.
A certain emptiness made itself felt. I touched my belly. It was a hard and hollow cavity. Food would be nice
now. A masala dosai with a coconut chutney-hmmmmm! Even better: oothappam! HMMMMM! Oh! I
brought my hands to my mouth-IDLI! The mere thought of the word provoked a shot of pain behind my jaws
and a deluge of saliva in my mouth. My right hand started twitching. It reached and nearly touched the
delicious flattened balls of parboiled rice in my imagination. It sank its fingers into their steaming hot flesh...
It formed a ball soaked with sauce... It brought it to my mouth... I chewed... Oh, it was exquisitely painful!
I looked into the locker for food. I found cartons of Seven Oceans Standard Emergency Ration, from faraway,
exotic Bergen, Norway. The breakfast that was to make up for nine missed meals, not to mention odd tiffins
that Mother had brought along, came in a half-kilo block, dense, solid and vacuum-packed in silver-coloured
plastic that was covered with instructions in twelve languages. In English it said the ration consisted of
eighteen fortified biscuits of baked wheat, animal fat and glucose, and that no more than six should be eaten in
a twenty-four-hour period. Pity about the fat, but given the exceptional circumstances the vegetarian part of
me would simply pinch its nose and bear it.
At the top of the block were the words Tear here to open and a black arrow pointing to the edge of the plastic.
The edge gave way under my fingers. Nine wax-paper-wrapped rectangular bars tumbled out. I unwrapped
one. It naturally broke into two. Two nearly square biscuits, pale in colour and fragrant in smell. I bit into one.
Lord, who would have thought? I never suspected. It was a secret held from me: Norwegian cuisine was the
best in the world! These biscuits were amazingly good. They were savoury and delicate to the palate, neither
too sweet nor too salty. They broke up under the teeth with a delightful crunching sound. Mixed with saliva,
they made a granular paste that was enchantment to the tongue and mouth. And when I swallowed, my
stomach had only one thing to say: Hallelujah!
The whole package disappeared in a few minutes, wrapping paper flying away in the wind. I considered
opening another carton, but I thought better. No harm in exercising a little restraint. Actually, with half a kilo
of emergency ration in my stomach, I felt quite heavy.
I decided I should find out what exactly was in the treasure chest before me. It was a large locker, larger than
its opening. The space extended right down to the hull and ran some little ways into the side benches. I
lowered my feet into the locker and sat on its edge, my back against the stem. I counted the cartons of Seven
Ocean. I had eaten one; there were thirty-one left. According to the instructions, each 500-gram carton was
supposed to last one survivor three days. That meant I had food rations to last me-31 X 3-93 days! The
instructions also suggested survivors restrict themselves to half a litre of water every twenty-four hours. I
Inventory of Survival
- Pi discovers a hidden locker within the lifeboat and meticulously calculates his food and water rations, finding he has enough to last roughly three to four months.
- The physical objects in the locker provide Pi with a profound sense of psychological comfort, making him feel cared for by the anonymous manufacturers.
- Pi compiles a comprehensive list of survival gear ranging from practical tools like hatchets and flares to unexpected items like Chinese cigarettes and chocolate.
- The inventory concludes with a poignant shift from material goods to the living presence of the hyena, the tiger, the ocean, and God.
- After consuming a small portion of chocolate and inspecting the rain catchers, Pi finally finds the peace of mind to fall into a deep sleep.
I was so sorely in need of company and comfort that the attention brought to making each one of these mass-produced goods felt like a special attention paid to me.
I decided I should find out what exactly was in the treasure chest before me. It was a large locker, larger than
its opening. The space extended right down to the hull and ran some little ways into the side benches. I
lowered my feet into the locker and sat on its edge, my back against the stem. I counted the cartons of Seven
Ocean. I had eaten one; there were thirty-one left. According to the instructions, each 500-gram carton was
supposed to last one survivor three days. That meant I had food rations to last me-31 X 3-93 days! The
instructions also suggested survivors restrict themselves to half a litre of water every twenty-four hours. I
Page 78
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
counted the cans of water. There were 124. Each contained half a litre. So I had water rations to last me 124
days. Never had simple arithmetic brought such a smile to my face.
What else did I have? I plunged my arm eagerly into the locker and brought up one marvellous object after
another. Each one, no matter what it was, soothed me. I was so sorely in need of company and comfort that the
attention brought to making each one of these mass-produced goods felt like a special attention paid to me. I
repeatedly mumbled, "Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!"
CHAPTER 52
After a thorough investigation, I made a complete list:
192 tablets of anti-seasickness medicine
124 tin cans of fresh water, each containing 500 millilitres, so 62 litres in all
32 plastic vomit bags
31 cartons of emergency rations, 500 grams each, so 15.5 kilos in all
16 wool blankets
12 solar stills
10 or so orange life jackets, each with an orange, beadless whistle attached by a string
6 morphine ampoule syringes
6 hand flares
5 buoyant oars
4 rocket parachute flares
3 tough, transparent plastic bags, each with a capacity of about 50 litres
3 can openers
3 graduated glass beakers for drinking
2 boxes of waterproof matches
2 buoyant orange smoke signals
2 mid-size orange plastic buckets
2 buoyant orange plastic bailing cups
2 multi-purpose plastic containers with airtight lids
2 yellow rectangular sponges
2 buoyant synthetic ropes, each 50 metres long
2 non-buoyant synthetic ropes of unspecified length, but each at least 30 metres long
2 fishing kits with hooks, lines and sinkers
2 gaffs with very sharp barbed hooks
2 sea anchors
2 hatchets
2 rain catchers
2 black ink ballpoint pens
1 nylon cargo net
1 solid lifebuoy with an inner diameter of 40 centimetres and an outer diameter of 80 centimetres, and an
attached rope
1 large hunting knife with a solid handle, a pointed end and one edge a sharp blade and the other a sawtoothed
blade;
attached by a long string to a ring in the locker
1 sewing kit with straight and curving needles and strong white thread
1 first-aid kit in a waterproof plastic case
Page 79
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
1 signalling mirror
1 pack of filter-tipped Chinese cigarettes
1 large bar of dark chocolate
1 survival manual
1 compass
1 notebook with 98 lined pages
1 boy with a complete set of light clothing but for one lost shoe
1 spotted hyena
1 Bengal tiger 1 lifeboat
1 ocean
1 God
I ate a quarter of the large chocolate bar. I examined one of the rain catchers. It was a device that looked like
an inverted umbrella with a good-sized catchment pouch and a connecting rubber tube.
I crossed my arms on the lifebuoy around my waist, brought my head down and fell soundly asleep.
CHAPTER 53
The Fierce Will to Live
- Pi takes inventory of his meager survival supplies, which include a chocolate bar, a manual, and a rain catcher.
- The physical restoration from food and sleep brings a terrifying clarity regarding the presence of Richard Parker on the boat.
- Pi weighs the certain death of the open ocean against the violent, silent death of being mauled by a Bengal tiger.
- A profound sense of grief strikes as he contemplates the loss of his family and his own impending demise.
- A sudden internal shift occurs where Pi rejects despair and vows to turn the 'miracle' of his survival into a daily routine.
Oncoming death is terrible enough, but worse still is oncoming death with time to spare, time in which all the happiness that was yours and all the happiness that might have been yours becomes clear to you.
1 large bar of dark chocolate
1 survival manual
1 compass
1 notebook with 98 lined pages
1 boy with a complete set of light clothing but for one lost shoe
1 spotted hyena
1 Bengal tiger 1 lifeboat
1 ocean
1 God
I ate a quarter of the large chocolate bar. I examined one of the rain catchers. It was a device that looked like
an inverted umbrella with a good-sized catchment pouch and a connecting rubber tube.
I crossed my arms on the lifebuoy around my waist, brought my head down and fell soundly asleep.
CHAPTER 53
I slept all morning. I was roused by anxiety. That tide of food, water and rest that flowed through my
weakened system, bringing me a new lease on life, also brought me the strength to see how desperate my
situation was. I awoke to the reality of Richard Parker. There was a tiger in the lifeboat. I could hardly believe
it, yet I knew I had to. And I had to save myself.
I considered jumping overboard and swimming away, but my body refused to move. I was hundreds of miles
from landfall, if not over a thousand miles. I couldn't swim such a distance, even with a lifebuoy. What would
I eat? What would I drink? How would I keep the sharks away? How would I keep warm? How would I know
which way to go? There was not a shadow of doubt about the matter: to leave the lifeboat meant certain death.
But what was staying aboard? He would come at me like a typical cat, without a sound. Before I knew it he
would seize the back of my neck or my throat and I would be pierced by fang-holes. I wouldn't be able to
speak. The lifeblood would flow out of me unmarked by a final utterance. Or he would kill me by clubbing me
with one of his great paws, breaking my neck.
"I'm going to die," I blubbered through quivering lips.
Oncoming death is terrible enough, but worse still is oncoming death with time to spare, time in which all the
happiness that was yours and all the happiness that might have been yours becomes clear to you. You see with
utter lucidity all that you are losing. The sight brings on an oppressive sadness that no car about to hit you or
water about to drown you can match. The feeling is truly unbearable. The words Father, Mother, Ravi, India,
Winnipeg struck me with searing poignancy.
I was giving up. I would have given up-if a voice hadn't made itself heard in my heart. The voice said, "I will
not die. I refuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat the odds, as great as they are. I have
survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine. The amazing will be seen every day. I will
put in all the hard work necessary. Yes, so long as God is with me, I will not die. Amen."
My face set to a grim and determined expression. I speak in all modesty as I say this, but I discovered at that
moment that I have a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in my experience. Some of us give up on
Page 80
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Fierce Will to Live
- Pi awakens to the terrifying reality of sharing a lifeboat with a tiger and realizes that staying aboard or jumping into the shark-infested ocean both mean certain death.
- He experiences a moment of profound despair, mourning the loss of his family and his future with a lucidity that he finds more unbearable than the threat of physical harm.
- A powerful internal voice emerges, transforming his fear into a stubborn, constitutional refusal to die and a commitment to turn miracles into a daily routine.
- Driven by this newfound determination, Pi feverishly constructs a makeshift raft using oars, life jackets, and a lifebuoy to create a safe distance from Richard Parker.
- The construction process is fraught with tension as the tiger's growls and the hyena's screams signal an imminent and deadly confrontation.
I discovered at that moment that I have a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in my experience. Some of us give up on life with only a resigned sigh.
I slept all morning. I was roused by anxiety. That tide of food, water and rest that flowed through my
weakened system, bringing me a new lease on life, also brought me the strength to see how desperate my
situation was. I awoke to the reality of Richard Parker. There was a tiger in the lifeboat. I could hardly believe
it, yet I knew I had to. And I had to save myself.
I considered jumping overboard and swimming away, but my body refused to move. I was hundreds of miles
from landfall, if not over a thousand miles. I couldn't swim such a distance, even with a lifebuoy. What would
I eat? What would I drink? How would I keep the sharks away? How would I keep warm? How would I know
which way to go? There was not a shadow of doubt about the matter: to leave the lifeboat meant certain death.
But what was staying aboard? He would come at me like a typical cat, without a sound. Before I knew it he
would seize the back of my neck or my throat and I would be pierced by fang-holes. I wouldn't be able to
speak. The lifeblood would flow out of me unmarked by a final utterance. Or he would kill me by clubbing me
with one of his great paws, breaking my neck.
"I'm going to die," I blubbered through quivering lips.
Oncoming death is terrible enough, but worse still is oncoming death with time to spare, time in which all the
happiness that was yours and all the happiness that might have been yours becomes clear to you. You see with
utter lucidity all that you are losing. The sight brings on an oppressive sadness that no car about to hit you or
water about to drown you can match. The feeling is truly unbearable. The words Father, Mother, Ravi, India,
Winnipeg struck me with searing poignancy.
I was giving up. I would have given up-if a voice hadn't made itself heard in my heart. The voice said, "I will
not die. I refuse it. I will make it through this nightmare. I will beat the odds, as great as they are. I have
survived so far, miraculously. Now I will turn miracle into routine. The amazing will be seen every day. I will
put in all the hard work necessary. Yes, so long as God is with me, I will not die. Amen."
My face set to a grim and determined expression. I speak in all modesty as I say this, but I discovered at that
moment that I have a fierce will to live. It's not something evident, in my experience. Some of us give up on
Page 80
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others-and I am one of those-never give
up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses we take, the improbability of
success. We fight to the very end. It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let
go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity.
Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if he had been waiting for me to become a worthy
opponent. My chest became tight with fear.
"Quick, man, quick," I wheezed. I had to organize my survival. Not a second to waste. I needed shelter and
right away. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But now the tarpaulin was unrolled at the bow; there
was nothing to hold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at the end of an oar provided real safety
from Richard Parker. He might easily reach and nab me. I had to find something else. My mind worked fast.
I built a raft. The oars, if you remember, floated. And I had life jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy.
With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneath the tarpaulin for the extra oars on the side benches.
Richard Parker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As I dragged each oar out-you can imagine
how carefully-he stirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three oars. A fourth was already resting
crosswise on the tarpaulin. I raised the locker lid to close the opening onto Richard Parker's den.
I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin around the lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now squared by the
oars. My raft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centre as the first move.
Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker's growling was now a deep rumble that
shook the air. The hyena responded with a whine, a wavering, high-pitched whine, a sure sign that trouble was
on the way.
I had no choice. I had to act. I lowered the lid again. The life jackets were at hand's reach. Some were right
against Richard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream.
I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty grasping it, my hand was trembling so much. I pulled the
jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another one out. And another. I was feeling faint
with fear. I was having great difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I could throw myself overboard
with these life jackets. I pulled a last one out. I had four life jackets.
Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked them through the armholes of the life jackets-in one armhole,
out the other-so that the life jackets became secured to the four corners of the raft. I tied each one shut.
I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With the knife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed the four
oars where they met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! At each corner I made ten knots and still I
worried that the oars would come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing my stupidity. A tiger aboard
and I had waited three days and three nights to save my life!
I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied the lifebuoy to each side of the square. I wove the
lifebuoy's rope through the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of the lifebuoy-all round the raft-as yet
another precaution against the raft breaking into pieces.
The hyena was now screaming at top pitch.
One last thing to do. "God, give me the time," I implored. I took the rest of the buoyant line. There was a hole
that went through the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought the buoyant rope through it and hitched it. I only
The Raft of Necessity
- The narrator reflects on a constitutional inability to give up, describing a 'life-hungry stupidity' that drives him to fight for survival against all odds.
- Recognizing that the tarpaulin no longer offers safety from the tiger, Richard Parker, the narrator frantically begins constructing a makeshift raft.
- Using four buoyant oars, a lifebuoy, and life jackets, he assembles a floating structure while the tiger growls and the hyena screams in the background.
- Despite his paralyzing fear and trembling hands, he manages to lash the components together with rope, lamenting his lack of practical knowledge in knots.
- The construction is a race against time as the predatory tension on the lifeboat reaches a breaking point, culminating in a moment of sudden, terrifying silence.
It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity.
life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others-and I am one of those-never give
up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses we take, the improbability of
success. We fight to the very end. It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let
go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity.
Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if he had been waiting for me to become a worthy
opponent. My chest became tight with fear.
"Quick, man, quick," I wheezed. I had to organize my survival. Not a second to waste. I needed shelter and
right away. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But now the tarpaulin was unrolled at the bow; there
was nothing to hold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at the end of an oar provided real safety
from Richard Parker. He might easily reach and nab me. I had to find something else. My mind worked fast.
I built a raft. The oars, if you remember, floated. And I had life jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy.
With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneath the tarpaulin for the extra oars on the side benches.
Richard Parker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As I dragged each oar out-you can imagine
how carefully-he stirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three oars. A fourth was already resting
crosswise on the tarpaulin. I raised the locker lid to close the opening onto Richard Parker's den.
I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin around the lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now squared by the
oars. My raft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centre as the first move.
Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker's growling was now a deep rumble that
shook the air. The hyena responded with a whine, a wavering, high-pitched whine, a sure sign that trouble was
on the way.
I had no choice. I had to act. I lowered the lid again. The life jackets were at hand's reach. Some were right
against Richard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream.
I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty grasping it, my hand was trembling so much. I pulled the
jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another one out. And another. I was feeling faint
with fear. I was having great difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I could throw myself overboard
with these life jackets. I pulled a last one out. I had four life jackets.
Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked them through the armholes of the life jackets-in one armhole,
out the other-so that the life jackets became secured to the four corners of the raft. I tied each one shut.
I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With the knife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed the four
oars where they met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! At each corner I made ten knots and still I
worried that the oars would come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing my stupidity. A tiger aboard
and I had waited three days and three nights to save my life!
I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied the lifebuoy to each side of the square. I wove the
lifebuoy's rope through the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of the lifebuoy-all round the raft-as yet
another precaution against the raft breaking into pieces.
The hyena was now screaming at top pitch.
One last thing to do. "God, give me the time," I implored. I took the rest of the buoyant line. There was a hole
that went through the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought the buoyant rope through it and hitched it. I only
Page 81
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
had to hitch the other end of the rope to the raft and I might be saved.
The hyena fell silent. My heart stopped and then beat triple speed. I turned.
"Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu!"
The Raft and the Tiger
- The narrator describes an innate, constitutional drive to survive that prevents him from giving up despite the improbability of success.
- Driven by fear of Richard Parker, the narrator feverishly constructs a makeshift raft using oars, life jackets, and a lifebuoy.
- While the narrator works, Richard Parker emerges from the tarpaulin and kills the hyena with swift, silent, and brutal efficiency.
- The death of the hyena leaves the narrator alone on the lifeboat with the tiger, who finally turns his full attention toward him.
- The narrator realizes his previous safety measures were insufficient and struggles with the physical and mental toll of his proximity to the predator.
There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed.
life with only a resigned sigh. Others fight a little, then lose hope. Still others-and I am one of those-never give
up. We fight and fight and fight. We fight no matter the cost of battle, the losses we take, the improbability of
success. We fight to the very end. It's not a question of courage. It's something constitutional, an inability to let
go. It may be nothing more than life-hungry stupidity.
Richard Parker started growling that very instant, as if he had been waiting for me to become a worthy
opponent. My chest became tight with fear.
"Quick, man, quick," I wheezed. I had to organize my survival. Not a second to waste. I needed shelter and
right away. I thought of the prow I had made with an oar. But now the tarpaulin was unrolled at the bow; there
was nothing to hold the oar in place. And I had no proof that hanging at the end of an oar provided real safety
from Richard Parker. He might easily reach and nab me. I had to find something else. My mind worked fast.
I built a raft. The oars, if you remember, floated. And I had life jackets and a sturdy lifebuoy.
With bated breath I closed the locker and reached beneath the tarpaulin for the extra oars on the side benches.
Richard Parker noticed. I could see him through the life jackets. As I dragged each oar out-you can imagine
how carefully-he stirred in reaction. But he did not turn. I pulled out three oars. A fourth was already resting
crosswise on the tarpaulin. I raised the locker lid to close the opening onto Richard Parker's den.
I had four buoyant oars. I set them on the tarpaulin around the lifebuoy. The lifebuoy was now squared by the
oars. My raft looked like a game of tic-tac-toe with an O in the centre as the first move.
Now came the dangerous part. I needed the life jackets. Richard Parker's growling was now a deep rumble that
shook the air. The hyena responded with a whine, a wavering, high-pitched whine, a sure sign that trouble was
on the way.
I had no choice. I had to act. I lowered the lid again. The life jackets were at hand's reach. Some were right
against Richard Parker. The hyena broke into a scream.
I reached for the closest life jacket. I had difficulty grasping it, my hand was trembling so much. I pulled the
jacket out. Richard Parker did not seem to notice. I pulled another one out. And another. I was feeling faint
with fear. I was having great difficulty breathing. If need be, I told myself, I could throw myself overboard
with these life jackets. I pulled a last one out. I had four life jackets.
Pulling the oars in one after the next, I worked them through the armholes of the life jackets-in one armhole,
out the other-so that the life jackets became secured to the four corners of the raft. I tied each one shut.
I found one of the buoyant ropes in the locker. With the knife, I cut four segments. I tightly lashed the four
oars where they met. Ah, to have had a practical education in knots! At each corner I made ten knots and still I
worried that the oars would come apart. I worked feverishly, all the while cursing my stupidity. A tiger aboard
and I had waited three days and three nights to save my life!
I cut four more segments of the buoyant rope and tied the lifebuoy to each side of the square. I wove the
lifebuoy's rope through the life jackets, around the oars, in and out of the lifebuoy-all round the raft-as yet
another precaution against the raft breaking into pieces.
The hyena was now screaming at top pitch.
One last thing to do. "God, give me the time," I implored. I took the rest of the buoyant line. There was a hole
that went through the stem of the boat, near the top. I brought the buoyant rope through it and hitched it. I only
Page 81
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
had to hitch the other end of the rope to the raft and I might be saved.
The hyena fell silent. My heart stopped and then beat triple speed. I turned.
"Jesus, Mary, Muhammad and Vishnu!"
I saw a sight that will stay with me for the rest of my days. Richard Parker had risen and emerged. He was not
fifteen feet from me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena's end had come, and mine. I stood rooted to the spot,
paralyzed, in thrall to the action before my eyes. My brief experience with the relations of unconfined wild
animals in lifeboats had made me expect great noise and protest when the time came for bloodshed. But it
happened practically in silence. The hyena died neither whining nor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed
without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and made for the hyena.
The hyena was leaning against the stern bench, behind the zebra's carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight.
Instead it shrank to the floor, lifting a forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its face was of terror.
A massive paw landed on its shoulders. Richard Parker's jaws closed on the side of the hyena's neck. Its glazed
eyes widened. There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The hyena
shook. Its eyes went dull. It was over.
Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, private and half-hearted, it seemed. He was panting, his
tongue hanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook his head. He sniffed the dead hyena. He raised
his head high and smelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern bench and lifted himself. His feet were
wide apart. The rolling of the boat, though gentle, was visibly not to his liking. He looked beyond the gunnel
at the open seas. He put out a low, mean snarl. He smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. It
turned-turned-turned full round-till he was looking straight at me.
I wish I could describe what happened next, not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it. I beheld
The Tiger's Silent Strike
- Richard Parker emerges from beneath the tarpaulin to confront the hyena in a sudden, terrifying display of power.
- The expected noise of a wild animal struggle is replaced by a chilling, efficient silence as the predator kills its prey.
- The hyena offers no resistance, paralyzed by terror and a futile defensive gesture before its neck is crushed.
- After the kill, Richard Parker surveys the open sea and turns his gaze directly toward the narrator.
- The narrator is left in a state of paralyzed awe, witnessing the raw physical presence of the tiger from a close distance.
There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed.
I saw a sight that will stay with me for the rest of my days. Richard Parker had risen and emerged. He was not
fifteen feet from me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena's end had come, and mine. I stood rooted to the spot,
paralyzed, in thrall to the action before my eyes. My brief experience with the relations of unconfined wild
animals in lifeboats had made me expect great noise and protest when the time came for bloodshed. But it
happened practically in silence. The hyena died neither whining nor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed
without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and made for the hyena.
The hyena was leaning against the stern bench, behind the zebra's carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight.
Instead it shrank to the floor, lifting a forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its face was of terror.
A massive paw landed on its shoulders. Richard Parker's jaws closed on the side of the hyena's neck. Its glazed
eyes widened. There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The hyena
shook. Its eyes went dull. It was over.
Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, private and half-hearted, it seemed. He was panting, his
tongue hanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook his head. He sniffed the dead hyena. He raised
his head high and smelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern bench and lifted himself. His feet were
wide apart. The rolling of the boat, though gentle, was visibly not to his liking. He looked beyond the gunnel
at the open seas. He put out a low, mean snarl. He smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. It
turned-turned-turned full round-till he was looking straight at me.
I wish I could describe what happened next, not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it. I beheld
Richard Parker from the angle that showed him off to greatest effect: from the back, half-raised, with his head
The Emergence of Richard Parker
- Richard Parker finally emerges from beneath the tarpaulin to kill the hyena with swift, silent efficiency.
- The narrator is paralyzed by the tiger's physical presence, describing him as a masterpiece of natural art and terrifying power.
- After the kill, Richard Parker surveys the open sea with distaste before turning an intense, rage-filled stare toward the narrator.
- The tension of the encounter is unexpectedly broken by the appearance of a scrawny rat that seeks refuge on the narrator's head.
But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage.
I saw a sight that will stay with me for the rest of my days. Richard Parker had risen and emerged. He was not
fifteen feet from me. Oh, the size of him! The hyena's end had come, and mine. I stood rooted to the spot,
paralyzed, in thrall to the action before my eyes. My brief experience with the relations of unconfined wild
animals in lifeboats had made me expect great noise and protest when the time came for bloodshed. But it
happened practically in silence. The hyena died neither whining nor whimpering, and Richard Parker killed
without a sound. The flame-coloured carnivore emerged from beneath the tarpaulin and made for the hyena.
The hyena was leaning against the stern bench, behind the zebra's carcass, transfixed. It did not put up a fight.
Instead it shrank to the floor, lifting a forepaw in a futile gesture of defence. The look on its face was of terror.
A massive paw landed on its shoulders. Richard Parker's jaws closed on the side of the hyena's neck. Its glazed
eyes widened. There was a noise of organic crunching as windpipe and spinal cord were crushed. The hyena
shook. Its eyes went dull. It was over.
Richard Parker let go and growled. But a quiet growl, private and half-hearted, it seemed. He was panting, his
tongue hanging from his mouth. He licked his chops. He shook his head. He sniffed the dead hyena. He raised
his head high and smelled the air. He placed his forepaws on the stern bench and lifted himself. His feet were
wide apart. The rolling of the boat, though gentle, was visibly not to his liking. He looked beyond the gunnel
at the open seas. He put out a low, mean snarl. He smelled the air again. He slowly turned his head. It
turned-turned-turned full round-till he was looking straight at me.
I wish I could describe what happened next, not as I saw it, which I might manage, but as I felt it. I beheld
Richard Parker from the angle that showed him off to greatest effect: from the back, half-raised, with his head
turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were an intentional, even affected, display of mighty
art. And what art, what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evident was the lithesome grace of
it. He was incredibly muscular, yet his haunches were thin and his glossy coat hung loosely on his frame. His
body, bright brownish orange streaked with black vertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with a
tailor's eye for harmony by his pure white chest and underside and the black rings of his long tail. His head
was large and round, displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee and some of the finest whiskers of the
cat world, thick, long and white. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped like perfect arches. His
carrot orange face had a broad bridge and a pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy dabs of
black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yet subtle, for it brought less attention to itself than it did to
the one part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whose rufous lustre shone nearly with a radiance. The
patches of white above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouth came off as finishing touches worthy of
a Kathakali dancer. The result was a face that looked like the wings of a butterfly and bore an expression
vaguely old and Chinese. But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and
unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage. His ears
twitched and then swivelled right around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly
revealed was as long as my longest finger.
Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear.
That's when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawny brown rat materialized on the side bench, nervous
and breathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. The rat leapt onto the tarpaulin and raced my
way. At the sight, in shock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and I practically fell into the locker.
Before my incredulous eyes the rodent hopped over the various parts of the raft, jumped onto me and climbed
to the top of my head, where I felt its little claws clamping down on my scalp, holding on for dear life.
The Majesty of Richard Parker
- The narrator provides a detailed and aesthetic description of the tiger, Richard Parker, noting his muscular yet lithe frame and striking orange and black coat.
- Richard Parker's facial markings are compared to the intricate makeup of a Kathakali dancer, emphasizing a sense of intentional, artistic beauty.
- Despite his physical beauty, the tiger's amber eyes convey a cold, unflinching rage and a terrifying sense of self-possession.
- The tense standoff is interrupted by the sudden appearance of a scrawny rat that climbs onto the narrator's head in a desperate attempt to escape the predator.
- The narrator is paralyzed by a primal fear, describing the physical sensation of every hair on his body shrieking in terror at the tiger's proximity.
But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage.
turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were an intentional, even affected, display of mighty
art. And what art, what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evident was the lithesome grace of
it. He was incredibly muscular, yet his haunches were thin and his glossy coat hung loosely on his frame. His
body, bright brownish orange streaked with black vertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with a
tailor's eye for harmony by his pure white chest and underside and the black rings of his long tail. His head
was large and round, displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee and some of the finest whiskers of the
cat world, thick, long and white. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped like perfect arches. His
carrot orange face had a broad bridge and a pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy dabs of
black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yet subtle, for it brought less attention to itself than it did to
the one part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whose rufous lustre shone nearly with a radiance. The
patches of white above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouth came off as finishing touches worthy of
a Kathakali dancer. The result was a face that looked like the wings of a butterfly and bore an expression
vaguely old and Chinese. But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and
unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage. His ears
twitched and then swivelled right around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly
revealed was as long as my longest finger.
Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear.
That's when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawny brown rat materialized on the side bench, nervous
and breathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. The rat leapt onto the tarpaulin and raced my
way. At the sight, in shock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and I practically fell into the locker.
Before my incredulous eyes the rodent hopped over the various parts of the raft, jumped onto me and climbed
to the top of my head, where I felt its little claws clamping down on my scalp, holding on for dear life.
Page 82
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Tiger and the Rat
- The narrator provides a detailed, awe-struck description of Richard Parker's physical majesty and terrifying intensity.
- A sudden encounter with a scrawny rat leads to a life-threatening moment as the tiger advances toward the narrator.
- The narrator survives the confrontation by throwing the rat to Richard Parker, who consumes it and retreats to eat the hyena.
- Taking advantage of the tiger's seasickness and distraction, the narrator improves the raft's buoyancy and launches it into shark-infested waters.
Richard Parker opened his maw and the squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt.
turned. The stance had something of a pose to it, as if it were an intentional, even affected, display of mighty
art. And what art, what might. His presence was overwhelming, yet equally evident was the lithesome grace of
it. He was incredibly muscular, yet his haunches were thin and his glossy coat hung loosely on his frame. His
body, bright brownish orange streaked with black vertical stripes, was incomparably beautiful, matched with a
tailor's eye for harmony by his pure white chest and underside and the black rings of his long tail. His head
was large and round, displaying formidable sideburns, a stylish goatee and some of the finest whiskers of the
cat world, thick, long and white. Atop the head were small, expressive ears shaped like perfect arches. His
carrot orange face had a broad bridge and a pink nose, and it was made up with brazen flair. Wavy dabs of
black circled the face in a pattern that was striking yet subtle, for it brought less attention to itself than it did to
the one part of the face left untouched by it, the bridge, whose rufous lustre shone nearly with a radiance. The
patches of white above the eyes, on the cheeks and around the mouth came off as finishing touches worthy of
a Kathakali dancer. The result was a face that looked like the wings of a butterfly and bore an expression
vaguely old and Chinese. But when Richard Parker's amber eyes met mine, the stare was intense, cold and
unflinching, not flighty or friendly, and spoke of self-possession on the point of exploding with rage. His ears
twitched and then swivelled right around. One of his lips began to rise and fall. The yellow canine thus coyly
revealed was as long as my longest finger.
Every hair on me was standing up, shrieking with fear.
That's when the rat appeared. Out of nowhere, a scrawny brown rat materialized on the side bench, nervous
and breathless. Richard Parker looked as astonished as I was. The rat leapt onto the tarpaulin and raced my
way. At the sight, in shock and surprise, my legs gave way beneath me and I practically fell into the locker.
Before my incredulous eyes the rodent hopped over the various parts of the raft, jumped onto me and climbed
to the top of my head, where I felt its little claws clamping down on my scalp, holding on for dear life.
Page 82
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Richard Parker's eyes had followed the rat. They were now fixed on my head.
He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of his body, moving his forepaws sideways along the side
bench. He dropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I could see the top of his head, his back and
his long, curled tail. His ears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at the middle of the boat. Without
effort the front half of his body rose in the air and his forepaws came to rest on the rolled-up edge of the
tarpaulin.
He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, his paws-so big! so big! His teeth-an entire army battalion
in a mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I was about to die.
But the tarpaulin's strange softness bothered him. He pressed at it tentatively. He looked up anxiously-the
exposure to so much light and open space did not please him either. And the rolling motion of the boat
continued to unsettle him. For a brief moment, Richard Parker was hesitating.
I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it in my mind as it sailed through the air-its outstretched
claws and erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker opened his maw and the
squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Its hairless tail vanished like a spaghetti
noodle sucked into a mouth.
He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down and returned beneath the tarpaulin. My legs instantly
became functional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again to block the open space between bow bench
and tarpaulin.
I heard loud sniffing and the noise of a body being dragged. His shifting weight made the boat rock a little. I
began hearing the sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the middle of the boat.
He was eating the hyena by great chunks, voraciously. This chance would not come again. I reached and
retrieved the remaining life jackets-six in all-and the last oar. They would go to improving the raft. I noticed in
passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of cat piss. It was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of the
boat. It must have come from Richard Parker. So he was indeed seasick.
I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft were now tethered. Next I attached a life jacket to each
side of the raft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across the hole of the lifebuoy to act as a seat. I
turned the last oar into a footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about two feet from the lifebuoy, and tying
the remaining life jacket to it. My fingers trembled as I worked, and my breath was short and strained. I
checked and rechecked all my knots.
I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. No whitecaps. The wind was low and constant. I looked
down. There were fish-big fish with protruding foreheads and very long dorsal fins, dorados they are called,
and smaller fish, lean and long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still-and there were sharks.
I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it did not float, I was as good as dead. It took to the water
beautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was such that they pushed the oars and the lifebuoy right
out of the water. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched the water, the fish scattered-except for the
sharks. They remained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneath the raft. Richard Parker growled.
I felt like a prisoner being pushed off a plank by pirates.
I brought the raft as close to the lifeboat as the protruding tips of the oars would allow. I leaned out and lay my
hands on the lifebuoy. Through the "cracks" in the floor of the raft-yawning crevasses would be more
accurate-I looked directly into the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard Richard Parker again. I flopped onto
The Tiger and the Raft
- Richard Parker approaches the narrator with predatory intent, coming within ten feet before hesitating due to the boat's motion and the tarpaulin's texture.
- The narrator distracts the tiger by throwing a rat into its mouth, which buys enough time to retreat and secure the lifeboat's locker lid.
- While the tiger feeds on the hyena carcass, the narrator discovers that Richard Parker is suffering from seasickness.
- The narrator quickly assembles a makeshift raft using life jackets and oars to create a necessary distance from the tiger.
- Despite the presence of sharks circling below, the narrator launches the raft and experiences the terrifying transition from the lifeboat to the open sea.
His head, his chest, his paws-so big! so big! His teeth-an entire army battalion in a mouth.
Richard Parker's eyes had followed the rat. They were now fixed on my head.
He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of his body, moving his forepaws sideways along the side
bench. He dropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I could see the top of his head, his back and
his long, curled tail. His ears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at the middle of the boat. Without
effort the front half of his body rose in the air and his forepaws came to rest on the rolled-up edge of the
tarpaulin.
He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, his paws-so big! so big! His teeth-an entire army battalion
in a mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I was about to die.
But the tarpaulin's strange softness bothered him. He pressed at it tentatively. He looked up anxiously-the
exposure to so much light and open space did not please him either. And the rolling motion of the boat
continued to unsettle him. For a brief moment, Richard Parker was hesitating.
I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it in my mind as it sailed through the air-its outstretched
claws and erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker opened his maw and the
squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Its hairless tail vanished like a spaghetti
noodle sucked into a mouth.
He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down and returned beneath the tarpaulin. My legs instantly
became functional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again to block the open space between bow bench
and tarpaulin.
I heard loud sniffing and the noise of a body being dragged. His shifting weight made the boat rock a little. I
began hearing the sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the middle of the boat.
He was eating the hyena by great chunks, voraciously. This chance would not come again. I reached and
retrieved the remaining life jackets-six in all-and the last oar. They would go to improving the raft. I noticed in
passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of cat piss. It was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of the
boat. It must have come from Richard Parker. So he was indeed seasick.
I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft were now tethered. Next I attached a life jacket to each
side of the raft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across the hole of the lifebuoy to act as a seat. I
turned the last oar into a footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about two feet from the lifebuoy, and tying
the remaining life jacket to it. My fingers trembled as I worked, and my breath was short and strained. I
checked and rechecked all my knots.
I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. No whitecaps. The wind was low and constant. I looked
down. There were fish-big fish with protruding foreheads and very long dorsal fins, dorados they are called,
and smaller fish, lean and long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still-and there were sharks.
I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it did not float, I was as good as dead. It took to the water
beautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was such that they pushed the oars and the lifebuoy right
out of the water. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched the water, the fish scattered-except for the
sharks. They remained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneath the raft. Richard Parker growled.
I felt like a prisoner being pushed off a plank by pirates.
I brought the raft as close to the lifeboat as the protruding tips of the oars would allow. I leaned out and lay my
hands on the lifebuoy. Through the "cracks" in the floor of the raft-yawning crevasses would be more
accurate-I looked directly into the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard Richard Parker again. I flopped onto
Page 83
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Raft and the Tiger
- Pi narrowly avoids a direct confrontation with Richard Parker by distracting the tiger with a rat and retreating to a makeshift raft.
- While scavenging for supplies, Pi discovers that Richard Parker is suffering from seasickness, a vulnerability in the powerful predator.
- Pi constructs and launches a precarious raft made of life jackets and oars, finding himself caught between the fear of the tiger and the presence of sharks.
- A mistake while gathering supplies alerts Richard Parker to Pi's presence, forcing a terrified retreat into the cold, rainy darkness of the open sea.
His head, his chest, his pawsโso big! so big! His teethโan entire army battalion in a mouth.
Richard Parker's eyes had followed the rat. They were now fixed on my head.
He completed the turn of his head with a slow turn of his body, moving his forepaws sideways along the side
bench. He dropped to the floor of the boat with ponderous ease. I could see the top of his head, his back and
his long, curled tail. His ears lay flat against his skull. In three paces he was at the middle of the boat. Without
effort the front half of his body rose in the air and his forepaws came to rest on the rolled-up edge of the
tarpaulin.
He was less than ten feet away. His head, his chest, his paws-so big! so big! His teeth-an entire army battalion
in a mouth. He was making to jump onto the tarpaulin. I was about to die.
But the tarpaulin's strange softness bothered him. He pressed at it tentatively. He looked up anxiously-the
exposure to so much light and open space did not please him either. And the rolling motion of the boat
continued to unsettle him. For a brief moment, Richard Parker was hesitating.
I grabbed the rat and threw it his way. I can still see it in my mind as it sailed through the air-its outstretched
claws and erect tail, its tiny elongated scrotum and pinpoint anus. Richard Parker opened his maw and the
squealing rat disappeared into it like a baseball into a catcher's mitt. Its hairless tail vanished like a spaghetti
noodle sucked into a mouth.
He seemed satisfied with the offering. He backed down and returned beneath the tarpaulin. My legs instantly
became functional again. I leapt up and raised the locker lid again to block the open space between bow bench
and tarpaulin.
I heard loud sniffing and the noise of a body being dragged. His shifting weight made the boat rock a little. I
began hearing the sound of a mouth eating. I peeked beneath the tarpaulin. He was in the middle of the boat.
He was eating the hyena by great chunks, voraciously. This chance would not come again. I reached and
retrieved the remaining life jackets-six in all-and the last oar. They would go to improving the raft. I noticed in
passing a smell. It was not the sharp smell of cat piss. It was vomit. There was a patch of it on the floor of the
boat. It must have come from Richard Parker. So he was indeed seasick.
I hitched the long rope to the raft. Lifeboat and raft were now tethered. Next I attached a life jacket to each
side of the raft, on its underside. Another life jacket I strapped across the hole of the lifebuoy to act as a seat. I
turned the last oar into a footrest, lashing it on one side of the raft, about two feet from the lifebuoy, and tying
the remaining life jacket to it. My fingers trembled as I worked, and my breath was short and strained. I
checked and rechecked all my knots.
I looked about the sea. Only great, gentle swells. No whitecaps. The wind was low and constant. I looked
down. There were fish-big fish with protruding foreheads and very long dorsal fins, dorados they are called,
and smaller fish, lean and long, unknown to me, and smaller ones still-and there were sharks.
I eased the raft off the lifeboat. If for some reason it did not float, I was as good as dead. It took to the water
beautifully. In fact, the buoyancy of the life jackets was such that they pushed the oars and the lifebuoy right
out of the water. But my heart sank. As soon as the raft touched the water, the fish scattered-except for the
sharks. They remained. Three or four of them. One swam directly beneath the raft. Richard Parker growled.
I felt like a prisoner being pushed off a plank by pirates.
I brought the raft as close to the lifeboat as the protruding tips of the oars would allow. I leaned out and lay my
hands on the lifebuoy. Through the "cracks" in the floor of the raft-yawning crevasses would be more
accurate-I looked directly into the bottomless depths of the sea. I heard Richard Parker again. I flopped onto
Page 83
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn
at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft
sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came
close, but did not touch.
I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as
far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It
was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft
business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large
wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort
and security.
I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too
small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a
pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the
slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating.
I hesitated for long minutes.
I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or
hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand,
had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let
the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two
fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I
looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped,
and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and
wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto
my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in
sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the
survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it-only to protect my precious goods
from the rain-but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to
Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He
was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while
they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back
onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft
and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing
through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more
unbearable was the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already
soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it
nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at
the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes,
Between Tiger and Sharks
- The narrator constructs a precarious raft out of life jackets and oars to escape the immediate threat of the tiger, Richard Parker.
- Despite the terror of the open ocean and nearby sharks, the narrator finds the lifeboat's relative stability tempting compared to the fragile raft.
- A delicate balance is struck by tethering the raft to the boat at a distance of thirty feet, weighing the fear of the tiger against the fear of the sea.
- A desperate supply run to the lifeboat's locker ends in a terrifying confrontation when a slammed lid alerts the feeding tiger.
- The narrator retreats to the raft in total darkness, soaked and shivering, relying only on the tension of the rope to stay connected to survival.
My options were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering over sharks.
the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn
at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft
sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came
close, but did not touch.
I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as
far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It
was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft
business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large
wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort
and security.
I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too
small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a
pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the
slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating.
I hesitated for long minutes.
I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or
hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand,
had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let
the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two
fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I
looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped,
and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and
wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto
my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in
sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the
survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it-only to protect my precious goods
from the rain-but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to
Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He
was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while
they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back
onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft
and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing
through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more
unbearable was the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already
soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it
nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at
the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes,
Page 84
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Between Tiger and Sharks
- Pi finds himself in a precarious position on a makeshift raft, tethered to the lifeboat to escape the immediate threat of Richard Parker.
- The protagonist experiences a psychological shift, viewing the dangerous lifeboat as a 'haven of comfort' compared to the fragility of the raft in the open ocean.
- A desperate attempt to retrieve supplies from the lifeboat results in a terrifying confrontation when Pi accidentally slams a locker lid, alerting the tiger.
- Pi manages to salvage a rain catcher, a plastic bag, a blanket, and a survival manual before retreating back to the end of his rope.
- The day ends with Pi soaked and shivering in the dark, physically connected to the tiger's boat only by the rhythmic tugging of a rope.
My options were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering over sharks.
the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn
at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft
sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came
close, but did not touch.
I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as
far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It
was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft
business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large
wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort
and security.
I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too
small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a
pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the
slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating.
I hesitated for long minutes.
I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or
hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand,
had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let
the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two
fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I
looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped,
and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and
wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto
my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in
sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the
survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it-only to protect my precious goods
from the rain-but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to
Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He
was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while
they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back
onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft
and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing
through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more
unbearable was the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already
soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it
nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at
the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes,
Page 84
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
buffeted the raft. Fingers of water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet my bottom.
Between Tiger and Sharks
- The narrator constructs a precarious raft of oars and life jackets to escape the immediate threat of the tiger, Richard Parker.
- He experiences a paralyzing conflict of fear, feeling vulnerable to sharks on the raft yet terrified of the predator on the lifeboat.
- A desperate attempt to gather supplies from the lifeboat's locker results in a loud noise that alerts and angers the tiger.
- The narrator settles into a night of freezing rain and pitch-black darkness, tethered to the lifeboat by a single rope.
- The physical discomfort of the cold and wet is compounded by the psychological terror of being hunted from both above and below.
My options were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering over sharks.
the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn
at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft
sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came
close, but did not touch.
I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as
far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It
was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft
business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large
wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort
and security.
I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too
small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a
pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the
slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating.
I hesitated for long minutes.
I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or
hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand,
had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let
the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two
fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I
looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped,
and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and
wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto
my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in
sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the
survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it-only to protect my precious goods
from the rain-but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to
Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He
was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while
they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back
onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft
and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing
through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more
unbearable was the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already
soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it
nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at
the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes,
Page 84
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
buffeted the raft. Fingers of water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet my bottom.
CHAPTER 54
Between Tiger and Sharks
- Pi finds himself in a precarious position on a makeshift raft, tethered to the lifeboat to maintain a distance between himself and the tiger, Richard Parker.
- The protagonist experiences a psychological shift, viewing the dangerous lifeboat as a 'haven of comfort' compared to the fragility of the raft in the open Pacific.
- A desperate attempt to gather supplies from the lifeboat locker results in a terrifying confrontation when Pi accidentally alerts the feeding tiger.
- The night brings a grueling struggle for survival against a cold downpour and a rough sea that washes over the raft like a river.
- Despite the physical misery and fear of sharks, Pi begins to focus his mental energy on hatching plans to eliminate Richard Parker and reclaim the lifeboat.
My options were limited to perching above a tiger or hovering over sharks.
the raft on my stomach. I lay flat and spread-eagled and did not move a finger. I expected the raft to overturn
at any moment. Or a shark to lunge and bite right through the life jackets and oars. Neither happened. The raft
sank lower and pitched and rolled, the tips of the oars dipping underwater, but it floated robustly. Sharks came
close, but did not touch.
I felt a gentle tug. The raft swung round. I raised my head. The lifeboat and the raft had already separated as
far as the rope would go, about forty feet. The rope tensed and lifted out of the water and wavered in the air. It
was a highly distressing sight. I had fled the lifeboat to save my life. Now I wanted to get back. This raft
business was far too precarious. It only needed a shark to bite the rope, or a knot to become undone, or a large
wave to crash upon me, and I would be lost. Compared to the raft, the lifeboat now seemed a haven of comfort
and security.
I gingerly turned over. I sat up. Stability was good, so far. My footrest worked well enough. But it was all too
small. There was just enough space to sit on and no more. This toy raft, mini-raft, micro-raft, might do for a
pond, but not for the Pacific Ocean. I took hold of the rope and pulled. The closer I got to the lifeboat, the
slower I pulled. When I was next to the lifeboat, I heard Richard Parker. He was still eating.
I hesitated for long minutes.
I stayed on the raft. I didn't see what else I could do. My options were limited to perching above a tiger or
hovering over sharks. I knew perfectly well how dangerous Richard Parker was. Sharks, on the other hand,
had not yet proved to be dangerous. I checked the knots that held the rope to the lifeboat and to the raft. I let
the rope out until I was thirty or so feet from the lifeboat, the distance that about rightly balanced my two
fears: being too close to Richard Parker and being too far from the lifeboat. The extra rope, ten feet or so, I
looped around the footrest oar. I could easily let out slack if the need arose.
The day was ending. It started to rain. It had been overcast and warm all day. Now the temperature dropped,
and the downpour was steady and cold. All around me heavy drops of fresh water plopped loudly and
wastefully into the sea, dimpling its surface. I pulled on the rope again. When I was at the bow I turned onto
my knees and took hold of the stem. I pulled myself up and carefully peeped over the gunnel. He wasn't in
sight.
I hurriedly reached down into the locker. I grabbed a rain catcher, a fifty-litre plastic bag, a blanket and the
survival manual. I slammed the locker lid shut. I didn't mean to slam it-only to protect my precious goods
from the rain-but the lid slipped from my wet hand. It was a bad mistake. In the very act of revealing myself to
Richard Parker by bringing down what blocked his view, I made a great loud noise to attract his attention. He
was crouched over the hyena. His head turned instantly. Many animals intensely dislike being disturbed while
they are eating. Richard Parker snarled. His claws tensed. The tip of his tail twitched electrically. I fell back
onto the raft, and I believe it was terror as much as wind and current that widened the distance between raft
and lifeboat so swiftly. I let out all the rope. I expected Richard Parker to burst forth from the boat, sailing
through the air, teeth and claws reaching for me. I kept my eyes on the boat. The longer I looked, the more
unbearable was the expectation.
He did not appear.
By the time I had opened the rain catcher above my head and tucked my feet into the plastic bag, I was already
soaked to the bones. And the blanket had got wet when I fell back onto the raft. I wrapped myself with it
nonetheless.
Night crept up. My surroundings disappeared into pitch-black darkness. Only the regular tugging of the rope at
the raft told me that I was still attached to the lifeboat. The sea, inches beneath me yet too far for my eyes,
Page 84
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
buffeted the raft. Fingers of water reached up furtively through the cracks and wet my bottom.
CHAPTER 54
It rained all night. I had a horrible, sleepless time of it. It was noisy. On the rain catcher the rain made a
drumming sound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, it made a hissing sound, as if I were at
the centre of a great nest of angry snakes. Shifts in the wind changed the direction of the rain so that parts of
me that were beginning to feel warm were soaked anew. I shifted the rain catcher, only to be unpleasantly
surprised a few minutes later when the wind changed once more. I tried to keep a small part of me dry and
warm, around my chest, where I had placed the survival manual, but the wetness spread with perverse
determination. I spent the whole night shivering with cold. I worried constantly that the raft would come apart,
that the knots holding me to the lifeboat would become loose, that a shark would attack. With my hands I
checked the knots and lashings incessantly, trying to read them the way a blind man would read Braille.
The rain grew stronger and the sea rougher as the night progressed. The rope to the lifeboat tautened with a
jerk rather than with a tug, and the rocking of the raft became more pronounced and erratic. It continued to
float, rising above every wave, but there was no freeboard and the surf of every breaking wave rode clear
across it, washing around me like a river washing around a boulder. The sea was warmer than the rain, but it
meant that not the smallest part of me stayed dry that night.
At least I drank. I wasn't really thirsty, but I forced myself to drink. The rain catcher looked like an inverted
umbrella, an umbrella blown open by the wind. The rain flowed to its centre, where there was a hole. The hole
was connected by a rubber tube to a catchment pouch made of thick, transparent plastic. At first the water had
a rubbery taste, but quickly the rain rinsed the catcher and the water tasted fine.
During those long, cold, dark hours, as the pattering of the invisible rain got to be deafening, and the sea
hissed and coiled and tossed me about, I held on to one thought: Richard Parker. I hatched several plans to get
rid of him so that the lifeboat might be mine.
Night of Rain and Reckoning
- The narrator endures a grueling, sleepless night on a raft, battling freezing rain and a turbulent sea that washes over him like a river.
- Despite the physical misery and cold, the narrator uses a rain catcher to collect and drink fresh water, ensuring his survival against dehydration.
- Driven by desperation and fear, the narrator begins formulating lethal plans to eliminate Richard Parker, the 450-pound tiger on the lifeboat.
- The narrator evaluates and ultimately rejects several assassination methods, including pushing the tiger overboard or using morphine syringes, due to the animal's superior strength and swimming ability.
- The internal monologue highlights the narrator's realization of his own physical frailty compared to the fierce, predatory nature of the tiger.
On the rain catcher the rain made a drumming sound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, it made a hissing sound, as if I were at the centre of a great nest of angry snakes.
It rained all night. I had a horrible, sleepless time of it. It was noisy. On the rain catcher the rain made a
drumming sound, and around me, coming from the darkness beyond, it made a hissing sound, as if I were at
the centre of a great nest of angry snakes. Shifts in the wind changed the direction of the rain so that parts of
me that were beginning to feel warm were soaked anew. I shifted the rain catcher, only to be unpleasantly
surprised a few minutes later when the wind changed once more. I tried to keep a small part of me dry and
warm, around my chest, where I had placed the survival manual, but the wetness spread with perverse
determination. I spent the whole night shivering with cold. I worried constantly that the raft would come apart,
that the knots holding me to the lifeboat would become loose, that a shark would attack. With my hands I
checked the knots and lashings incessantly, trying to read them the way a blind man would read Braille.
The rain grew stronger and the sea rougher as the night progressed. The rope to the lifeboat tautened with a
jerk rather than with a tug, and the rocking of the raft became more pronounced and erratic. It continued to
float, rising above every wave, but there was no freeboard and the surf of every breaking wave rode clear
across it, washing around me like a river washing around a boulder. The sea was warmer than the rain, but it
meant that not the smallest part of me stayed dry that night.
At least I drank. I wasn't really thirsty, but I forced myself to drink. The rain catcher looked like an inverted
umbrella, an umbrella blown open by the wind. The rain flowed to its centre, where there was a hole. The hole
was connected by a rubber tube to a catchment pouch made of thick, transparent plastic. At first the water had
a rubbery taste, but quickly the rain rinsed the catcher and the water tasted fine.
During those long, cold, dark hours, as the pattering of the invisible rain got to be deafening, and the sea
hissed and coiled and tossed me about, I held on to one thought: Richard Parker. I hatched several plans to get
rid of him so that the lifeboat might be mine.
Plan Number One: Push Him off the Lifeboat. What good would that do? Even if I did manage to shove 450
pounds of living, fierce animal off the lifeboat, tigers are accomplished swimmers. In the Sundarbans they
have been known to swim five miles in open, choppy waters. If he found himself unexpectedly overboard,
Richard Parker would simply tread water, climb back aboard and make me pay the price for my treachery.
Plan Number Two: Kill Him with the Six Morphine Syringes. But I had no idea what effect they would have
on him. Would they be enough to kill him? And how exactly was I supposed to get the morphine into his
system? I could remotely conceive surprising him once, for an instant, the way his mother had been when she
was captured-but to surprise him long enough to give him six consecutive injections? Impossible. All I would
do by pricking him with a needle would be to get a cuff in return that would take my head off.
Plan Number Three: Attack Him with All Available Weaponry. Ludicrous. I wasn't Tarzan. I was a puny,
feeble, vegetarian life form. In India it took riding atop great big elephants and shooting with powerful rifles to
kill tigers. What was I supposed to do here? Fire off a rocket flare in his face? Go at him with a hatchet in each
hand and a knife between my teeth? Finish him off with straight and curving sewing needles? If I managed to
nick him, it would be a feat. In return he would tear me apart limb by limb, organ by organ. For if there's one
thing more dangerous than a healthy animal, it's an injured animal.
Plan Number Four: Choke Him. I had rope. If I stayed at the bow and got the rope to go around the stern and a
Page 85
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
A War of Attrition
- The narrator assesses his physical vulnerability against a tiger, noting that he lacks the traditional weaponry used by hunters in India.
- He briefly considers and then dismisses several desperate and suicidal combat strategies, such as choking the animal with a rope.
- A new strategy emerges centered on the biological necessity of water, which the narrator possesses but the tiger lacks.
- The narrator decides to rely on the 'unforgiving laws of nature' to outlast the predator through a war of attrition.
- This realization provides a flicker of hope and a concrete goal for survival in an otherwise dire situation.
A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like a candle in the night.
feeble, vegetarian life form. In India it took riding atop great big elephants and shooting with powerful rifles to
kill tigers. What was I supposed to do here? Fire off a rocket flare in his face? Go at him with a hatchet in each
hand and a knife between my teeth? Finish him off with straight and curving sewing needles? If I managed to
nick him, it would be a feat. In return he would tear me apart limb by limb, organ by organ. For if there's one
thing more dangerous than a healthy animal, it's an injured animal.
Plan Number Four: Choke Him. I had rope. If I stayed at the bow and got the rope to go around the stern and a
Page 85
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
noose to go around his neck, I could pull on the rope while he pulled to get at me. And so, in the very act of
reaching for me, he would choke himself. A clever, suicidal plan.
Plan Number Five: Poison Him, Set Him on Fire, Electrocute Him. How? With what?
Plan Number Six: Wage a War of Attrition. All I had to do was let the unforgiving laws of nature run their
course and I would be saved. Waiting for him to waste away and die would require no effort on my part. I had
supplies for months to come. What did he have? Just a few dead animals that would soon go bad. What would
he eat after that? Better still: where would he get water? He might last for weeks without food, but no animal,
however mighty, can do without water for any extended period of time.
A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like a candle in the night. I had a plan and it was a good
one. I only needed to survive to put it into effect.
CHAPTER 55
The War of Attrition
- The narrator devises 'Plan Number Six,' a strategy of passive survival based on outlasting the tiger through a war of attrition.
- A violent storm subsides, leaving the narrator exhausted and overwhelmed by the terrifying vastness of the Pacific Ocean.
- The narrator experiences a moment of profound vulnerability, realizing the raft is merely a fragile collection of sticks over a dizzying abyss.
- The sudden appearance of the tiger creates a jarring contrast against the lifeboat, making the ocean between them feel like a dangerously narrow moat.
- The narrator's initial confidence in his plan begins to waver as he realizes the psychological and physical toll of waiting for the predator to die.
Vast as the Pacific was around us, suddenly, between us, it seemed a very narrow moat, with no bars or walls.
course and I would be saved. Waiting for him to waste away and die would require no effort on my part. I had
supplies for months to come. What did he have? Just a few dead animals that would soon go bad. What would
he eat after that? Better still: where would he get water? He might last for weeks without food, but no animal,
however mighty, can do without water for any extended period of time.
A modest glow of hope flickered to life within me, like a candle in the night. I had a plan and it was a good
one. I only needed to survive to put it into effect.
CHAPTER 55
Dawn came and matters were worse for it. Because now, emerging from the darkness, I could see what before
I had only felt, the great curtains of rain crashing down on me from towering heights and the waves that threw
a path over me and trod me underfoot one after another.
Dull-eyed, shaking and numb, one hand gripping the rain catcher, the other clinging to the raft, I continued to
wait.
Sometime later, with a suddenness emphasized by the silence that followed, the rain stopped. The sky cleared
and the waves seemed to flee with the clouds. The change was as quick and radical as changing countries on
land. I was now in a different ocean. Soon the sun was alone in the sky, and the ocean was a smooth skin
reflecting the light with a million mirrors.
I was stiff, sore and exhausted, barely grateful to be still alive. The words "Plan Number Six, Plan Number
Six, Plan Number Six" repeated themselves in my mind like a mantra and brought me a small measure of
comfort, though I couldn't recall for the life of me what Plan Number Six was. Warmth started coming to my
bones. I closed the rain catcher. I wrapped myself with the blanket and curled up on my side in such a way that
no part of me touched the water. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. It was mid-morning when I
awoke, and hot. The blanket was nearly dry. It had been a brief bout of deep sleep. I lifted myself onto an
elbow.
All about me was flatness and infinity, an endless panorama of blue. There was nothing to block my view. The
vastness hit me like a punch in the stomach. I fell back, winded. This raft was a joke. It was nothing but a few
sticks and a little cork held together by string. Water came through every crack. The depth beneath would
make a bird dizzy. I caught sight of the lifeboat. It was no better than half a walnut shell. It held on to the
surface of the water like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff. It was only a matter of time before gravity pulled
it down.
My fellow castaway came into view. He raised himself onto the gunnel and looked my way. The sudden
appearance of a tiger is arresting in any environment, but it was all the more so here. The weird contrast
between the bright, striped, living orange of his coat and the inert white of the boat's hull was incredibly
compelling. My overwrought senses screeched to a halt. Vast as the Pacific was around us, suddenly, between
us, it seemed a very narrow moat, with no bars or walls.
Page 86
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six," my mind whispered urgently. But what was Plan
Number Six? Ah yes. The war of attrition. The waiting game. Passivity. Letting things happen. The
unforgiving laws of nature. The relentless march of time and the hoarding of resources. That was Plan Number
Six.
A thought rang in my mind like an angry shout: "You fool and idiot! You dimwit! You brainless baboon! Plan
The War of Attrition
- The protagonist survives a brutal night of rain and waves, only to face a sudden transition to a calm, mirror-like ocean.
- The sheer vastness of the Pacific and the fragility of the raft strike the narrator with a physical sense of dread.
- The appearance of Richard Parker, the tiger, creates a stark and terrifying contrast against the white hull of the lifeboat.
- The narrator realizes that 'Plan Number Six'โa strategy of passive waitingโis a fatal mistake because the tiger's survival instincts will eventually drive him to cross the water.
- A frantic internal realization warns that the tiger's biological resilience, including the ability to drink saline water, makes a war of attrition impossible to win.
The weird contrast between the bright, striped, living orange of his coat and the inert white of the boat's hull was incredibly compelling.
Dawn came and matters were worse for it. Because now, emerging from the darkness, I could see what before
I had only felt, the great curtains of rain crashing down on me from towering heights and the waves that threw
a path over me and trod me underfoot one after another.
Dull-eyed, shaking and numb, one hand gripping the rain catcher, the other clinging to the raft, I continued to
wait.
Sometime later, with a suddenness emphasized by the silence that followed, the rain stopped. The sky cleared
and the waves seemed to flee with the clouds. The change was as quick and radical as changing countries on
land. I was now in a different ocean. Soon the sun was alone in the sky, and the ocean was a smooth skin
reflecting the light with a million mirrors.
I was stiff, sore and exhausted, barely grateful to be still alive. The words "Plan Number Six, Plan Number
Six, Plan Number Six" repeated themselves in my mind like a mantra and brought me a small measure of
comfort, though I couldn't recall for the life of me what Plan Number Six was. Warmth started coming to my
bones. I closed the rain catcher. I wrapped myself with the blanket and curled up on my side in such a way that
no part of me touched the water. I fell asleep. I don't know how long I slept. It was mid-morning when I
awoke, and hot. The blanket was nearly dry. It had been a brief bout of deep sleep. I lifted myself onto an
elbow.
All about me was flatness and infinity, an endless panorama of blue. There was nothing to block my view. The
vastness hit me like a punch in the stomach. I fell back, winded. This raft was a joke. It was nothing but a few
sticks and a little cork held together by string. Water came through every crack. The depth beneath would
make a bird dizzy. I caught sight of the lifeboat. It was no better than half a walnut shell. It held on to the
surface of the water like fingers gripping the edge of a cliff. It was only a matter of time before gravity pulled
it down.
My fellow castaway came into view. He raised himself onto the gunnel and looked my way. The sudden
appearance of a tiger is arresting in any environment, but it was all the more so here. The weird contrast
between the bright, striped, living orange of his coat and the inert white of the boat's hull was incredibly
compelling. My overwrought senses screeched to a halt. Vast as the Pacific was around us, suddenly, between
us, it seemed a very narrow moat, with no bars or walls.
Page 86
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six, Plan Number Six," my mind whispered urgently. But what was Plan
Number Six? Ah yes. The war of attrition. The waiting game. Passivity. Letting things happen. The
unforgiving laws of nature. The relentless march of time and the hoarding of resources. That was Plan Number
Six.
A thought rang in my mind like an angry shout: "You fool and idiot! You dimwit! You brainless baboon! Plan
Number Six is the worst plan of all! Richard Parker is afraid of the sea right now. It was nearly his grave. But
crazed with thirst and hunger he will surmount his fear, and he will do whatever is necessary to appease his
need. He will turn this moat into a bridge. He will swim as far as he has to, to catch the drifting raft and the
food upon it. As for water, have you forgotten that tigers from the Sundarbans are known to drink saline
water? Do you really think you can outlast his kidneys? I tell you, if you wage a war of attrition, you will lose
it! You will die! IS THAT CLEAR?"
CHAPTER 56
Fear: Life's Only Opponent
- The narrator realizes that a war of attrition against Richard Parker is futile because the tiger's survival instincts and biological adaptations will eventually overcome his fear of the water.
- Fear is described as life's true adversary, a treacherous force that begins as a subtle doubt and systematically dismantles reason and disbelief.
- The physical manifestation of fear causes the body to collapse and fail, leaving only the eyes to witness the destruction of one's composure.
- Succumbing to fear leads to rash decisions and the abandonment of hope and trust, resulting in self-defeat.
- To overcome fear, one must find the words to express it and shine a light on it, or else it remains a 'wordless darkness' that invites further attacks.
It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your mind like a spy.
Number Six is the worst plan of all! Richard Parker is afraid of the sea right now. It was nearly his grave. But
crazed with thirst and hunger he will surmount his fear, and he will do whatever is necessary to appease his
need. He will turn this moat into a bridge. He will swim as far as he has to, to catch the drifting raft and the
food upon it. As for water, have you forgotten that tigers from the Sundarbans are known to drink saline
water? Do you really think you can outlast his kidneys? I tell you, if you wage a war of attrition, you will lose
it! You will die! IS THAT CLEAR?"
CHAPTER 56
I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous
adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for
your weakest spot, which it finds with unerring ease. It begins in your mind, always. One moment you are
feeling calm, self-possessed, happy. Then fear, disguised in the garb of mild-mannered doubt, slips into your
mind like a spy. Doubt meets disbelief and disbelief tries to push it out. But disbelief is a poorly armed foot
soldier. Doubt does away with it with little trouble. You become anxious. Reason comes to do battle for you.
You are reassured. Reason is fully equipped with the latest weapons technology. But, to your amazement,
despite superior tactics and a number of undeniable victories, reason is laid low. You feel yourself weakening,
wavering. Your anxiety becomes dread.
Fear next turns fully to your body, which is already aware that something terribly wrong is going on. Already
your lungs have flown away like a bird and your guts have slithered away like a snake. Now your tongue
drops dead like an opossum, while your jaw begins to gallop on the spot. Your ears go deaf. Your muscles
begin to shiver as if they had malaria and your knees to shake as though they were dancing. Your heart strains
too hard, while your sphincter relaxes too much. And so with the rest of your body. Every part of you, in the
manner most suited to it, falls apart. Only your eyes work well. They always pay proper attention to fear.
Quickly you make rash decisions. You dismiss your last allies: hope and trust. There, you've defeated yourself.
Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.
The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you
feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks
to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard to express it. You must
fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness
that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never
truly fought the opponent who defeated you.
CHAPTER 57
Page 87
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Taming the Tiger
- The narrator reflects on the corrosive nature of fear, describing it as a gangrene that must be confronted with the light of words to be defeated.
- In a surprising turn of events, the tiger Richard Parker becomes the source of the narrator's peace and purpose rather than just a source of terror.
- Richard Parker exhibits 'prusten,' a rare and quiet puffing sound through the nose that signifies friendliness and harmless intentions.
- The narrator realizes that survival depends on taming the tiger, shifting the dynamic from a struggle of 'him or me' to a shared fate of 'him and me.'
- Taming the animal is viewed as a strategic necessity to ensure the narrator's human frailty is not simply outlasted by the tiger's natural toughness.
For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it.
Fear, which is but an impression, has triumphed over you.
The matter is difficult to put into words. For fear, real fear, such as shakes you to your foundation, such as you
feel when you are brought face to face with your mortal end, nestles in your memory like a gangrene: it seeks
to rot everything, even the words with which to speak of it. So you must fight hard to express it. You must
fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness
that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further attacks of fear because you never
truly fought the opponent who defeated you.
CHAPTER 57
Page 87
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
The Necessity of Taming
- The narrator experiences a profound shift in perspective, realizing that the tiger, Richard Parker, is the source of his peace and purpose rather than just a threat.
- Richard Parker exhibits 'prusten,' a rare and quiet puffing sound through the nose that signifies friendliness and harmless intentions.
- The text details the diverse vocalizations of tigers, ranging from petrifying roars and 'woofs' of fury to the domestic-sounding meow.
- A pivotal realization occurs where the narrator decides he must tame the tiger to ensure their mutual survival in the lifeboat.
- The narrator confesses a secret affinity for the tiger's presence, acknowledging that his own survival is tied to the animal's well-being.
It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
The Irony of Prusten
- The narrator experiences a profound shift in perspective, realizing that the tiger, Richard Parker, is the source of his newfound peace and purpose.
- Richard Parker exhibits a non-threatening, 'catlike' demeanor after feeding, signaling a temporary truce through a rare vocalization known as prusten.
- The narrator concludes that taming the tiger is a biological and psychological necessity for his own survival on the lifeboat.
- A deep emotional paradox is revealed: despite the danger, the narrator fears the tiger's death because the animal wards off the greater enemy of despair.
It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe
The Irony of Survival
- Richard Parker's calm demeanor and 'prusten' call signal a shift from a predatory threat to a peaceful, domestic-like presence.
- The narrator realizes that taming the tiger is a biological and psychological necessity for mutual survival.
- A detailed taxonomy of tiger vocalizations reveals the rare and friendly nature of the 'prusten' sound compared to petrifying roars.
- The tiger serves as a vital distraction from despair, providing the narrator with a reason to maintain his will to live.
- The relationship evolves into a shared fate where the narrator's survival is paradoxically tied to the well-being of his predator.
It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe
even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me
from thinking too much about my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated
The Irony of Survival
- Pi realizes that Richard Parker, the source of his initial terror, has become the source of his peace and purpose.
- The tiger displays a 'prusten' call, a rare and quiet puff through the nose that signals friendliness and harmless intentions.
- Pi concludes that he must tame the tiger to ensure their mutual survival, recognizing they are literally and figuratively in the same boat.
- The presence of the tiger serves as a psychological lifeline, preventing Pi from succumbing to a despair more formidable than any predator.
- The narrative details the various vocalizations of tigers, contrasting their terrifying roars with the domestic, catlike behavior Richard Parker exhibits after eating.
It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe
even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me
from thinking too much about my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated
Page 88
The Irony of Survival
- Richard Parker's calm demeanor and 'prusten' sound signal a shift from a predatory threat to a peaceful, domestic-like presence.
- The narrator realizes that taming the tiger is a biological and psychological necessity for their mutual survival in the lifeboat.
- A detailed catalog of tiger vocalizations highlights the rarity and significance of the friendly 'prusten' puff.
- The tiger serves as a vital distraction from despair, providing the narrator with a purpose that prevents him from succumbing to grief.
- The relationship evolves from a struggle of 'him or me' to a shared destiny of 'him and me' against the elements.
It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe
even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me
from thinking too much about my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated
Page 88
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Floating Circus
- Pi realizes that Richard Parker, the tiger who initially terrified him, has become the source of his peace, purpose, and will to survive.
- The tiger exhibits 'prusten,' a rare and quiet puffing sound that signifies friendliness and harmless intentions rather than aggression.
- Pi concludes that he must tame the tiger not just for safety, but because the animal's presence wards off a more formidable foe: despair.
- Drawing on his knowledge as a zookeeper's son, Pi decides to use the lifeboat as a circus ring and a whistle as his tool for conditioning.
- The section ends with Pi embracing his new role as a circus master, announcing the start of a 'trans-pacific' performance to the open sea.
It's the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I wouldn't be alive today to tell you my story.
It was Richard Parker who calmed me down. It is the irony of this story that the one who scared me witless to
start with was the very same who brought me peace, purpose, I dare say even wholeness.
He was looking at me intently. After a time I recognized the gaze. I had grown up with it. It was the gaze of a
contented animal looking out from its cage or pit the way you or I would look out from a restaurant table after
a good meal, when the time has come for conversation and people-watching. Clearly, Richard Parker had
eaten his fill of hyena and drunk all the rainwater he wanted. No lips were rising and falling, no teeth were
showing, no growling or snarling was coming from him. He was simply taking me in, observing me, in a
manner that was sober but not menacing. He kept twitching his ears and varying the sideways turn of his head.
It was all so, well, catlike. He looked like a nice, big, fat domestic cat, a 450-pound tabby.
He made a sound, a snort from his nostrils. I pricked up my ears. He did it a second time. I was astonished.
Prusten?
Tigers make a variety of sounds. They include a number of roars and growls, the loudest of these being most
likely the full-throated aaonh, usually made during the mating season by males and oestrous females. It's a cry
that travels far and wide, and is absolutely petrifying when heard close up. Tigers go woof when they are
caught unawares, a short, sharp detonation of fury that would instantly make your legs jump up and run away
if they weren't frozen to the spot. When they charge, tigers put out throaty, coughing roars. The growl they use
for purposes of threatening has yet another guttural quality. And tigers hiss and snarl, which, depending on the
emotion behind it, sounds either like autumn leaves rustling on the ground, but a little more resonant, or, when
it's an infuriated snarl, like a giant door with rusty hinges slowly opening-in both cases, utterly spine-chilling.
Tigers make other sounds too. They grunt and they moan. They purr, though not as melodiously or as
frequently as small cats, and only as they breathe out. (Only small cats purr breathing both ways. It is one of
the characteristics that distinguishes big cats from small cats. Another is that only big cats can roar. A good
thing that is. I'm afraid the popularity of the domestic cat would drop very quickly if little kitty could roar its
displeasure.) Tigers even go meow, with an inflection similar to that of domestic cats, but louder and in a
deeper range, not as encouraging to one to bend down and pick them up. And tigers can be utterly,
majestically silent, that too.
I had heard all these sounds growing up. Except for prusten. If I knew of it, it was because Father had told me
about it. He had read descriptions of it in the literature. But he had heard it only once, while on a working visit
to the Mysore Zoo, in their animal hospital, from a young male being treated for pneumonia. Prusten is the
quietest of tiger calls, a puff through the nose to express friendliness and harmless intentions.
Richard Parker did it again, this time with a rolling of the head. He looked exactly as if he were asking me a
question.
I looked at him, full of fearful wonder. There being no immediate threat, my breath slowed down, my heart
stopped knocking about in my chest, and I began to regain my senses.
I had to tame him. It was at that moment that I realized this necessity. It was not a question of him or me, but
of him and me. We were, literally and figuratively, in the same boat. We would live-or we would die-together.
He might be killed in an accident, or he could die shortly of natural causes, but it would be foolish to count on
such an eventuality. More likely the worst would happen: the simple passage of time, in which his animal
toughness would easily outlast my human frailty. Only if I tamed him could I possibly trick him into dying
first, if we had to come to that sorry business.
But there's more to it. I will come clean. I will tell you a secret: a part of me was glad about Richard Parker. A
part of me did not want Richard Parker to die at all, because if he died I would be left alone with despair, a foe
even more formidable than a tiger. If I still had the will to live, it was thanks to Richard Parker. He kept me
from thinking too much about my family and my tragic circumstances. He pushed me to go on living. I hated
Page 88
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
him for it, yet at the same time I was grateful. I am grateful. It's the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I
wouldn't be alive today to tell you my story.
I looked around at the horizon. Didn't I have here a perfect circus ring, inescapably round, without a single
corner for him to hide in? I looked down at the sea. Wasn't this an ideal source of treats with which to
condition him to obey? I noticed a whistle hanging from one of the life jackets. Wouldn't this make a good
whip with which to keep him in line? What was missing here to tame Richard Parker? Time? It might be
weeks before a ship sighted me. I had all the time in the world. Resolve? There's nothing like extreme need to
give you resolve. Knowledge? Was I not a zookeeper's son? Reward? Was there any reward greater than life?
Any punishment worse than death? I looked at Richard Parker. My panic was gone. My fear was dominated.
Survival was at hand.
Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the show begin. I rose to my feet. Richard Parker noticed. The
balance was not easy. I took a deep breath and shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, hurry to your
seats! Hurry, hurry. You don't want to be late. Sit down, open your eyes, open your hearts and prepare to be
amazed. Here it is, for your enjoyment and instruction, for your gratification and edification, the show you've
been waiting for all your life, THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH! Are you ready for the miracle of it?
Yes? Well then: they are amazingly adaptable. You've seen them in freezing, snow-covered temperate forests.
You've seen them in dense, tropical monsoon jungles. You've seen them in sparse, semi-arid scrublands.
You've seen them in brackish mangrove swamps. Truly, they would fit anywhere. But you've never seen them
where you are about to see them now! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, it is my
pleasure and honour to present to you: THE PI PATEL, INDO-CANADIAN, TRANS-PACIFIC, FLOATING
CIRCUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!
The Floating Circus
- Pi realizes that Richard Parker is the reason he has survived thus far and decides to shift from fearing the tiger to taming him.
- Using his knowledge as a zookeeper's son, Pi views the lifeboat as a circus ring and the sea as a source of rewards and punishments.
- Pi adopts a theatrical persona to assert dominance, using a whistle to physically and psychologically intimidate the tiger.
- The first training session is a success as Richard Parker retreats, leading Pi to establish 'Plan Number Seven: Keep Him Alive.'
- Pi begins consulting a survival manual written by a British Royal Navy commander to supplement his practical knowledge of the sea.
Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the show begin.
him for it, yet at the same time I was grateful. I am grateful. It's the plain truth: without Richard Parker, I
wouldn't be alive today to tell you my story.
I looked around at the horizon. Didn't I have here a perfect circus ring, inescapably round, without a single
corner for him to hide in? I looked down at the sea. Wasn't this an ideal source of treats with which to
condition him to obey? I noticed a whistle hanging from one of the life jackets. Wouldn't this make a good
whip with which to keep him in line? What was missing here to tame Richard Parker? Time? It might be
weeks before a ship sighted me. I had all the time in the world. Resolve? There's nothing like extreme need to
give you resolve. Knowledge? Was I not a zookeeper's son? Reward? Was there any reward greater than life?
Any punishment worse than death? I looked at Richard Parker. My panic was gone. My fear was dominated.
Survival was at hand.
Let the trumpets blare. Let the drums roll. Let the show begin. I rose to my feet. Richard Parker noticed. The
balance was not easy. I took a deep breath and shouted, "Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, hurry to your
seats! Hurry, hurry. You don't want to be late. Sit down, open your eyes, open your hearts and prepare to be
amazed. Here it is, for your enjoyment and instruction, for your gratification and edification, the show you've
been waiting for all your life, THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH! Are you ready for the miracle of it?
Yes? Well then: they are amazingly adaptable. You've seen them in freezing, snow-covered temperate forests.
You've seen them in dense, tropical monsoon jungles. You've seen them in sparse, semi-arid scrublands.
You've seen them in brackish mangrove swamps. Truly, they would fit anywhere. But you've never seen them
where you are about to see them now! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, without further ado, it is my
pleasure and honour to present to you: THE PI PATEL, INDO-CANADIAN, TRANS-PACIFIC, FLOATING
CIRCUUUUUSSSSSSSSSSSS!!! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!
TREEEEEE!"
I had an effect on Richard Parker. At the very first blow of the whistle he cringed and he snarled. Ha! Let him
jump into the water if he wanted to! Let him try!
"TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"
He roared and he clawed the air. But he did not jump. He might not be afraid of the sea when he was driven
mad by hunger and thirst, but for the time being it was a fear I could rely on.
"TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE! TREEEEEE!"
He backed off and dropped to the bottom of the boat. The first training session was over. It was a resounding
success. I stopped whistling and sat down heavily on the raft, out of breath and exhausted.
And so it came to be:
Plan Number Seven: Keep Him Alive.
CHAPTER 58
I pulled out the survival manual. Its pages were still wet. I turned them carefully. The manual was written by a
British Royal Navy commander. It contained a wealth of practical information on surviving at sea after a
shipwreck. It included survival tips such as:
Page 89
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Plan Number Seven
- Following a successful first training session with the tiger, the protagonist commits to 'Plan Number Seven,' which is to keep the animal alive.
- The narrator consults a British Royal Navy survival manual that provides a mix of practical and eccentric advice for shipwreck survivors.
- The manual covers essential physical survival tips, such as avoiding toxic sea life, conserving energy, and the nutritional benefits of turtles.
- Psychological health is emphasized through recommendations for light distractions like community singing, yarn spinning, and maintaining the will to live.
- The protagonist reflects on his own past, noting that his childhood nickname makes the manual's advice against drinking urine particularly redundant.
But an idle mind tends to sink, so the mind should be kept occupied with whatever light distraction may suggest itself.
He backed off and dropped to the bottom of the boat. The first training session was over. It was a resounding
success. I stopped whistling and sat down heavily on the raft, out of breath and exhausted.
And so it came to be:
Plan Number Seven: Keep Him Alive.
CHAPTER 58
I pulled out the survival manual. Its pages were still wet. I turned them carefully. The manual was written by a
British Royal Navy commander. It contained a wealth of practical information on surviving at sea after a
shipwreck. It included survival tips such as:
Page 89
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Always read instructions carefully.
Do not drink urine. Or sea water. Or bird blood.
Do not eat jellyfish. Or fish that are armed with spikes. Or that have parrot-like beaks. Or that puff up like
balloons.
Pressing the eyes of fish will paralyze them.
The body can be a hero in battle. If a castaway is injured, beware of well-meaning but ill-founded medical
treatment. Ignorance is the worst doctor, while rest and sleep are the best nurses.
Put up your feet at least five minutes every hour.
Unnecessary exertion should be avoided. But an idle mind tends to sink, so the mind should be kept occupied
with whatever light distraction may suggest itself. Playing card games, Twenty Questions and I Spy With My
Little Eye are excellent forms of simple recreation. Community singing is another sure-fire way to lift the
spirits. Yarn spinning is also highly recommended.
Green water is shallower than blue water.
Beware of far-off clouds that look like mountains. Look for green. Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of
land.
Do not go swimming. It wastes energy. Besides, a survival craft may drift faster than you can swim. Not to
mention
the danger of sea life. If you are hot, wet your clothes instead.
Do not urinate in your clothes. The momentary warmth is not worth the nappy rash.
Shelter yourself. Exposure can kill faster than thirst or hunger.
So long as no excessive water is lost through perspiration, the body can survive up to fourteen days without
water. If
you feel thirsty, suck a button.
Turtles are an easy catch and make for excellent meals. Their blood is a good, nutritious, salt-free drink; their
flesh is tasty and filling; their fat has many uses; and the castaway will find turtle eggs a real treat. Mind the
beak
and the claws.
Don't let your morale flag. Be daunted, but not defeated. Remember: the spirit, above all else, counts. If you
have
the will to live, you will. Good luck!
There were also a few highly cryptic lines distilling the art and science of navigation. I learned that the
horizon, as seen from a height of five feet on a calm day, was two and a half miles away.
The injunction not to drink urine was quite unnecessary. No one called "Pissing" in his childhood would be
caught dead with a cup of pee at his lips, even alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific. And the
Page 90
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Survival and Alpha Relationships
- The narrator reviews a survival manual that emphasizes the importance of morale and the will to live over technical navigation.
- A critical realization is made that the narrator must establish an alpha-omega relationship to dominate Richard Parker's territory.
- The narrator outlines a rigorous list of survival tasks, including improving the raft, securing shelter, and beginning to fish.
- The text highlights the psychological danger of excessive hope, suggesting that survival depends on focusing on immediate, practical needs.
- Despite the overwhelming sense of hopelessness and isolation, physical hunger and thirst drive the narrator back into action.
I had to make him understand that I was the top tiger and that his territory was limited to the floor of the boat.
and the claws.
Don't let your morale flag. Be daunted, but not defeated. Remember: the spirit, above all else, counts. If you
have
the will to live, you will. Good luck!
There were also a few highly cryptic lines distilling the art and science of navigation. I learned that the
horizon, as seen from a height of five feet on a calm day, was two and a half miles away.
The injunction not to drink urine was quite unnecessary. No one called "Pissing" in his childhood would be
caught dead with a cup of pee at his lips, even alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific. And the
Page 90
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
gastronomic suggestions only confirmed to my mind that the English didn't know the meaning of the word
food. Otherwise, the manual was a fascinating pamphlet on how to avoid being pickled in brine. Only one
important topic was not addressed: the establishing of alpha-omega relationships with major lifeboat pests.
I had to devise a training program for Richard Parker. I had to make him understand that I was the top tiger
and that his territory was limited to the floor of the boat, the stern bench and the side benches as far as the
middle cross bench. I had to fix in his mind that the top of the tarpaulin and the bow of the boat, bordered by
the neutral territory of the middle bench, was my territory and utterly forbidden to him.
I had to start fishing very soon. It would not take long for Richard Parker to finish the animal carcasses. At the
zoo the adult lions and tigers ate on average ten pounds of meat a day.
There were many other things I had to do. I had to find a means of sheltering myself. If Richard Parker stayed
under the tarpaulin all the time, it was for a good reason. To be continuously outside, exposed to sun, wind,
rain and sea, was exhausting, and not only to the body but also to the mind. Hadn't I just read that exposure
could inflict a quick death? I had to devise some sort of canopy.
I had to tie the raft to the lifeboat with a second rope, in case the first should break or become loose.
I had to improve the raft. At present it was seaworthy, but hardly habitable. I would have to make it fit for
living in until I could move to my permanent quarters on the lifeboat. For example, I had to find a way to stay
dry on it. My skin was wrinkled and swollen all over from being constantly wet. That had to change. And I
had to find a way to store things on the raft.
I had to stop hoping so much that a ship would rescue me. I should not count on outside help. Survival had to
start with me. In my experience, a castaway's worst mistake is to hope too much and do too little. Survival
starts by paying attention to what is close at hand and immediate. To look out with idle hope is tantamount to
dreaming one's life away.
There was much I had to do.
I looked out at the empty horizon. There was so much water. And I was all alone. All alone.
I burst into hot tears. I buried my face in my crossed arms and sobbed. My situation was patently hopeless.
CHAPTER 59
Alone or not, lost or not, I was thirsty and hungry. I pulled on the rope. There was a slight tension. As soon as
I lessened my grip on it, it slid out, and the distance between the lifeboat and the raft increased. So the lifeboat
drifted faster than the raft, pulling it along. I noted the fact without thinking anything of it. My mind was more
focused on the doings of Richard Parker.
By the looks of it, he was under the tarpaulin.
I pulled the rope till I was right next to the bow. I reached up to the gunnel. As I was crouched, preparing
myself for a quick raid on the locker, a series of waves got me thinking. I noticed that with the raft next to it,
the lifeboat had changed directions. It was no longer perpendicular to the waves but broadside to them and was
beginning to roll from side to side, that rolling that was so unsettling for the stomach. The reason for this
Page 91
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Territory and Seasickness
- Pi discovers that the raft acts as a sea anchor, stabilizing the lifeboat's motion against the waves when deployed at a distance.
- Richard Parker is revealed to be susceptible to seasickness, providing Pi with a potential psychological and physical advantage.
- The last remaining cockroaches abandon the lifeboat and are immediately consumed by fish, leaving only Pi and the tiger alive.
- Pi notices the tiger has marked the area under the tarpaulin with urine, suggesting a territorial boundary that Pi might be able to respect or manipulate.
- Despite the danger, Pi successfully raids the locker for supplies while the tiger remains occupied by the heat and the boat's rolling motion.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
Alone or not, lost or not, I was thirsty and hungry. I pulled on the rope. There was a slight tension. As soon as
I lessened my grip on it, it slid out, and the distance between the lifeboat and the raft increased. So the lifeboat
drifted faster than the raft, pulling it along. I noted the fact without thinking anything of it. My mind was more
focused on the doings of Richard Parker.
By the looks of it, he was under the tarpaulin.
I pulled the rope till I was right next to the bow. I reached up to the gunnel. As I was crouched, preparing
myself for a quick raid on the locker, a series of waves got me thinking. I noticed that with the raft next to it,
the lifeboat had changed directions. It was no longer perpendicular to the waves but broadside to them and was
beginning to roll from side to side, that rolling that was so unsettling for the stomach. The reason for this
Page 91
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
change became clear to me: the raft, when let out, was acting as a sea anchor, as a drag that pulled on the
lifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, waves and steady winds are usually perpendicular to
each other. So, if a boat is pushed by a wind but held back by a sea anchor, it will turn until it offers the least
resistance to the wind-that is, until it is in line with it and at right angles to the waves, which makes for a
front-to-back pitching that is much more comfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to the boat,
the dragging effect was gone, and there was nothing to steer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turned
broadside and rolled.
What may seem like a detail to you was something which would save my life and which Richard Parker would
come to regret.
As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It was a disconsolate growl, with something indefinably
green and queasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but he was not much of a sailor.
I had a chance yet.
Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, I received at that moment a quiet but sinister warning
about what I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his
vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point of raising myself over the bow
when I heard a gentle thrashing buzz. I saw something small land in the water next to me.
It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two before being swallowed by an underwater mouth. Another
cockroach landed in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroaches plopped into the water on either side
of the bow. Each was claimed by a fish.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thing I saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin above the
bow bench, was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. I watched it, strangely interested. When it
decided it was time, it deployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering, hovered above the lifeboat
momentarily, as if making sure no one had been left behind, and then veered overboard to its death.
Now we were two. In five days the populations of orang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and cockroaches had
been wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that might still be alive in the remains of the animals, there
was no other life left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me.
It was not a comforting thought.
I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. I deliberately did not look under the tarpaulin for fear
that looking would be like shouting and would attract Richard Parker's attention. Only once the lid was leaning
against the tarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyond it.
A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quite sharp, what every cat cage in a zoo smells of. Tigers
are highly territorial, and it is with their urine that they mark the boundaries of their territory. Here was good
news wearing a foul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below the tarpaulin. Richard Parker's
territorial claims seemed to be limited to the floor of the boat. This held promise. If I could make the tarpaulin
mine, we might get along.
I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to the side to see beyond the edge of the lid. There was
rainwater, about four inches of it, sloshing about the floor of the lifeboat-Richard Parker's own freshwater
pond. He was doing exactly what I would be doing in his place: cooling off in the shade. The day was getting
Territorial Boundaries and Abandoned Ships
- The narrator discovers that the raft acts as a sea anchor, stabilizing the lifeboat against the waves and providing a tactical advantage.
- Richard Parker's physical discomfort and seasickness reveal a vulnerability that the narrator hopes to exploit for survival.
- The last of the ship's cockroaches commit a mass exodus into the sea, signaling that the lifeboat's ecosystem has collapsed to only two survivors.
- The narrator identifies Richard Parker's territory through the scent of urine, noting that the tiger's claims are currently limited to the floor of the boat.
- A potential plan for coexistence emerges as the narrator realizes he might be able to claim the tarpaulin as his own territory.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
change became clear to me: the raft, when let out, was acting as a sea anchor, as a drag that pulled on the
lifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, waves and steady winds are usually perpendicular to
each other. So, if a boat is pushed by a wind but held back by a sea anchor, it will turn until it offers the least
resistance to the wind-that is, until it is in line with it and at right angles to the waves, which makes for a
front-to-back pitching that is much more comfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to the boat,
the dragging effect was gone, and there was nothing to steer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turned
broadside and rolled.
What may seem like a detail to you was something which would save my life and which Richard Parker would
come to regret.
As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It was a disconsolate growl, with something indefinably
green and queasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but he was not much of a sailor.
I had a chance yet.
Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, I received at that moment a quiet but sinister warning
about what I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his
vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point of raising myself over the bow
when I heard a gentle thrashing buzz. I saw something small land in the water next to me.
It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two before being swallowed by an underwater mouth. Another
cockroach landed in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroaches plopped into the water on either side
of the bow. Each was claimed by a fish.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thing I saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin above the
bow bench, was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. I watched it, strangely interested. When it
decided it was time, it deployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering, hovered above the lifeboat
momentarily, as if making sure no one had been left behind, and then veered overboard to its death.
Now we were two. In five days the populations of orang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and cockroaches had
been wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that might still be alive in the remains of the animals, there
was no other life left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me.
It was not a comforting thought.
I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. I deliberately did not look under the tarpaulin for fear
that looking would be like shouting and would attract Richard Parker's attention. Only once the lid was leaning
against the tarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyond it.
A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quite sharp, what every cat cage in a zoo smells of. Tigers
are highly territorial, and it is with their urine that they mark the boundaries of their territory. Here was good
news wearing a foul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below the tarpaulin. Richard Parker's
territorial claims seemed to be limited to the floor of the boat. This held promise. If I could make the tarpaulin
mine, we might get along.
I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to the side to see beyond the edge of the lid. There was
rainwater, about four inches of it, sloshing about the floor of the lifeboat-Richard Parker's own freshwater
pond. He was doing exactly what I would be doing in his place: cooling off in the shade. The day was getting
Page 92
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Territorial Claims and Survival
- Pi realizes that the raft acts as a sea anchor, stabilizing the lifeboat's orientation against the waves to prevent uncomfortable rolling.
- The last remaining cockroaches abandon the lifeboat, leaving Pi and Richard Parker as the only two living beings left on the vessel.
- Pi discovers that Richard Parkerโs territorial scent is confined to the floor, suggesting the tarpaulin could be claimed as Pi's own safe zone.
- To establish his territory, Pi mimics the tiger's behavior by splashing his own urine across the tarpaulin and locker lid.
- Pi begins utilizing the lifeboat's survival gear, deploying twelve solar stills to convert seawater into fresh drinking water.
It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable.
change became clear to me: the raft, when let out, was acting as a sea anchor, as a drag that pulled on the
lifeboat and turned its bow to face the waves. You see, waves and steady winds are usually perpendicular to
each other. So, if a boat is pushed by a wind but held back by a sea anchor, it will turn until it offers the least
resistance to the wind-that is, until it is in line with it and at right angles to the waves, which makes for a
front-to-back pitching that is much more comfortable than a side-to-side rolling. With the raft next to the boat,
the dragging effect was gone, and there was nothing to steer the boat head into the wind. Therefore it turned
broadside and rolled.
What may seem like a detail to you was something which would save my life and which Richard Parker would
come to regret.
As if to confirm my fresh insight, I heard him growl. It was a disconsolate growl, with something indefinably
green and queasy in its tone. He was maybe a good swimmer, but he was not much of a sailor.
I had a chance yet.
Lest I got cocky about my abilities to manipulate him, I received at that moment a quiet but sinister warning
about what I was up against. It seemed Richard Parker was such a magnetic pole of life, so charismatic in his
vitality, that other expressions of life found it intolerable. I was on the point of raising myself over the bow
when I heard a gentle thrashing buzz. I saw something small land in the water next to me.
It was a cockroach. It floated for a second or two before being swallowed by an underwater mouth. Another
cockroach landed in the water. In the next minute, ten or so cockroaches plopped into the water on either side
of the bow. Each was claimed by a fish.
The last of the foreign life forms was abandoning ship.
I carefully brought my eyes over the gunnel. The first thing I saw, lying in a fold of the tarpaulin above the
bow bench, was a large cockroach, perhaps the patriarch of the clan. I watched it, strangely interested. When it
decided it was time, it deployed its wings, rose in the air with a minute clattering, hovered above the lifeboat
momentarily, as if making sure no one had been left behind, and then veered overboard to its death.
Now we were two. In five days the populations of orang-utans, zebras, hyenas, rats, flies and cockroaches had
been wiped out. Except for the bacteria and worms that might still be alive in the remains of the animals, there
was no other life left on the lifeboat but Richard Parker and me.
It was not a comforting thought.
I lifted myself and breathlessly opened the locker lid. I deliberately did not look under the tarpaulin for fear
that looking would be like shouting and would attract Richard Parker's attention. Only once the lid was leaning
against the tarpaulin did I dare let my senses consider what was beyond it.
A smell came to my nose, a musky smell of urine, quite sharp, what every cat cage in a zoo smells of. Tigers
are highly territorial, and it is with their urine that they mark the boundaries of their territory. Here was good
news wearing a foul dress: the odour was coming exclusively from below the tarpaulin. Richard Parker's
territorial claims seemed to be limited to the floor of the boat. This held promise. If I could make the tarpaulin
mine, we might get along.
I held my breath, lowered my head and cocked it to the side to see beyond the edge of the lid. There was
rainwater, about four inches of it, sloshing about the floor of the lifeboat-Richard Parker's own freshwater
pond. He was doing exactly what I would be doing in his place: cooling off in the shade. The day was getting
Page 92
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and
splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position
looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of
the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the
rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I
couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold
of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the
beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little
desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about
ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that
beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I
relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute
hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the
beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine
looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the
sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of
the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin
and over the locker lid to stake my claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered
as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they
held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of
an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black
rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying
beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside
surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone,
from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions
carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy
chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the
lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots
become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The
stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was
doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each
was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of
sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about
Survival and Solar Stills
- The narrator manages to steal several beakers of rainwater from Richard Parker's pond while the tiger rests in a splayed, heat-exhausted position.
- Driven by intense thirst, the narrator consumes the discolored water without concern for bacteria and even briefly contemplates drinking his own urine.
- To establish territory and maintain hygiene, the narrator uses his urine to mark the tarpaulin and locker lid, staking his claim on the boat.
- The narrator deploys twelve solar stills, complex distillation devices designed to turn seawater into fresh water using solar heat.
- Efforts shift toward structural improvements, including reinforcing the raft's knots and carving a mast out of a spare oar to enhance the survival craft.
Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious!
beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and
splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position
looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of
the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the
rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I
couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold
of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the
beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little
desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about
ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that
beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I
relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute
hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the
beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine
looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the
sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of
the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin
and over the locker lid to stake my claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered
as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they
held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of
an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black
rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying
beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside
surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone,
from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions
carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy
chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the
lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots
become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The
stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was
doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each
was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of
sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about
halfway down, and with the knife's point I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slow but
satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one
Survival and Solar Stills
- The narrator manages his hunger and thirst by consuming emergency rations and cautiously stealing rainwater from Richard Parker's area.
- Driven by extreme thirst, the narrator briefly contemplates drinking his own urine, noting its deceptive resemblance to fresh apple juice.
- To establish territory and maintain hygiene, he uses his urine to mark his claim on the tarpaulin and locker lid.
- He deploys twelve solar stills to convert seawater into fresh water, though he remains skeptical of their flimsy construction.
- The narrator focuses on structural improvements to his raft, using a hunting knife to modify an oar into a functional mast.
Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious!
beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and
splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position
looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of
the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the
rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I
couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold
of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the
beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little
desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about
ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that
beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I
relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute
hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the
beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine
looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the
sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of
the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin
and over the locker lid to stake my claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered
as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they
held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of
an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black
rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying
beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside
surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone,
from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions
carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy
chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the
lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots
become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The
stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was
doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each
was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of
sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about
halfway down, and with the knife's point I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slow but
satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one
Page 93
Survival and Solar Stills
- Pi cautiously steals rainwater from Richard Parker's pond on the lifeboat to supplement his own supplies.
- The narrator experiences a desperate urge to drink his own urine, noting its deceptive resemblance to fresh apple juice.
- Pi deploys twelve solar stills, which use evaporation and distillation to convert seawater into fresh drinking water.
- To establish territory and assert his presence, Pi splashes his urine across the tarpaulin and locker lid.
- Pi focuses on technical improvements to his raft, including reinforcing knots and fashioning a mast from a spare oar.
Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious!
beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and
splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position
looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of
the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the
rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I
couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold
of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the
beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little
desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about
ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that
beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I
relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute
hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the
beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine
looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the
sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of
the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin
and over the locker lid to stake my claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered
as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they
held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of
an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black
rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying
beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside
surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone,
from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions
carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy
chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the
lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots
become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The
stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was
doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each
was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of
sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about
halfway down, and with the knife's point I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slow but
satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one
Page 93
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Survival and Submarine Traffic
- The narrator manages his extreme thirst by stealing rainwater from the tiger's pond and even contemplates drinking his own urine due to its deceptive appearance of freshness.
- To secure a long-term water source, the narrator deploys twelve solar stills, though he remains skeptical of their flimsy design and technological efficacy.
- Significant effort is spent modifying the raft by creating a makeshift mast and canopy out of an oar and blankets to improve his living conditions away from the tiger.
- The day ends with a moment of peaceful coexistence as the narrator observes the tiger's noble appearance and realizes the ocean beneath him is teeming with life.
Mockery be damned, my urine looked delicious!
beastly hot. He was flat on the floor of the boat, facing away from me, his hind legs sticking straight back and
splayed out, back paws facing up, and stomach and inner thighs lying directly against the floor. The position
looked silly but was no doubt very pleasant.
I returned to the business of survival. I opened a carton of emergency ration and ate my fill, about one-third of
the package. It was remarkable how little it took to make my stomach feel full. I was about to drink from the
rain-catcher pouch slung across my shoulder when my eyes fell upon the graduated drinking beakers. If I
couldn't go for a dip, could I at least have a sip? My own supplies of water would not last forever. I took hold
of one of the beakers, leaned over, lowered the lid just as much as I needed to and tremulously dipped the
beaker into Parker's Pond, four feet from his back paws. His upturned pads with their wet fur looked like little
desert islands surrounded by seaweed.
I brought back a good 500 millilitres. It was a little discoloured. Specks were floating in it. Did I worry about
ingesting some horrid bacteria? I didn't even think about it. All I had on my mind was my thirst. I drained that
beaker to the dregs with great satisfaction.
Nature is preoccupied with balance, so it did not surprise me that nearly right away I felt the urge to urinate. I
relieved myself in the beaker. I produced so exactly the amount I had just downed that it was as if a minute
hadn't passed and I were still considering Richard Parker's rainwater. I hesitated. I felt the urge to tilt the
beaker into my mouth once more. I resisted the temptation. But it was hard. Mockery be damned, my urine
looked delicious! I was not suffering yet from dehydration, so the liquid was pale in colour. It glowed in the
sunlight, looking like a glass of apple juice. And it was guaranteed fresh, which certainly couldn't be said of
the canned water that was my staple. But I heeded my better judgment. I splashed my urine on the tarpaulin
and over the locker lid to stake my claim.
I stole another two beakers of water from Richard Parker, without urinating this time. I felt as freshly watered
as a potted plant.
Now it was time to improve my situation. I turned to the contents of the locker and the many promises they
held.
I brought out a second rope and tethered the raft to the lifeboat with it.
I discovered what a solar still is. A solar still is a device to produce fresh water from salt water. It consists of
an inflatable transparent cone set upon a round lifebuoy-like buoyancy chamber that has a surface of black
rubberized canvas stretched across its centre. The still operates on the principle of distillation: sea water lying
beneath the sealed cone on the black canvas is heated by the sun and evaporates, gathering on the inside
surface of the cone. This salt-free water trickles down and collects in a gully on the perimeter of the cone,
from which it drains into a pouch. The lifeboat came equipped with twelve solar stills. I read the instructions
carefully, as the survival manual told me to. I inflated all twelve cones with air and I filled each buoyancy
chamber with the requisite ten litres of sea water. I strung the stills together, tying one end of the flotilla to the
lifeboat and the other to the raft, which meant that not only would I not lose any stills should one of my knots
become loose, but also that I had, in effect, a second emergency rope to keep me tethered to the lifeboat. The
stills looked pretty and very technological as they floated on the water, but they also looked flimsy, and I was
doubtful of their capacity to produce fresh water.
I directed my attention to improving the raft. I examined every knot that held it together, making sure each
was tight and secure. After some thought, I decided to transform the fifth oar, the footrest oar, into a mast of
sorts. I undid the oar. With the sawtoothed edge of the hunting knife I painstakingly cut a notch into it, about
halfway down, and with the knife's point I drilled three holes through its flat part. Work was slow but
satisfying. It kept my mind busy. When I had finished I lashed the oar in a vertical position to the inside of one
Page 93
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
of the corners of the raft, flat part, the masthead, rising in the air, handle disappearing underwater. I ran the
rope tightly into the notch, to prevent the oar from slipping down. Next, to ensure that the mast would stand
straight, and to give myself lines from which to hang a canopy and supplies, I threaded ropes through the holes
I had drilled in the masthead and tied them to the tips of the horizontal oars. I strapped the life jacket that had
been attached to the footrest oar to the base of the mast. It would play a double role: it would provide extra
flotation to compensate for the vertical weight of the mast, and it would make for a slightly raised seat for me.
I threw a blanket over the lines. It slid down. The angle of the lines was too steep. I folded the lengthwise edge
of the blanket over once, cut two holes midway down, about a foot apart, and linked the holes with a piece of
string, which I made by unweaving a length of rope. I threw the blanket over the lines again, with the new
girdle string going around the masthead. I now had a canopy.
It took me a good part of the day to fix up the raft. There were so many details to look after. The constant
motion of the sea, though gentle, didn't make my work any easier. And I had to keep an eye on Richard
Parker. The result was no galleon. The mast, so called, ended hardly a few inches above my head. As for the
deck, it was just big enough to sit on cross-legged or to lie on in a tight, nearly-to-term fetal position. But I
wasn't complaining. It was seaworthy and it would save me from Richard Parker.
By the time I had finished my work, the afternoon was nearing its end. I gathered a can of water, a can opener,
four biscuits of survival ration and four blankets. I closed the locker (very softly this time), sat down on the
raft and let out the rope. The lifeboat drifted away. The main rope tensed, while the security rope, which I had
deliberately measured out longer, hung limply. I laid two blankets beneath me, carefully folding them so that
they didn't touch the water. I wrapped the other two around my shoulders and rested my back against the mast.
I enjoyed the slight elevation I gained from sitting on the extra life jacket. I was hardly higher up from the
water than one would be from a floor sitting on a thick cushion; still, I hoped not to get wet so much.
I enjoyed my meal as I watched the sun's descent in a cloudless sky. It was a relaxing moment. The vault of
the world was magnificently tinted. The stars were eager to participate; hardly had the blanket of colour been
pulled a little than they started to shine through the deep blue. The wind blew with a faint, warm breeze and
the sea moved about kindly, the water peaking and troughing like people dancing in a circle who come
together and raise their hands and move apart and come together again, over and over.
Richard Parker sat up. Only his head and a little of his shoulders showed above the gunnel. He looked out. I
shouted, "Hello, Richard Parker!" and I waved. He looked at me. He snorted or sneezed, neither word quite
captures it. Prusten again. What a stunning creature. Such a noble mien. How apt that in full it is a Royal
Bengal tiger. I counted myself lucky in a way. What if I had ended up with a creature that looked silly or ugly,
a tapir or an ostrich or a flock of turkeys? That would have been a more trying companionship in some ways.
I heard a splash. I looked down at the water. I gasped. I thought I was alone. The stillness in the air, the glory
of the light, the feeling of comparative safety-all had made me think so. There is commonly an element of
silence and solitude to peace, isn't there? It's hard to imagine being at peace in a busy subway station, isn't it?
So what was all this commotion?
With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city. Just below me, all around, unsuspected by me, were
highways, boulevards, streets and roundabouts bustling with submarine traffic.
The Raft and the Submarine City
- The narrator meticulously constructs a makeshift raft using oars, life jackets, and blankets to create a safe distance from the tiger, Richard Parker.
- Despite the raft's small size and precarious nature, it provides a sense of seaworthiness and a necessary psychological barrier against the predator on the lifeboat.
- A moment of unexpected peace occurs as the narrator observes Richard Parker's noble appearance and hears the tiger's friendly 'prusten' sound.
- The narrator experiences a profound realization that the ocean is not empty but is a bustling 'city' filled with vibrant, bioluminescent marine life.
- The underwater world is described as a complex network of highways and traffic, mirroring the frantic energy of a human metropolis.
With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city.
of the corners of the raft, flat part, the masthead, rising in the air, handle disappearing underwater. I ran the
rope tightly into the notch, to prevent the oar from slipping down. Next, to ensure that the mast would stand
straight, and to give myself lines from which to hang a canopy and supplies, I threaded ropes through the holes
I had drilled in the masthead and tied them to the tips of the horizontal oars. I strapped the life jacket that had
been attached to the footrest oar to the base of the mast. It would play a double role: it would provide extra
flotation to compensate for the vertical weight of the mast, and it would make for a slightly raised seat for me.
I threw a blanket over the lines. It slid down. The angle of the lines was too steep. I folded the lengthwise edge
of the blanket over once, cut two holes midway down, about a foot apart, and linked the holes with a piece of
string, which I made by unweaving a length of rope. I threw the blanket over the lines again, with the new
girdle string going around the masthead. I now had a canopy.
It took me a good part of the day to fix up the raft. There were so many details to look after. The constant
motion of the sea, though gentle, didn't make my work any easier. And I had to keep an eye on Richard
Parker. The result was no galleon. The mast, so called, ended hardly a few inches above my head. As for the
deck, it was just big enough to sit on cross-legged or to lie on in a tight, nearly-to-term fetal position. But I
wasn't complaining. It was seaworthy and it would save me from Richard Parker.
By the time I had finished my work, the afternoon was nearing its end. I gathered a can of water, a can opener,
four biscuits of survival ration and four blankets. I closed the locker (very softly this time), sat down on the
raft and let out the rope. The lifeboat drifted away. The main rope tensed, while the security rope, which I had
deliberately measured out longer, hung limply. I laid two blankets beneath me, carefully folding them so that
they didn't touch the water. I wrapped the other two around my shoulders and rested my back against the mast.
I enjoyed the slight elevation I gained from sitting on the extra life jacket. I was hardly higher up from the
water than one would be from a floor sitting on a thick cushion; still, I hoped not to get wet so much.
I enjoyed my meal as I watched the sun's descent in a cloudless sky. It was a relaxing moment. The vault of
the world was magnificently tinted. The stars were eager to participate; hardly had the blanket of colour been
pulled a little than they started to shine through the deep blue. The wind blew with a faint, warm breeze and
the sea moved about kindly, the water peaking and troughing like people dancing in a circle who come
together and raise their hands and move apart and come together again, over and over.
Richard Parker sat up. Only his head and a little of his shoulders showed above the gunnel. He looked out. I
shouted, "Hello, Richard Parker!" and I waved. He looked at me. He snorted or sneezed, neither word quite
captures it. Prusten again. What a stunning creature. Such a noble mien. How apt that in full it is a Royal
Bengal tiger. I counted myself lucky in a way. What if I had ended up with a creature that looked silly or ugly,
a tapir or an ostrich or a flock of turkeys? That would have been a more trying companionship in some ways.
I heard a splash. I looked down at the water. I gasped. I thought I was alone. The stillness in the air, the glory
of the light, the feeling of comparative safety-all had made me think so. There is commonly an element of
silence and solitude to peace, isn't there? It's hard to imagine being at peace in a busy subway station, isn't it?
So what was all this commotion?
With just one glance I discovered that the sea is a city. Just below me, all around, unsuspected by me, were
highways, boulevards, streets and roundabouts bustling with submarine traffic.
In water that was dense, glassy
and flecked by millions of lit-up specks of plankton, fish like trucks and buses and cars and bicycles and
pedestrians were madly racing about, no doubt honking and hollering at each other. The predominant colour
was green. At multiple depths, as far as I could see, there were evanescent trails of phosphorescent green
bubbles, the wake of speeding fish. As soon as one trail faded, another appeared. These trails came from all
directions and disappeared in all directions. They were like those time-exposure photographs you see of cities
at night, with the long red streaks made by the tail lights of cars. Except that here the cars were driving above
The Underwater Rush Hour
- Pi observes a vibrant and chaotic underwater world that resembles a bustling city at night, filled with bioluminescent trails and colorful fish.
- The narrator compares the movement of the sea life to a high-speed urban traffic system with stacked interchanges and constant collisions.
- He realizes that the ocean is not a barren waste, but rather a densely populated environment that is invisible to fast-moving cargo ships.
- The experience provides Pi with a rare moment of tranquility and a hard-earned sense of hope, allowing him to finally fall asleep.
I gazed upon this urban hurly-burly like someone observing a city from a hot-air balloon.
In water that was dense, glassy
and flecked by millions of lit-up specks of plankton, fish like trucks and buses and cars and bicycles and
pedestrians were madly racing about, no doubt honking and hollering at each other. The predominant colour
was green. At multiple depths, as far as I could see, there were evanescent trails of phosphorescent green
bubbles, the wake of speeding fish. As soon as one trail faded, another appeared. These trails came from all
directions and disappeared in all directions. They were like those time-exposure photographs you see of cities
at night, with the long red streaks made by the tail lights of cars. Except that here the cars were driving above
Page 94
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
and under each other as if they were on interchanges that were stacked ten storeys high. And here the cars
were of the craziest colours. The dorados-there must have been over fifty patrolling beneath the raft-showed
off their bright gold, blue and green as they whisked by. Other fish that I could not identify were yellow,
brown, silver, blue, red, pink, green, white, in all kinds of combinations, solid, streaked and speckled. Only the
sharks stubbornly refused to be colourful. But whatever the size or colour of a vehicle, one thing was constant:
the furious driving. There were many collisions-all involving fatalities, I'm afraid-and a number of cars spun
wildly out of control and collided against barriers, bursting above the surface of the water and splashing down
in showers of luminescence. I gazed upon this urban hurly-burly like someone observing a city from a hot-air
balloon. It was a spectacle wondrous and awe-inspiring. This is surely what Tokyo must look like at rush hour.
I looked on until the lights went out in the city.
From the Tsimtsum all I had seen were dolphins. I had assumed that the Pacific, but for passing schools of
fish, was a sparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since that cargo ships travel too quickly for fish.
You are as likely to see sea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest from a car on a highway.
Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play about boats and ships much like dogs chase cars: they race along until
they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, it is on foot, and quietly, that you must explore a
forest. It is the same with the sea. You must stroll through the Pacific at a walking pace, so to speak, to see the
wealth and abundance that it holds.
I settled on my side. For the first time in five days I felt a measure of calm. A little bit of hope-hard earned,
well deserved, reasonable-glowed in me. I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 60
I awoke once during the night. I pushed the canopy aside and looked out. The moon was a sharply defined
crescent and the sky
The Infinite Urban Sea
- The narrator observes a vibrant, bioluminescent underwater world that resembles a bustling city at rush hour.
- He reflects on how the speed of modern cargo ships prevents travelers from seeing the true abundance of marine life.
- A moment of profound calm allows the narrator to experience a sense of hope and peace for the first time in days.
- The vastness of the night sky and the ocean makes the narrator realize his own suffering is finite and insignificant compared to the universe.
- Despite this spiritual perspective, the return of daylight brings a desperate, human desire to cling to his individual life.
I felt like the sage Markandeya, who fell out of Vishnu's mouth while Vishnu was sleeping and so beheld the entire universe, everything that there is.
and under each other as if they were on interchanges that were stacked ten storeys high. And here the cars
were of the craziest colours. The dorados-there must have been over fifty patrolling beneath the raft-showed
off their bright gold, blue and green as they whisked by. Other fish that I could not identify were yellow,
brown, silver, blue, red, pink, green, white, in all kinds of combinations, solid, streaked and speckled. Only the
sharks stubbornly refused to be colourful. But whatever the size or colour of a vehicle, one thing was constant:
the furious driving. There were many collisions-all involving fatalities, I'm afraid-and a number of cars spun
wildly out of control and collided against barriers, bursting above the surface of the water and splashing down
in showers of luminescence. I gazed upon this urban hurly-burly like someone observing a city from a hot-air
balloon. It was a spectacle wondrous and awe-inspiring. This is surely what Tokyo must look like at rush hour.
I looked on until the lights went out in the city.
From the Tsimtsum all I had seen were dolphins. I had assumed that the Pacific, but for passing schools of
fish, was a sparsely inhabited waste of water. I have learned since that cargo ships travel too quickly for fish.
You are as likely to see sea life from a ship as you are to see wildlife in a forest from a car on a highway.
Dolphins, very fast swimmers, play about boats and ships much like dogs chase cars: they race along until
they can no longer keep up. If you want to see wildlife, it is on foot, and quietly, that you must explore a
forest. It is the same with the sea. You must stroll through the Pacific at a walking pace, so to speak, to see the
wealth and abundance that it holds.
I settled on my side. For the first time in five days I felt a measure of calm. A little bit of hope-hard earned,
well deserved, reasonable-glowed in me. I fell asleep.
CHAPTER 60
I awoke once during the night. I pushed the canopy aside and looked out. The moon was a sharply defined
crescent and the sky
was perfectly clear. The stars shone with such fierce, contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the
night dark. The sea lay quietly, bathed in a shy, light-footed light, a dancing play of black and silver that
extended without limits all about me. The volume of things was confounding-the volume of air above me, the
volume of water around and beneath me. I was half-moved, half-terrified. I felt like the sage Markandeya, who
fell out of Vishnu's mouth while Vishnu was sleeping and so beheld the entire universe, everything that there
is. Before the sage could die of fright, Vishnu awoke and took him back into his mouth. For the first time I
noticed-as I would notice repeatedly during my ordeal, between one throe of agony and the next-that my
suffering was taking place in a grand setting. I saw my suffering for what it was, finite and insignificant, and I
was still. My suffering did not fit anywhere, I realized. And I could accept this. It was all right. (It was
daylight that brought my protest: "No! No! No! My suffering does matter. I want to live! I can't help but mix
my life with that of the universe. Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry onto a vastness-how can I not dwell on
this brief, cramped view I have of things? This peephole is all I've got!") I mumbled words of Muslim prayer
and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 61
The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable considering the
strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days.
Page 95
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Suffering and the Shoe
- The narrator experiences a profound spiritual realization at night, viewing his personal suffering as finite and insignificant against the vastness of the universe.
- Daylight shifts his perspective back to a desperate will to live, viewing life as a precious 'peephole' onto the infinite.
- In an attempt to provide food for himself and the tiger, the narrator attempts to fish for the first time using his remaining leather shoe as bait.
- The fishing attempt is a failure, resulting in the loss of his tackle and a self-rebuke regarding his lack of wisdom and care.
- Despite the failure, the narrator remains physically strong and possesses enough emergency rations to avoid immediate despair.
Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry onto a vastness-how can I not dwell on this brief, cramped view I have of things?
was perfectly clear. The stars shone with such fierce, contained brilliance that it seemed absurd to call the
night dark. The sea lay quietly, bathed in a shy, light-footed light, a dancing play of black and silver that
extended without limits all about me. The volume of things was confounding-the volume of air above me, the
volume of water around and beneath me. I was half-moved, half-terrified. I felt like the sage Markandeya, who
fell out of Vishnu's mouth while Vishnu was sleeping and so beheld the entire universe, everything that there
is. Before the sage could die of fright, Vishnu awoke and took him back into his mouth. For the first time I
noticed-as I would notice repeatedly during my ordeal, between one throe of agony and the next-that my
suffering was taking place in a grand setting. I saw my suffering for what it was, finite and insignificant, and I
was still. My suffering did not fit anywhere, I realized. And I could accept this. It was all right. (It was
daylight that brought my protest: "No! No! No! My suffering does matter. I want to live! I can't help but mix
my life with that of the universe. Life is a peephole, a single tiny entry onto a vastness-how can I not dwell on
this brief, cramped view I have of things? This peephole is all I've got!") I mumbled words of Muslim prayer
and went back to sleep.
CHAPTER 61
The next morning I was not too wet and I was feeling strong. I thought this was remarkable considering the
strain I was under and how little I had eaten in the last several days.
Page 95
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life. After a breakfast of three
biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the subject. The first problem
arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing food from under a tiger's nose was a
proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an investment that would bring him an excellent
return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only one left. The other I had lost when the ship sank.
I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my
catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the bow but his head did not
lift. I let the raft out.
I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked three that had an
intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard work; the leather was tough. I
carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, so that the point of the hook was
hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many fish the previous evening that I expected easy
success.
I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy
freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with only the rubber sole
and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheer exasperation I tried the
sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedly light. All
I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle.
This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit,
besides a whole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I had plenty of food in store.
Still, a part of my mind-the one that says what we don't want to hear-rebuked me. "Stupidity has a price. You
should show more care and wisdom next time."
Fishing Fails and Tiger Fears
- Pi attempts to fish for the first time using his only remaining leather shoe as bait to avoid stealing from Richard Parker.
- The fishing expedition is a failure, resulting in the loss of his tackle and the entire shoe to 'freeloading fish.'
- Pi's internal monologue rebukes his incompetence and highlights the urgent need to provide fresh food for the tiger.
- The narrative emphasizes the growing danger that a hungry, thirsty tiger will eventually view Pi as a more appealing meal than rotting zebra.
- Despite a missed opportunity to catch a turtle, Pi observes Richard Parker's massive jaws and remains paralyzed by anxiety for the rest of the day.
My, my, what an enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to visit.
It was a fine day. I decided to try my hand at fishing, for the first time in my life. After a breakfast of three
biscuits and one can of water, I read what the survival manual had to say on the subject. The first problem
arose: bait. I thought about it. There were the dead animals, but stealing food from under a tiger's nose was a
proposition I was not up to. He would not realize that it was an investment that would bring him an excellent
return. I decided to use my leather shoe. I had only one left. The other I had lost when the ship sank.
I crept up to the lifeboat and I gathered from the locker one of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my
catch. Richard Parker was lying on his side. His tail jumped to life when I was at the bow but his head did not
lift. I let the raft out.
I attached a hook to a wire leader, which I tied to a line. I added some lead weights. I picked three that had an
intriguing torpedo shape. I removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. It was hard work; the leather was tough. I
carefully worked the hook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, so that the point of the hook was
hidden. I let the line down deep. There had been so many fish the previous evening that I expected easy
success.
I had none. The whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slight tug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy
freeloading fish by happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until I was left with only the rubber sole
and the shoelace. When the shoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheer exasperation I tried the
sole, all of it. It was not a good idea. I felt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedly light. All
I pulled in was line. I had lost the whole tackle.
This loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. There were other hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit,
besides a whole other kit. And I wasn't even fishing for myself. I had plenty of food in store.
Still, a part of my mind-the one that says what we don't want to hear-rebuked me. "Stupidity has a price. You
should show more care and wisdom next time."
Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached up and bit my
bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon as I touched it I recoiled in
horror. The turtle swam away.
The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again. "What exactly do
you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'll last on three dead animals? Do I
need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's on his last legs he probably won't lift
his nose at much. But don't you think that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebra he'll try the fresh,
juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how are we doing with the water situation? You know how tigers
get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his breath recently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps
you're hoping that he'll lap up the Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite
amazing, this limited capacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a
tidal mangrove forest, I suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too much saline
water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He's yawning. My, my, what an
enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to
visit."
Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. He
swallowed.
I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my own dire
predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the rainfall and he didn't
Page 96
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Desperation and the Tiger's Stare
- Pi experiences a moment of paralyzing fear when he fails to capture a turtle, realizing his survival depends on feeding the tiger.
- The narrator's internal monologue warns that a hungry, thirsty tiger will eventually view him as fresh prey rather than eating putrefied zebra.
- Pi notes the biological adaptation of Sundarbans tigers to salt water but fears that excessive salinity will turn Richard Parker into a man-eater.
- Driven by desperation, Pi risks boarding the lifeboat to search for bait, only to be confronted and struck by the tiger.
- Believing his death is imminent after the attack, Pi surrenders to shock and pleads for a quick end to his suffering.
Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to visit.
Later that morning a second turtle appeared. It came right up to the raft. It could have reached up and bit my
bottom if it had wanted to. When it turned I reached for its hind flipper, but as soon as I touched it I recoiled in
horror. The turtle swam away.
The same part of my mind that had rebuked me over my fishing fiasco scolded me again. "What exactly do
you intend to feed that tiger of yours? How much longer do you think he'll last on three dead animals? Do I
need to remind you that tigers are not carrion eaters? Granted, when he's on his last legs he probably won't lift
his nose at much. But don't you think that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebra he'll try the fresh,
juicy Indian boy just a short dip away? And how are we doing with the water situation? You know how tigers
get impatient with thirst. Have you smelled his breath recently? It's pretty awful. That's a bad sign. Perhaps
you're hoping that he'll lap up the Pacific and in quenching his thirst allow you to walk to America? Quite
amazing, this limited capacity to excrete salt that Sundarbans tigers have developed. Comes from living in a
tidal mangrove forest, I suppose. But it is a limited capacity. Don't they say that drinking too much saline
water makes a man-eater of a tiger? Oh, look. Speak of the devil. There he is. He's yawning. My, my, what an
enormous pink cave. Look at those long yellow stalactites and stalagmites. Maybe today you'll get a chance to
visit."
Richard Parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubber hot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. He
swallowed.
I spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. I stayed away from the lifeboat. Despite my own dire
predictions, Richard Parker passed the time calmly enough. He still had water from the rainfall and he didn't
Page 96
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
seem too concerned with hunger. But he did make various tiger noises-growls and moans and the like-that did
nothing to put me at ease. The riddle seemed irresolvable: to fish I needed bait, but I would have bait only
once I had fish. What was I supposed to do? Use one of my toes? Cut off one of my ears?
A solution appeared in the late afternoon in a most unexpected way. I had pulled myself up to the lifeboat.
More than that: I had climbed aboard and was rummaging through the locker, feverishly looking for an idea
that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from the boat. I fancied that with a jump
and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard Parker. Desperation had pushed me to take such a
risk.
Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up-only to discover that I was dead centre in the focus of his
stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my way and sitting up,
looking as if he'd been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn't heard him stir? What
delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard across the face. I cried out and
closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my face
clawed off-this was the gruesome way I was to die. The pain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock.
Blessed be that part of us that protects us from too much pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a ruse box. I
whimpered, "Go ahead, Richard Parker, finish me off. But please, what you must do, do it quickly. A blown
fuse should not be overtested."
A Rain of Flying Fish
- Pi experiences a moment of paralyzing terror, mistakenly believing Richard Parker has struck him in the face.
- The source of the blow is revealed to be a stray flying fish, which Pi attempts to use as a peace offering to the tiger.
- A massive school of flying fish suddenly swarms the lifeboat like a 'swarm of locusts,' striking both Pi and the tiger with painful force.
- The chaotic onslaught is driven by predatory dorados pursuing the flying fish from beneath the water's surface.
- Pi endures physical pain from the impacts while desperately trying to gather the fish as a vital food source.
Standing unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian.
that would save my life. I had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from the boat. I fancied that with a jump
and a pull at a loose knot I could save myself from Richard Parker. Desperation had pushed me to take such a
risk.
Finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, I sat up-only to discover that I was dead centre in the focus of his
stare. He was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra used to be, turned my way and sitting up,
looking as if he'd been patiently waiting for me to notice him. How was it that I hadn't heard him stir? What
delusion was I under that I thought I could outwit him? Suddenly I was hit hard across the face. I cried out and
closed my eyes. With feline speed he had leapt across the lifeboat and struck me. I was to have my face
clawed off-this was the gruesome way I was to die. The pain was so severe I felt nothing. Blessed be shock.
Blessed be that part of us that protects us from too much pain and sorrow. At the heart of life is a ruse box. I
whimpered, "Go ahead, Richard Parker, finish me off. But please, what you must do, do it quickly. A blown
fuse should not be overtested."
He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the locker and its
riches. I fearfully opened an eye.
It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It was about fifteen
inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry, featherless wings and round,
unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me across the face, not Richard Parker. He
was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could
read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about ready to investigate.
I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him! Where a rat had
gone, a flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air, just ahead of Richard Parker's
open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker
turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls flapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He looked
astonished and displeased. He turned to me again. "Where's my treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and
sadness gripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandoned hope that I could jump onto the raft before
he could jump onto me.
At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying fish. They came
like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something insect-like about the clicking,
whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of them at a time, some of them
flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into the water just before the boat. A number
sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones
returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where
they started a racket of flapping and flailing and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing
unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an
arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I
received cuts and bruises all over my body.
The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the water in hot
pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but they were faster swimmers and their
short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were just behind them and lunging
Page 97
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The First Kill
- A swarm of flying fish strikes the lifeboat, providing a sudden and chaotic source of food for both Pi and Richard Parker.
- Richard Parker displays impressive predatory efficiency and animal confidence, catching and eating the fish with ease.
- Pi struggles with his lifelong commitment to vegetarianism and non-violence as he attempts to kill a fish for bait.
- The act of killing the fish causes Pi deep emotional distress, leading him to compare himself to the biblical figure Cain.
- Once the first kill is completed, Pi finds the subsequent task of butchering the fish for survival much easier to handle.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer.
He was taking his time. He was at my feet, making noises. No doubt he had discovered the locker and its
riches. I fearfully opened an eye.
It was a fish. There was a fish in the locker. It was flopping about like a fish out of water. It was about fifteen
inches long and it had wings. A flying fish. Slim and dark grey-blue, with dry, featherless wings and round,
unblinking, yellowish eyes. It was this flying fish that had struck me across the face, not Richard Parker. He
was still fifteen feet away, no doubt wondering what I was going on about. But he had seen the fish. I could
read a keen curiosity on his face. He seemed about ready to investigate.
I bent down, picked up the fish and threw it towards him. This was the way to tame him! Where a rat had
gone, a flying fish would follow. Unfortunately, the flying fish flew. In mid-air, just ahead of Richard Parker's
open mouth, the fish swerved and dropped into the water. It happened with lightning speed. Richard Parker
turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowls flapping, but the fish was too quick for him. He looked
astonished and displeased. He turned to me again. "Where's my treat?" his face seemed to inquire. Fear and
sadness gripped me. I turned with the half-hearted, half-abandoned hope that I could jump onto the raft before
he could jump onto me.
At that precise instant there was a vibration in the air and we were struck by a school of flying fish. They came
like a swarm of locusts. It was not only their numbers; there was also something insect-like about the clicking,
whirring sound of their wings. They burst out of the water, dozens of them at a time, some of them
flick-flacking over a hundred yards through the air. Many dived into the water just before the boat. A number
sailed clear over it. Some crashed into its side, sounding like firecrackers going off. Several lucky ones
returned to the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. Others, less fortunate, fell directly into the boat, where
they started a racket of flapping and flailing and splashing. And still others flew right into us. Standing
unprotected as I was, I felt I was living the martyrdom of Saint Sebastian. Every fish that hit me was like an
arrow entering my flesh. I clutched at a blanket to protect myself while also trying to catch some of the fish. I
received cuts and bruises all over my body.
The reason for this onslaught became evident immediately: dorados were leaping out of the water in hot
pursuit of them. The much larger dorados couldn't match their flying, but they were faster swimmers and their
short lunges were very powerful. They could overtake flying fish if they were just behind them and lunging
Page 97
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the
water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last
long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and
went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling
wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the
speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of
ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much
greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.
I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I
couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it,
fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid
and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome
fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills
opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over
and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may
seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of
predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard
Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of
a fish.
I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air.
The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the
blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what
it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I
gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering
would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life
fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and
bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a
killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I
had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this
fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of
Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into
pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But
success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour.
The First Kill
- A chaotic feeding frenzy erupts as sharks and dorados hunt flying fish, turning the sea into a boiling cauldron of aquatic mayhem.
- The narrator observes Richard Parker's predatory efficiency, noting the tiger's total absorption in the present moment as a form of animal mastery.
- Struggling with a lifetime of vegetarianism and religious devotion, the narrator faces a moral crisis while attempting to kill a flying fish for bait.
- After several failed attempts and much weeping, the narrator finally breaks the fish's neck, feeling a profound sense of guilt and spiritual loss.
- The act of killing marks a psychological turning point, transforming the narrator from a harmless boy into someone who carries the 'burden' of taking life.
Such a mix of ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the
water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last
long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and
went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling
wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the
speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of
ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much
greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.
I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I
couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it,
fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid
and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome
fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills
opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over
and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may
seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of
predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard
Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of
a fish.
I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air.
The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the
blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what
it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I
gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering
would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life
fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and
bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a
killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I
had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this
fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of
Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into
pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But
success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour.
Their interest was evident. I realized
that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond
The First Kill
- A chaotic feeding frenzy erupts as flying fish, dorados, and sharks leap from the water in a display of aquatic mayhem.
- Pi observes Richard Parker's effortless predatory nature, envying the tiger's total absorption in the present moment and animal confidence.
- Struggling with a lifetime of vegetarianism and religious devotion, Pi faces a moral crisis while attempting to kill a flying fish for bait.
- After several failed attempts and much weeping, Pi finally breaks the fish's neck, feeling a profound sense of guilt and comparing himself to Cain.
- The act of killing marks a psychological turning point for Pi, as he transitions from a harmless boy to a survivor with blood on his hands.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer.
from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the
water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last
long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and
went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling
wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the
speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of
ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much
greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.
I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I
couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it,
fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid
and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome
fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills
opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over
and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may
seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of
predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard
Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of
a fish.
I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air.
The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the
blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what
it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I
gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering
would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life
fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and
bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a
killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I
had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this
fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of
Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into
pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But
success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour.
Their interest was evident. I realized
that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond
Page 98
The First Kill
- A chaotic feeding frenzy erupts as sharks and dorados hunt flying fish, turning the sea into a boiling cauldron of aquatic mayhem.
- Pi observes Richard Parker's predatory efficiency, noting the tiger's total absorption in the moment and animal confidence that rivals a yogi's focus.
- Struggling with a lifetime of vegetarianism and religious devotion, Pi faces a moral crisis while attempting to kill a flying fish for bait.
- After several failed attempts and much weeping, Pi finally breaks the fish's neck, feeling a profound sense of guilt and comparing himself to Cain.
- The act of killing marks a psychological turning point for Pi, as he transitions from a harmless boy to a survivor with blood on his hands.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer.
from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the
water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last
long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and
went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling
wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the
speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of
ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much
greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.
I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I
couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it,
fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid
and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome
fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills
opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over
and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may
seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of
predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard
Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of
a fish.
I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air.
The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the
blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what
it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I
gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering
would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life
fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and
bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a
killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I
had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this
fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of
Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into
pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But
success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour.
Their interest was evident. I realized
that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond
Page 98
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The First Kill
- Pi observes Richard Parker's effortless and predatory efficiency during a chaotic flying fish swarm, contrasting the tiger's animal confidence with his own human hesitation.
- A lifelong vegetarian, Pi struggles with the moral and emotional weight of killing a flying fish to use as bait, eventually weeping over the act.
- The successful capture of a large dorado transforms Pi's mood from one of guilt and sorrow to a sense of wild triumph and retaliation against his circumstances.
- Pi views his survival through a religious lens, thanking Lord Vishnu for the catch and seeing the fish as a divine gift in his struggle against the sea.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a killer.
from the water at the same time and in the same direction. There were sharks too; they also leapt out of the
water, not so cleanly but with devastating consequence for some dorados. This aquatic mayhem didn't last
long, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumped and jaws worked hard.
Richard Parker was tougher than I was in the face of these fish, and far more efficient. He raised himself and
went about blocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. Many were eaten live and whole, struggling
wings beating in his mouth. It was a dazzling display of might and speed. Actually, it was not so much the
speed that was impressive as the pure animal confidence, the total absorption in the moment. Such a mix of
ease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would be the envy of the highest yogis.
When it was over, the result, besides a very sore body for me, was six flying fish in the locker and a much
greater number in the lifeboat. I hurriedly wrapped a fish in a blanket, gathered a hatchet and made for the raft.
I proceeded with great deliberation. The loss of my tackle that morning had had a sobering effect on me. I
couldn't allow myself another mistake. I unwrapped the fish carefully, keeping a hand pressed down on it,
fully aware that it would try to jump away to save itself. The closer the fish was to appearing, the more afraid
and disgusted I became. Its head came into sight. The way I was holding it, it looked like a scoop of loathsome
fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone. The thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills
opening and closing slowly. I could feel it pushing with its wings against my hand. I turned the bucket over
and brought its head against the bottom. I took hold of the hatchet. I raised it in the air.
Several times I started bringing the hatchet down, but I couldn't complete the action. Such sentimentalism may
seem ridiculous considering what I had witnessed in the last days, but those were the deeds of others, of
predatory animals. I suppose I was partly responsible for the rat's death, but I'd only thrown it; it was Richard
Parker who had killed it. A lifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and the willful beheading of
a fish.
I covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned the hatchet around. Again my hand wavered in the air.
The idea of beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply too much.
I put the hatchet down. I would break its neck, sight unseen, I decided. I wrapped the fish tightly in the
blanket. With both hands I started bending it. The more I pressed, the more the fish struggled. I imagined what
it would feel like if I were wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to break my neck. I was appalled. I
gave up a number of times. Yet I knew it had to be done, and the longer I waited, the longer the fish's suffering
would go on.
Tears flowing down my cheeks, I egged myself on until I heard a cracking sound and I no longer felt any life
fighting in my hands. I pulled back the folds of the blanket. The flying fish was dead. It was split open and
bloody on one side of its head, at the level of the gills.
I wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. It was the first sentient being I had ever killed. I was now a
killer. I was now as guilty as Cain. I was sixteen years old, a harmless boy, bookish and religious, and now I
had blood on my hands. It's a terrible burden to carry. All sentient life is sacred. I never forget to include this
fish in my prayers.
After that it was easier. Now that it was dead, the flying fish looked like fish I had seen in the markets of
Pondicherry. It was something else, something outside the essential scheme of creation. I chopped it up into
pieces with the hatchet and put it in the bucket.
In the dying hours of the day I tried fishing again. At first I had no better luck than I'd had in the morning. But
success seemed less elusive. The fish nibbled at the hook with fervour.
Their interest was evident. I realized
that these were small fish, too small for the hook. So I cast my line further out and let it sink deeper, beyond
Page 98
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat.
It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in
quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first strike. A dorado surged
forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had properly swallowed the bait,
before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line so hard I thought
it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it would not
break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The
line cut into my hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as
an ox. I was not sure I would be able to pull it in.
I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's
distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms were aching. Every
time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into letting out some line.
At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado
like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle,
so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine
a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. A dorado is a
magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality,
a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was
dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the
sea, against the wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me.
"Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish.
The Dorado Battle
- The narrator successfully catches a large dorado by using a flying fish head as surface bait.
- The struggle to land the fish is physically intense, causing the narrator's heart to pound and the line to cut into his hands.
- The presence of the struggling dorado causes all other small fish to vanish, creating a fear of attracting sharks to the raft.
- Capturing the fish provides a profound psychological victory, serving as a symbolic retaliation against the narrator's dire circumstances.
- The narrator expresses spiritual gratitude to Lord Vishnu, viewing the catch as a divine intervention for survival.
It was a writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft.
the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat.
It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in
quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first strike. A dorado surged
forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had properly swallowed the bait,
before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line so hard I thought
it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it would not
break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The
line cut into my hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as
an ox. I was not sure I would be able to pull it in.
I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's
distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms were aching. Every
time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into letting out some line.
At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado
like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle,
so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine
a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. A dorado is a
magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality,
a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was
dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the
sea, against the wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me.
"Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish.
Now you
The Rainbow's Death
- The narrator successfully captures a large, powerful dorado by using a flying fish head as surface bait.
- The struggle to land the fish is physically exhausting and emotionally charged, representing a symbolic victory over the narrator's dire circumstances.
- As the dorado dies from hammer blows, it displays a stunning iridescent light show, flashing through a spectrum of neon colors.
- The narrator reflects on his rapid desensitization to violence, noting that a person can become accustomed to even the most brutal acts of survival.
- The catch is shared with the tiger, Richard Parker, reinforcing the narrator's role as the provider and master of the lifeboat.
Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death.
the reach of the small fish that concentrated around the raft and lifeboat.
It was when I used the flying fish's head as bait, and with only one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in
quickly, making the head skim over the surface of the water, that I finally had my first strike. A dorado surged
forth and lunged for the fish head. I let out a little slack, to make sure it had properly swallowed the bait,
before giving the line a good yank. The dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line so hard I thought
it was going to pull me off the raft. I braced myself. The line became very taut. It was good line; it would not
break. I started bringing the dorado in. It struggled with all its might, jumping and diving and splashing. The
line cut into my hands. I wrapped my hands in the blanket. My heart was pounding. The fish was as strong as
an ox. I was not sure I would be able to pull it in.
I noticed all the other fish had vanished from around the raft and boat. No doubt they had sensed the dorado's
distress. I hurried. Its struggling would attract sharks. But it fought like a devil. My arms were aching. Every
time I got it close to the raft, it beat about with such frenzy that I was cowed into letting out some line.
At last I managed to haul it aboard. It was over three feet long. The bucket was useless. It would fit the dorado
like a hat. I held the fish down by kneeling on it and using my hands. It was a writhing mass of pure muscle,
so big its tail stuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. It was giving me a ride like I imagine
a bucking bronco would give a cowboy. I was in a wild and triumphant mood. A dorado is a
magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, with a bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality,
a very long dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat of scales that is smooth and bright. I felt I was
dealing fate a serious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. With this fish I was retaliating against the
sea, against the wind, against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that were working against me.
"Thank you, Lord Vishnu, thank you!" I shouted. "Once you saved the world by taking the form of a fish.
Now you
have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!"
Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself thd trouble-after all, it was for Richard Parker and he
would have dispatched it with expert ease-but for the hook that was embedded in its mouth. I exulted at having
a dorado at the end of my line-I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I went about the job in a direct way. I
took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn't
have th stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash
all kinds of colours in rapid succesion. Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on
its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for
its death-knell iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed
to retrieve a part of my bait.
You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the muffled killing of
a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by arguing that profiting from a
pitiful flying fish's navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement of actively
capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-assured. But in point of fact the explanation lies
elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to anything, even to killing.
It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to the lifeboat. I brought it along the side, keeping very
low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy thud and provoked a gruff
expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet mashing sound of a mouth at
work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle hard several times, to remind Richard Parker of
who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water.
The five remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and
wrapped the fish in the now-consecrated fish blanket.
The Rainbow and the Hunter
- Pi captures a large dorado and experiences a visceral shift from his initial sorrow over killing to a sense of sanguinary pride.
- The dying dorado displays a stunning, neon-like iridescence, flickering through a spectrum of colors in its final moments.
- Pi reflects on the brutal reality of survival, noting that a person can quickly become accustomed to the act of killing.
- After feeding Richard Parker, Pi finds a sense of purpose and distraction in the labor of fishing, which keeps his despair at bay.
- As a new day begins, Pi identifies dehydration as the most critical threat facing both himself and the tiger.
The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succesion. Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death.
have saved me by taking the form of a fish. Thank you, thank you!"
Killing it was no problem. I would have spared myself thd trouble-after all, it was for Richard Parker and he
would have dispatched it with expert ease-but for the hook that was embedded in its mouth. I exulted at having
a dorado at the end of my line-I would be less keen if it were a tiger. I went about the job in a direct way. I
took the hatchet in both my hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with the hammerhead (I still didn't
have th stomach to use the sharp edge). The dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: it began to flash
all kinds of colours in rapid succesion. Blue, green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-like on
its surface as it struggled. I felt I was beating a rainbow to death. (I found out later that the dorado is famed for
its death-knell iridescence.) At last it lay still and dull-coloured, and I could remove the hook. I even managed
to retrieve a part of my bait.
You may be astonished that in such a short period of time I could go from weeping over the muffled killing of
a flying fish to gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. I could explain it by arguing that profiting from a
pitiful flying fish's navigational mistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement of actively
capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary and self-assured. But in point of fact the explanation lies
elsewhere. It is simple and brutal: a person can get used to anything, even to killing.
It was with a hunter's pride that I pulled the raft up to the lifeboat. I brought it along the side, keeping very
low. I swung my arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. It landed with a heavy thud and provoked a gruff
expression of surprise from Richard Parker. After a sniff or two, I heard the wet mashing sound of a mouth at
work. I pushed myself off, not forgetting to blow the whistle hard several times, to remind Richard Parker of
who had so graciously provided him with fresh food. I stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water.
The five remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. I pulled their wings off, throwing them away, and
wrapped the fish in the now-consecrated fish blanket.
Page 99
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
By the time I had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up my fishing gear, put things away and had my supper,
night had come on. A thin layer of clouds masked the stars and the moon, and it was very dark. I was tired, but
still excited by the events of the last hours. The feeling of busyness was profoundly satisfying; I hadn't thought
at all about my plight or myself. Fishing was surely a better way of passing the time than yarn-spinning or
playing I Spy. I determined to start again the next day as soon as there was light.
I fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickering of the dying dorado.
CHAPTER 62
I slept in fits that night. Shortly before sunrise I gave up trying to fall asleep again and lifted myself on an
elbow. I spied with my little eye a tiger. Richard Parker was restless. He was moaning and growling and
pacing about the lifeboat. It was impressive. I assessed the situation. He couldn't be hungry. Or at least not
dangerously hungry. Was he thirsty? His tongue hung from his mouth, but only on occasion, and he was not
panting. And his stomach and paws were still wet. But they were not dripping wet. There probably wasn't
much water left in the boat. Soon he would be thirsty.
I looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had vanished. But for a few wisps on the horizon, the sky was clear. It
would be another hot, rainless day. The sea moved in a lethargic way, as if already exhausted by the oncoming
heat.
I sat against the mast and thought over our problem. The biscuits and the fishing gear assured us of the solid
part of our diet. It was the liquid part that was the rub. It all came down to what was so abundant around us but
The Solar Sea Cows
- Pi observes Richard Parker's growing restlessness and realizes that thirst will soon become their most dangerous adversary.
- The protagonist evaluates his limited water supply, noting that the canned water is insufficient and relying on rain is a foolish gamble.
- Upon checking the solar stills, Pi is shocked to find the distillate pouches are full of fresh, salt-free water.
- The discovery of over eight liters of water transforms Pi's outlook, leading him to view the floating stills as precious cattle.
- Pi carefully maintains the equipment and prepares a mixture of fresh and sea water to sustain both himself and the tiger.
My fingers took hold of a bag that was unexpectedly fat. A shiver of thrill went through me.
I slept in fits that night. Shortly before sunrise I gave up trying to fall asleep again and lifted myself on an
elbow. I spied with my little eye a tiger. Richard Parker was restless. He was moaning and growling and
pacing about the lifeboat. It was impressive. I assessed the situation. He couldn't be hungry. Or at least not
dangerously hungry. Was he thirsty? His tongue hung from his mouth, but only on occasion, and he was not
panting. And his stomach and paws were still wet. But they were not dripping wet. There probably wasn't
much water left in the boat. Soon he would be thirsty.
I looked up at the sky. The cloud cover had vanished. But for a few wisps on the horizon, the sky was clear. It
would be another hot, rainless day. The sea moved in a lethargic way, as if already exhausted by the oncoming
heat.
I sat against the mast and thought over our problem. The biscuits and the fishing gear assured us of the solid
part of our diet. It was the liquid part that was the rub. It all came down to what was so abundant around us but
marred by salt. I could perhaps mix some sea water with his fresh water, but I had to procure more fresh water
to start with. The cans would not last long between the two of us-in fact, I was loath to share even one with
Richard Parker-and it would be foolish to rely on rainwater.
The solar stills were the only other possible source of drinkable water. I looked at them doubtfully. They had
been out two days now. I noticed that one of them had lost a little air. I pulled on the rope to tend to it. I
topped off its cone with air. Without any real expectation I reached underwater for the distillate pouch that was
clipped to the round buoyancy chamber. My fingers took hold of a bag that was unexpectedly fat. A shiver of
thrill went through me. I controlled myself. As likely as not, salt water had leaked in. I unhooked the pouch
and, following the instructions, lowered it and tilted the still so that any more water from beneath the cone
might flow into it. I closed the two small taps that led to the pouch, detached it and pulled it out of the water. It
was rectangular in shape and made of thick, soft, yellow plastic, with calibration marks on one side. I tasted
the water. I tasted it again. It was salt-free.
"My sweet sea cow!" I exclaimed to the solar still. "You've produced, and how! What a delicious milk. Mind
you, a little rubbery, but I'm not complaining. Why, look at me drink!"
I finished the bag. It had a capacity of one litre and was nearly full. After a moment of sigh-producing,
shut-eyed satisfaction, I reattached the pouch. I checked the other stills. Each one had an udder similarly
heavy. I collected the fresh milk, over eight litres of it, in the fish bucket. Instantly these technological
contraptions became as precious to me as cattle are to a farmer. Indeed, as they floated placidly in an arc, they
looked almost like cows grazing in a field. I ministered to their needs, making sure that there was enough sea
water inside each and that the cones and chambers were inflated to just the right pressure.
After adding a little sea water to the bucket's contents, I placed it on the side bench just beyond the tarpaulin.
Page 100
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Solar Still Harvest
- Pi discovers that the solar stills have successfully produced nearly eight litres of fresh water from the sea.
- He views the technological devices with newfound reverence, comparing them to precious cattle grazing in a field.
- Pi provides water to Richard Parker, observing that the tiger's presence and habits are turning the lifeboat into a makeshift zoo enclosure.
- Despite the success with water, Pi's fishing efforts fail for the day, highlighting the ongoing struggle for consistent food sources.
- As the heat intensifies, Pi notes that it has been nearly a week since the sinking of the Tsimtsum.
Instantly these technological contraptions became as precious to me as cattle are to a farmer.
marred by salt. I could perhaps mix some sea water with his fresh water, but I had to procure more fresh water
to start with. The cans would not last long between the two of us-in fact, I was loath to share even one with
Richard Parker-and it would be foolish to rely on rainwater.
The solar stills were the only other possible source of drinkable water. I looked at them doubtfully. They had
been out two days now. I noticed that one of them had lost a little air. I pulled on the rope to tend to it. I
topped off its cone with air. Without any real expectation I reached underwater for the distillate pouch that was
clipped to the round buoyancy chamber. My fingers took hold of a bag that was unexpectedly fat. A shiver of
thrill went through me. I controlled myself. As likely as not, salt water had leaked in. I unhooked the pouch
and, following the instructions, lowered it and tilted the still so that any more water from beneath the cone
might flow into it. I closed the two small taps that led to the pouch, detached it and pulled it out of the water. It
was rectangular in shape and made of thick, soft, yellow plastic, with calibration marks on one side. I tasted
the water. I tasted it again. It was salt-free.
"My sweet sea cow!" I exclaimed to the solar still. "You've produced, and how! What a delicious milk. Mind
you, a little rubbery, but I'm not complaining. Why, look at me drink!"
I finished the bag. It had a capacity of one litre and was nearly full. After a moment of sigh-producing,
shut-eyed satisfaction, I reattached the pouch. I checked the other stills. Each one had an udder similarly
heavy. I collected the fresh milk, over eight litres of it, in the fish bucket. Instantly these technological
contraptions became as precious to me as cattle are to a farmer. Indeed, as they floated placidly in an arc, they
looked almost like cows grazing in a field. I ministered to their needs, making sure that there was enough sea
water inside each and that the cones and chambers were inflated to just the right pressure.
After adding a little sea water to the bucket's contents, I placed it on the side bench just beyond the tarpaulin.
Page 100
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
With the end of the morning coolness, Richard Parker seemed safely settled below. I tied the bucket in place
using rope and the tarpaulin hooks on the side of the boat. I carefully peeked over the gunnel. He was lying on
his side. His den was a foul sight. The dead mammals were heaped together, a grotesque pile of decayed
animal parts. I recognized a leg or two, various patches of hide, parts of a head, a great number of bones.
Flying-fish wings were scattered about.
I cut up a flying fish and tossed a piece onto the side bench. After I had gathered what I needed for the day
from the locker and was ready to go, I tossed another piece over the tarpaulin in front of Richard Parker. It had
the intended effect. As I drifted away I saw him come out into the open to fetch the morsel of fish. His head
turned and he noticed the other morsel and the new object next to it. He lifted himself. He hung his huge head
over the bucket. I was afraid he would tip it over. He didn't. His face disappeared into it, barely fitting, and he
started to lap up the water. In very little time the bucket started shaking and rattling emptily with each strike of
his tongue. When he looked up, I stared him aggressively in the eyes and I blew on the whistle a few times. He
disappeared under the tarpaulin.
It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboat was resembling a zoo enclosure more and more:
Richard Parker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his food stash, his lookout and now his water
hole.
The temperature climbed. The heat became stifling. I spent the rest of the day in the shade of the canopy,
fishing. It seems I had had beginner's luck with that first dorado. I caught nothing the whole day, not even in
the late afternoon, when marine life appeared in abundance. A turtle turned up, a different kind this time, a
green sea turtle, bulkier and smoother-shelled, but curious in the same fixed way as a hawksbill. I did nothing
about it, but I started thinking that I should.
The only good thing about the day being so hot was the sight the solar stills presented. Every cone was
covered on the inside with drops and rivulets of condensation.
The day ended. I calculated that the next morning would make it a week since the Tsimtsum had sunk.
The Zoo of Survival
- Pi establishes a controlled environment for Richard Parker by providing a water bucket and food, effectively turning the lifeboat into a functional zoo enclosure.
- The protagonist uses a whistle and aggressive eye contact to assert dominance and maintain boundaries after the tiger finishes drinking.
- Pi reflects on the historical records of famous castaways, revealing that his own ordeal lasted a remarkable 227 days.
- A strict daily routine consisting of prayers, equipment maintenance, and fishing becomes the psychological foundation for Pi's long-term survival.
- The extreme heat of the day serves a dual purpose, causing physical suffering while simultaneously powering the solar stills to produce fresh water.
It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboat was resembling a zoo enclosure more and more: Richard Parker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his food stash, his lookout and now his water hole.
With the end of the morning coolness, Richard Parker seemed safely settled below. I tied the bucket in place
using rope and the tarpaulin hooks on the side of the boat. I carefully peeked over the gunnel. He was lying on
his side. His den was a foul sight. The dead mammals were heaped together, a grotesque pile of decayed
animal parts. I recognized a leg or two, various patches of hide, parts of a head, a great number of bones.
Flying-fish wings were scattered about.
I cut up a flying fish and tossed a piece onto the side bench. After I had gathered what I needed for the day
from the locker and was ready to go, I tossed another piece over the tarpaulin in front of Richard Parker. It had
the intended effect. As I drifted away I saw him come out into the open to fetch the morsel of fish. His head
turned and he noticed the other morsel and the new object next to it. He lifted himself. He hung his huge head
over the bucket. I was afraid he would tip it over. He didn't. His face disappeared into it, barely fitting, and he
started to lap up the water. In very little time the bucket started shaking and rattling emptily with each strike of
his tongue. When he looked up, I stared him aggressively in the eyes and I blew on the whistle a few times. He
disappeared under the tarpaulin.
It occurred to me that with every passing day the lifeboat was resembling a zoo enclosure more and more:
Richard Parker had his sheltered area for sleeping and resting, his food stash, his lookout and now his water
hole.
The temperature climbed. The heat became stifling. I spent the rest of the day in the shade of the canopy,
fishing. It seems I had had beginner's luck with that first dorado. I caught nothing the whole day, not even in
the late afternoon, when marine life appeared in abundance. A turtle turned up, a different kind this time, a
green sea turtle, bulkier and smoother-shelled, but curious in the same fixed way as a hawksbill. I did nothing
about it, but I started thinking that I should.
The only good thing about the day being so hot was the sight the solar stills presented. Every cone was
covered on the inside with drops and rivulets of condensation.
The day ended. I calculated that the next morning would make it a week since the Tsimtsum had sunk.
CHAPTER 63
The Robertson family survived thirty-eight days at sea. Captain Bligh of the celebrated mutinous Bounty and
his fellow castaways survived forty-seven days. Steven Callahan survived seventy-six. Owen Chase, whose
account of the sinking of the whaling ship Essex by a whale inspired Herman Melville, survived eighty-three
days at sea with two mates, interrupted by a one-week stay on an inhospitable island. The Bailey family
survived 118 days. I have heard of a Korean merchant sailor named Poon, I believe, who survived the Pacific
for 173 days in the 1950s.
I survived 227 days. That's how long my trial lasted, over seven months.
I kept myself busy. That was one key to my survival. On a lifeboat, even on a raft, there's always something
that needs doing. An average day for me, if such a notion can be applied to a castaway, went like this:
Sunrise to mid-morning:
wake up
prayers
breakfast for Richard Parker
Page 101
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
general inspection of raft and lifeboat, with particular attention paid to all knots and ropes
tending of solar stills (wiping, inflating, topping off with water)
breakfast and inspection of food stores
fishing and preparing of fish if any caught (gutting, cleaning, hanging of strips of flesh on lines to cure in the
sun)
Mid-morning to late afternoon:
prayers
light lunch
rest and restful activities (writing in diary, examining of scabs and sores, upkeeping of equipment, puttering
about locker, observation and study of Richard Parker, picking-at of turtle bones, etc.)
Late afternoon to early evening:
prayers
fishing and preparing of fish
tending of curing strips of flesh (turning over, cutting away of putrid parts)
Survival and Timelessness
- The narrator maintains a rigorous daily schedule of fishing, equipment maintenance, and frequent prayer to manage the emptiness of the sea.
- Richard Parker remains a constant priority and a source of both danger and fascination, requiring constant observation and accommodation.
- Survival is achieved by abandoning the concept of linear time and calendars, allowing days to merge into a jumble of sensory memories.
- Physical deterioration becomes a major challenge as clothes disintegrate and painful salt-water boils cover the narrator's body.
- External events like rainfall or turtle visits serve as the only significant disruptions to an otherwise repetitive and grueling routine.
Time is an illusion that only makes us pant. I survived because I forgot even the very notion of time.
fishing and preparing of fish if any caught (gutting, cleaning, hanging of strips of flesh on lines to cure in the
sun)
Mid-morning to late afternoon:
prayers
light lunch
rest and restful activities (writing in diary, examining of scabs and sores, upkeeping of equipment, puttering
about locker, observation and study of Richard Parker, picking-at of turtle bones, etc.)
Late afternoon to early evening:
prayers
fishing and preparing of fish
tending of curing strips of flesh (turning over, cutting away of putrid parts)
dinner preparations
dinner for self and Richard Parker
Sunset:
general inspection of raft and lifeboat (knots and ropes again)
collecting and safekeeping of distillate from solar stills
storing of all foods and equipment arrangements for night (making of bed, safe storage on raft of flare, in case
of ship, and rain catcher, in case of rain)
prayers
Night:
fitful sleeping
prayers
Mornings were usually better than late afternoons, when the emptiness of time tended to make itself felt.
Any number of events affected this routine. Rainfall, at any time of the day or night, stopped all other
business; for as long as it fell, I held up the rain catchers and was feverishly occupied storing their catch. A
turtle's visit was another major disruption. And Richard Parker, of course, was a regular disturbance.
Accommodating him was a priority I could not neglect for an instant. He didn't have much of a routine beyond
eating, drinking and sleeping, but there were times when he stirred from his lethargy and rambled about his
territory, making noises and being cranky. Thankfully, every time, the sun and the sea quickly tired him and
he returned to beneath the tarpaulin, to lying on his side again, or flat on his stomach, his head on top of his
crossed front legs.
But there was more to my dealings with him than strict necessity. I also spent hours observing him because it
was a distraction. A tiger is a fascinating animal at any time, and all the more so when it is your sole
companion.
At first, looking out for a ship was something I did all the time, compulsively. But after a few weeks, five or
six, I stopped doing it nearly entirely.
And I survived because I made a point of forgetting. My story started on a calendar day-July 2nd, 1977-and
ended on a calendar day-February 14th, 1978-but in between there was no calendar. I did not count the days or
Page 102
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
the weeks or the months. Time is an illusion that only makes us pant. I survived because I forgot even the very
notion of time.
What I remember are events and encounters and routines, markers that emerged here and there from the ocean
of time and imprinted themselves on my memory. The smell of spent hand-flare shells, and prayers at dawn,
and the killing of turtles, and the biology of algae, for example. And many more. But I don't know if I can put
them in order for you. My memories come in a jumble.
CHAPTER 64
My clothes disintegrated, victims of the sun and the salt. First they became gauze-thin. Then they tore until
only the seams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I lived stark naked except for the whistle that
dangled from my neck by a string.
Salt-water boils-red, angry, disfiguring-were a leprosy of the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked
me. Where they burst, my skin was exceptionally sensitive; accidentally rubbing an open sore was so painful I
would gasp and cry out. Naturally, these boils developed on the parts of my body that got the most wet and the
most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days when I could hardly find a position in which I
could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the process was slow, and new boils appeared if I didn't stay
dry.
CHAPTER 65
Nakedness and Navigational Despair
- The narrator's clothing completely disintegrates over time due to sun and salt exposure, leaving him naked except for a whistle.
- Painful salt-water boils develop across his body, particularly on his backside, making any resting position nearly impossible to maintain.
- The survival manual's instructions on navigation prove useless because they assume a level of seafaring expertise and equipment the narrator lacks.
- Lacking a watch, a rudder, or knowledge of the stars, the narrator abandons the idea of plotting a course and submits to the whims of the winds and currents.
- The narrator reflects on his spiritual connection to the night sky, which offers a sense of wonder but no practical geographic guidance.
Salt-water boils-red, angry, disfiguring-were a leprosy of the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked me.
My clothes disintegrated, victims of the sun and the salt. First they became gauze-thin. Then they tore until
only the seams were left. Lastly, the seams broke. For months I lived stark naked except for the whistle that
dangled from my neck by a string.
Salt-water boils-red, angry, disfiguring-were a leprosy of the high seas, transmitted by the water that soaked
me. Where they burst, my skin was exceptionally sensitive; accidentally rubbing an open sore was so painful I
would gasp and cry out. Naturally, these boils developed on the parts of my body that got the most wet and the
most wear on the raft; that is, my backside. There were days when I could hardly find a position in which I
could rest. Time and sunshine healed a sore, but the process was slow, and new boils appeared if I didn't stay
dry.
CHAPTER 65
I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survival manual on navigation. Plain and simple explanations
on living off the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge of seafaring was assumed by the author
of the manual. The castaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who, compass, chart and sextant in hand,
knew how he found his way into trouble, if not how he would get out of it. The result was advice such as
"Remember, time is distance. Don't forget to wind your watch," or "Latitude can be measured with the fingers,
if need be." I had a watch, but it was now at the bottom of the Pacific. I lost it when the Tsimtsum sank. As for
latitude and longitude, my marine knowledge was strictly limited to what lived in the sea and did not extend to
what cruised on top of it. Winds and currents were a mystery to me. The stars meant nothing to me. I couldn't
name a single constellation. My family lived by one star alone: the sun. We were early to bed and early to rise.
I had in my life looked at a number of beautiful starry nights, where with just two colours and the simplest of
styles nature draws the grandest of pictures, and I felt the feelings of wonder and smallness that we all feel,
and I got a clear sense of direction from the spectacle, most definitely, but I mean that in a spiritual sense, not
in a geographic one. I hadn't the faintest idea how the night sky might serve as a road map. How could the
stars, sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they kept moving?
I gave up trying to find out. Any knowledge I might gain was useless. I had no means of controlling where I
was going-no rudder, no sails, no motor, some oars but insufficient brawn. What was the point of plotting a
course if I could not act on it? And even if I could, how should I know where to go? West, back to where we
came from? East, to America? North, to Asia? South, to where the shipping lanes were? Each seemed a good
and bad course in equal measure.
So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Time became distance for me in the way it is for all
Page 103
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
mortals-I travelled down the road of life-and I did other things with my fingers than try to measure latitude. I
found out later that I travelled a narrow road, the Pacific equatorial counter-current.
CHAPTER 66
Navigation and Primal Survival
- The narrator struggles to interpret a survival manual that assumes a level of seafaring expertise and equipment he no longer possesses.
- Faced with an inability to control his direction or read the stars, he abandons formal navigation to drift with the Pacific currents.
- Fishing becomes a desperate, grueling labor where the narrator must transition from using ineffective hooks to mastering the use of gaffs.
- The necessity of feeding himself and Richard Parker transforms the narrator from a 'prissy' observer into a violent, instinctive hunter.
I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth-I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
I spent hours trying to decipher the lines in the survival manual on navigation. Plain and simple explanations
on living off the sea were given in abundance, but a basic knowledge of seafaring was assumed by the author
of the manual. The castaway was to his mind an experienced sailor who, compass, chart and sextant in hand,
knew how he found his way into trouble, if not how he would get out of it. The result was advice such as
"Remember, time is distance. Don't forget to wind your watch," or "Latitude can be measured with the fingers,
if need be." I had a watch, but it was now at the bottom of the Pacific. I lost it when the Tsimtsum sank. As for
latitude and longitude, my marine knowledge was strictly limited to what lived in the sea and did not extend to
what cruised on top of it. Winds and currents were a mystery to me. The stars meant nothing to me. I couldn't
name a single constellation. My family lived by one star alone: the sun. We were early to bed and early to rise.
I had in my life looked at a number of beautiful starry nights, where with just two colours and the simplest of
styles nature draws the grandest of pictures, and I felt the feelings of wonder and smallness that we all feel,
and I got a clear sense of direction from the spectacle, most definitely, but I mean that in a spiritual sense, not
in a geographic one. I hadn't the faintest idea how the night sky might serve as a road map. How could the
stars, sparkle as they might, help me find my way if they kept moving?
I gave up trying to find out. Any knowledge I might gain was useless. I had no means of controlling where I
was going-no rudder, no sails, no motor, some oars but insufficient brawn. What was the point of plotting a
course if I could not act on it? And even if I could, how should I know where to go? West, back to where we
came from? East, to America? North, to Asia? South, to where the shipping lanes were? Each seemed a good
and bad course in equal measure.
So I drifted. Winds and currents decided where I went. Time became distance for me in the way it is for all
Page 103
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
mortals-I travelled down the road of life-and I did other things with my fingers than try to measure latitude. I
found out later that I travelled a narrow road, the Pacific equatorial counter-current.
CHAPTER 66
I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for a variety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with large
hooks and many sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and only one or two sinkers. Success was slow
to come, and when it did, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out of proportion to the reward. The
hours were long, the fish were small, and Richard Parker was forever hungry.
It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuable fishing equipment. They came in three screw-in
pieces: two tubular sections that formed the shaft-one with a moulded plastic handle at its end and a ring for
securing the gaff with a rope-and a head that consisted of a hook measuring about two inches across its curve
and ending in a needle-sharp, barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was about five feet long and felt as light and
sturdy as a sword.
At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to a depth of four feet or so, sometimes with a fish speared
on the hook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, my body tense till it ached. When a fish was in
just the right spot, I jerked the gaff up with all the might and speed I could muster. It was a split-second
decision. Experience taught me that it was better to strike when I felt I had a good chance of success than to
strike wildly, for a fish learns from experience too, and rarely falls for the same trap twice.
When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on the hook, impaled, and I could confidently bring it aboard.
But if I gaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often get away with a twist and a forward spurt of
speed. Injured, it would be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had not meant to make. So with large fish I
aimed for the ventral area beneath their gills and their lateral fins, for a fish's instinctive reaction when struck
there was to swim up, away from the hook, in the very direction I was pulling. Thus it would
happen-sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fish would burst out of the water in my face. I quickly
lost my revulsion at touching sea life. None of this prissy fish blanket business any more. A fish jumping out
of water was confronted by a famished boy with a hands-on no-holds-barred approach to capturing it. If I felt
the gaff's hold was uncertain, I would let go of it-I had not forgotten to secure it with a rope to the raft-and I
would clutch at the fish with my hands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than a hook. The struggle
would be fast and furious. Those fish were slippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only I had
had as many arms as the goddess Durga-two to hold the gaffs, four to grasp the fish and two to wield the
hatchets. But I had to make do with two. I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft
stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth-I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could
reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grew bolder and more agile. I developed an instinct, a
feel, for what to do.
My success improved greatly when I started using part of the cargo net. As a fishing net it was useless-too stiff
and heavy and with a weave that wasn't tight enough. But it was perfect as a lure. Trailing freely in the water,
it proved irresistibly attractive to fish and even more so when seaweed started growing on it. Fish that were
local in their ambit made the net their neighbourhood, and the quick ones, the ones that tended to streak by,
The Desperate Art of Gaffing
- Traditional hook-and-line fishing proves inefficient for feeding both the narrator and the ravenous Richard Parker.
- The narrator discovers that gaffs, used like light and sturdy swords, are far more effective for hunting fish in open water.
- Survival necessitates a brutal, 'no-holds-barred' physical struggle where the narrator uses his hands, knees, and teeth to secure slippery prey.
- By using a cargo net as a lure to create an artificial reef, the narrator successfully attracts both local fish and passing dorados.
- The narrator's transformation from a 'prissy' boy to a bold, instinctive hunter highlights the primal shift required for survival.
I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth-I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for a variety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with large
hooks and many sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and only one or two sinkers. Success was slow
to come, and when it did, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out of proportion to the reward. The
hours were long, the fish were small, and Richard Parker was forever hungry.
It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuable fishing equipment. They came in three screw-in
pieces: two tubular sections that formed the shaft-one with a moulded plastic handle at its end and a ring for
securing the gaff with a rope-and a head that consisted of a hook measuring about two inches across its curve
and ending in a needle-sharp, barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was about five feet long and felt as light and
sturdy as a sword.
At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to a depth of four feet or so, sometimes with a fish speared
on the hook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, my body tense till it ached. When a fish was in
just the right spot, I jerked the gaff up with all the might and speed I could muster. It was a split-second
decision. Experience taught me that it was better to strike when I felt I had a good chance of success than to
strike wildly, for a fish learns from experience too, and rarely falls for the same trap twice.
When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on the hook, impaled, and I could confidently bring it aboard.
But if I gaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often get away with a twist and a forward spurt of
speed. Injured, it would be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had not meant to make. So with large fish I
aimed for the ventral area beneath their gills and their lateral fins, for a fish's instinctive reaction when struck
there was to swim up, away from the hook, in the very direction I was pulling. Thus it would
happen-sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fish would burst out of the water in my face. I quickly
lost my revulsion at touching sea life. None of this prissy fish blanket business any more. A fish jumping out
of water was confronted by a famished boy with a hands-on no-holds-barred approach to capturing it. If I felt
the gaff's hold was uncertain, I would let go of it-I had not forgotten to secure it with a rope to the raft-and I
would clutch at the fish with my hands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than a hook. The struggle
would be fast and furious. Those fish were slippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only I had
had as many arms as the goddess Durga-two to hold the gaffs, four to grasp the fish and two to wield the
hatchets. But I had to make do with two. I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft
stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth-I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could
reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grew bolder and more agile. I developed an instinct, a
feel, for what to do.
My success improved greatly when I started using part of the cargo net. As a fishing net it was useless-too stiff
and heavy and with a weave that wasn't tight enough. But it was perfect as a lure. Trailing freely in the water,
it proved irresistibly attractive to fish and even more so when seaweed started growing on it. Fish that were
local in their ambit made the net their neighbourhood, and the quick ones, the ones that tended to streak by,
the dorados, slowed down to
visit the new development. Neither the residents nor the travellers ever suspected that a hook was hidden in the
weave. There were some days-too few unfortunately-when I could have all the fish I cared to gaff. At such
Page 104
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Savagery of Survival
- Pi transitions from inefficient traditional fishing to using gaffs, which he wields with the precision and intensity of a desperate hunter.
- The cargo net becomes a makeshift artificial reef, attracting a diverse ecosystem of fish that Pi harvests to feed himself and Richard Parker.
- Capturing and hauling 130-pound sea turtles aboard the lifeboat requires grueling physical labor and makeshift pulley systems using the boat's hardware.
- The abundance of fish scales on Pi's skin creates a shimmering, god-like appearance that contrasts sharply with his internal descent into animalistic violence.
- Pi reflects on his profound transformation from a sensitive vegetarian child to a predator capable of crushing stomachs and biting into live prey.
I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft stomachs with knees, bit tails with my teethโI did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
I fished with a variety of hooks at a variety of depths for a variety of fish, from deep-sea fishing with large
hooks and many sinkers to surface fishing with smaller hooks and only one or two sinkers. Success was slow
to come, and when it did, it was much appreciated, but the effort seemed out of proportion to the reward. The
hours were long, the fish were small, and Richard Parker was forever hungry.
It was the gaffs that finally proved to be my most valuable fishing equipment. They came in three screw-in
pieces: two tubular sections that formed the shaft-one with a moulded plastic handle at its end and a ring for
securing the gaff with a rope-and a head that consisted of a hook measuring about two inches across its curve
and ending in a needle-sharp, barbed point. Assembled, each gaff was about five feet long and felt as light and
sturdy as a sword.
At first I fished in open water. I would sink the gaff to a depth of four feet or so, sometimes with a fish speared
on the hook as bait, and I would wait. I would wait for hours, my body tense till it ached. When a fish was in
just the right spot, I jerked the gaff up with all the might and speed I could muster. It was a split-second
decision. Experience taught me that it was better to strike when I felt I had a good chance of success than to
strike wildly, for a fish learns from experience too, and rarely falls for the same trap twice.
When I was lucky, a fish was properly snagged on the hook, impaled, and I could confidently bring it aboard.
But if I gaffed a large fish in the stomach or tail, it would often get away with a twist and a forward spurt of
speed. Injured, it would be easy prey for another predator, a gift I had not meant to make. So with large fish I
aimed for the ventral area beneath their gills and their lateral fins, for a fish's instinctive reaction when struck
there was to swim up, away from the hook, in the very direction I was pulling. Thus it would
happen-sometimes more pricked than actually gaffed, a fish would burst out of the water in my face. I quickly
lost my revulsion at touching sea life. None of this prissy fish blanket business any more. A fish jumping out
of water was confronted by a famished boy with a hands-on no-holds-barred approach to capturing it. If I felt
the gaff's hold was uncertain, I would let go of it-I had not forgotten to secure it with a rope to the raft-and I
would clutch at the fish with my hands. Fingers, though blunt, were far more nimble than a hook. The struggle
would be fast and furious. Those fish were slippery and desperate, and I was just plain desperate. If only I had
had as many arms as the goddess Durga-two to hold the gaffs, four to grasp the fish and two to wield the
hatchets. But I had to make do with two. I stuck fingers into eyes, jammed hands into gills, crushed soft
stomachs with knees bit tails with my teeth-I did whatever was necessary to hold a fish down until I could
reach for the hatchet and chop its head off.
With time and experience I became a better hunter. I grew bolder and more agile. I developed an instinct, a
feel, for what to do.
My success improved greatly when I started using part of the cargo net. As a fishing net it was useless-too stiff
and heavy and with a weave that wasn't tight enough. But it was perfect as a lure. Trailing freely in the water,
it proved irresistibly attractive to fish and even more so when seaweed started growing on it. Fish that were
local in their ambit made the net their neighbourhood, and the quick ones, the ones that tended to streak by,
the dorados, slowed down to
visit the new development. Neither the residents nor the travellers ever suspected that a hook was hidden in the
weave. There were some days-too few unfortunately-when I could have all the fish I cared to gaff. At such
Page 104
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
times I hunted far beyond the needs of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simply wasn't enough space on
the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, to dry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers and mackerels, let
alone space in my stomach to eat them. I kept what I could and gave the rest to Richard Parker. During those
days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all the fish scales that became
stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our
foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'm sure they would have thought I was
a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were the good days. They were
rare.
Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manual said they were. Under the "hunting and gathering"
heading, they would go under "gathering". Solid in build though they were, like tanks, they were neither fast
nor powerful swimmers; with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it was possible to hold on to a
turtle. But the survival manual failed to mention that a turtle caught was not a turtle had. It still needed to be
brought aboard. And hauling a struggling 130-pound turtle aboard a lifeboat was anything but easy. It was a
labour that demanded feats of strength worthy of Hanuman. I did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow
of the boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to its neck, a front flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled
until I thought my arms would come apart and my head would explode. I ran the ropes around the tarpaulin
hooks on the opposite side of the bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gain before the rope
slipped back. Inch by inch, a turtle was heaved out of the water. It took time. I remember one green sea turtle
that hung from the side of the lifeboat for two days, the whole while thrashing about madly, free flippers
beating in the air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it would often happen that a turtle would
help me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pull on them; if I
pulled at the same moment, our conflicting efforts sometimes came together and suddenly it would happen,
easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surge over the gunnel and slide onto the
tarpaulin. I would fall back, exhausted but jubilant.
Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawksbills, and their belly shells were thinner. But they tended to be
bigger than hawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for the weakened castaway that I became.
Lord, to think that I'm a strict vegetarian. To think that when I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped
open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal's neck. I descended to a level of
savagery I never imagined possible.
The Fish God's Savagery
- During rare periods of abundance, the narrator hunts fish far beyond his immediate needs, covering his body in silver scales.
- The narrator compares his scale-covered skin to religious tilaks, imagining himself as a divine fish god to any passing sailors.
- Capturing and hauling 130-pound sea turtles onto the lifeboat requires immense physical strength and a complex system of ropes.
- The narrator reflects on his descent into savagery, noting the irony of his former life as a strict vegetarian who hated the sound of a snapping banana.
I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our foreheads as symbols of the divine.
times I hunted far beyond the needs of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simply wasn't enough space on
the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, to dry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers and mackerels, let
alone space in my stomach to eat them. I kept what I could and gave the rest to Richard Parker. During those
days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all the fish scales that became
stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our
foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'm sure they would have thought I was
a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were the good days. They were
rare.
Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manual said they were. Under the "hunting and gathering"
heading, they would go under "gathering". Solid in build though they were, like tanks, they were neither fast
nor powerful swimmers; with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it was possible to hold on to a
turtle. But the survival manual failed to mention that a turtle caught was not a turtle had. It still needed to be
brought aboard. And hauling a struggling 130-pound turtle aboard a lifeboat was anything but easy. It was a
labour that demanded feats of strength worthy of Hanuman. I did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow
of the boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to its neck, a front flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled
until I thought my arms would come apart and my head would explode. I ran the ropes around the tarpaulin
hooks on the opposite side of the bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gain before the rope
slipped back. Inch by inch, a turtle was heaved out of the water. It took time. I remember one green sea turtle
that hung from the side of the lifeboat for two days, the whole while thrashing about madly, free flippers
beating in the air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it would often happen that a turtle would
help me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pull on them; if I
pulled at the same moment, our conflicting efforts sometimes came together and suddenly it would happen,
easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surge over the gunnel and slide onto the
tarpaulin. I would fall back, exhausted but jubilant.
Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawksbills, and their belly shells were thinner. But they tended to be
bigger than hawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for the weakened castaway that I became.
Lord, to think that I'm a strict vegetarian. To think that when I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped
open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal's neck. I descended to a level of
savagery I never imagined possible.
CHAPTER 67
The Descent into Savagery
- Pi experiences rare periods of abundance where he catches more fish than he can consume, covering his body in scales that resemble divine Hindu markings.
- The physical labor of hauling 130-pound sea turtles onto the lifeboat requires immense strength and strategic use of ropes and hooks.
- Pi reflects on his profound transformation from a sensitive vegetarian child to a desperate survivor capable of killing and eating animals.
- A miniature ecosystem develops on the underside of the raft, providing Pi with a variety of small sea creatures and algae to supplement his diet.
- The hunger-driven compulsion to survive leads Pi to eat tiny crabs like candy and suck the fluid from gooseneck barnacles found on the hull.
To think that when I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal's neck.
times I hunted far beyond the needs of my hunger or my capacity to cure; there simply wasn't enough space on
the lifeboat, or lines on the raft, to dry so many strips of dorado, flying fish, jacks, groupers and mackerels, let
alone space in my stomach to eat them. I kept what I could and gave the rest to Richard Parker. During those
days of plenty, I laid hands on so many fish that my body began to glitter from all the fish scales that became
stuck to it. I wore these spots of shine and silver like tilaks, the marks of colour that we Hindus wear on our
foreheads as symbols of the divine. If sailors had come upon me then, I'm sure they would have thought I was
a fish god standing atop his kingdom and they wouldn't have stopped. Those were the good days. They were
rare.
Turtles were an easy catch indeed, as the survival manual said they were. Under the "hunting and gathering"
heading, they would go under "gathering". Solid in build though they were, like tanks, they were neither fast
nor powerful swimmers; with just one hand gripped around a back flipper, it was possible to hold on to a
turtle. But the survival manual failed to mention that a turtle caught was not a turtle had. It still needed to be
brought aboard. And hauling a struggling 130-pound turtle aboard a lifeboat was anything but easy. It was a
labour that demanded feats of strength worthy of Hanuman. I did it by bringing the victim alongside the bow
of the boat, carapace against hull, and tying a rope to its neck, a front flipper and a back flipper. Then I pulled
until I thought my arms would come apart and my head would explode. I ran the ropes around the tarpaulin
hooks on the opposite side of the bow; every time a rope yielded a little, I secured my gain before the rope
slipped back. Inch by inch, a turtle was heaved out of the water. It took time. I remember one green sea turtle
that hung from the side of the lifeboat for two days, the whole while thrashing about madly, free flippers
beating in the air. Luckily, at the last stage, on the lip of the gunnel, it would often happen that a turtle would
help me without meaning to. In an attempt to free its painfully twisted flippers, it would pull on them; if I
pulled at the same moment, our conflicting efforts sometimes came together and suddenly it would happen,
easily: in the most dramatic fashion imaginable, a turtle would surge over the gunnel and slide onto the
tarpaulin. I would fall back, exhausted but jubilant.
Green sea turtles gave more meat than hawksbills, and their belly shells were thinner. But they tended to be
bigger than hawksbills, often too big to lift out of the water for the weakened castaway that I became.
Lord, to think that I'm a strict vegetarian. To think that when I was a child I always shuddered when I snapped
open a banana because it sounded to me like the breaking of an animal's neck. I descended to a level of
savagery I never imagined possible.
CHAPTER 67
The underside of the raft became host to a multitude of sea life, like the net but smaller in form. It started with
a soft green algae that clung to the life jackets. Stiffer algae of a darker kind joined it. They did well and
became thick. Animal life appeared. The first that I saw were tiny, translucent shrimp, hardly half an inch
long. They were followed by fish no bigger that looked like they were permanently under X-ray; their internal
organs showed through their transparent skins. After that I noticed the black worms with the white spines, the
green gelatinous slugs with the primitive limbs, the inch-long, motley-coloured fish with the potbellies, and
lastly the crabs, half to three-quarters of an inch across and brown in colour. I tried everything but the worms,
including the algae. Only the crabs didn't have an unpalatably bitter or salty taste. Every time they appeared, I
popped them one after another into my mouth like candy until there were none left. I couldn't control myself.
It was always a long wait between fresh crops of crabs.
The hull of the lifeboat invited life too, in the form of small gooseneck barnacles. I sucked their fluid. Their
flesh made for good fishing bait.
The Upside-Down Town
- A diverse ecosystem of algae, shrimp, and crabs develops on the underside of the raft, providing both a food source and a psychological distraction.
- Pi finds the small crabs to be the only palatable life form among the hitchhikers, consuming them greedily like candy whenever they appear.
- The narrator views the marine life as a peaceful, angelic community that offers a welcome relief for his frayed nerves.
- Pi's sleep is constantly interrupted by anxiety and apprehension, contrasting sharply with Richard Parker's ability to nap in various cramped positions.
- Richard Parker adapts to the lifeboat by squeezing his large frame onto narrow ledges, often appearing as though he is playing a game of hide-and-seek.
What I saw was an upside-down town, small, quiet and peaceable, whose citizens went about with the sweet civility of angels.
The underside of the raft became host to a multitude of sea life, like the net but smaller in form. It started with
a soft green algae that clung to the life jackets. Stiffer algae of a darker kind joined it. They did well and
became thick. Animal life appeared. The first that I saw were tiny, translucent shrimp, hardly half an inch
long. They were followed by fish no bigger that looked like they were permanently under X-ray; their internal
organs showed through their transparent skins. After that I noticed the black worms with the white spines, the
green gelatinous slugs with the primitive limbs, the inch-long, motley-coloured fish with the potbellies, and
lastly the crabs, half to three-quarters of an inch across and brown in colour. I tried everything but the worms,
including the algae. Only the crabs didn't have an unpalatably bitter or salty taste. Every time they appeared, I
popped them one after another into my mouth like candy until there were none left. I couldn't control myself.
It was always a long wait between fresh crops of crabs.
The hull of the lifeboat invited life too, in the form of small gooseneck barnacles. I sucked their fluid. Their
flesh made for good fishing bait.
Page 105
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I became attached to these oceanic hitchhikers, though they weighed the raft down a little. They provided
distraction, like Richard Parker. I spent many hours doing nothing but lying on my side, a life jacket pushed
out of place a few inches, like a curtain from a window, so that I might have a clear view. What I saw was an
upside-down town, small, quiet and peaceable, whose citizens went about with the sweet civility of angels.
The sight was a welcome relief for my frayed nerves.
CHAPTER 68
My sleep pattern changed. Though I rested all the time, I rarely slept longer than an hour or so at a stretch,
even at night. It was not the ceaseless motion of the sea that disturbed me, nor the wind; you get used to those
the way you get used to lumps in a mattress. It was apprehension and anxiety that roused me. It was
remarkable how little sleep I got by on.
Unlike Richard Parker. He became a champion napper. Most of the time he rested beneath the tarpaulin. But
on calm days when the sun was not too harsh and on calm nights, he came out. One of his favourite positions
in the open was lying on the stern bench on his side, stomach overhanging the edge of it, front and back legs
extending down the side benches. It was a lot of tiger to squeeze onto a fairly narrow ledge, but he managed it
by making his back very round. When he was truly sleeping, he laid his head on his front legs, but when his
mood was slightly more active, when he might choose to open his eyes and look about, he turned his head and
lay his chin on the gunnel.
Another favourite position of his was sitting with his back to me, his rear half resting on the floor of the boat
and his front half on the bench, his face buried into the stern, paws right next to his head, looking as if we
were playing hide-and-seek and he were the one counting. In this position he tended to lie very still, with only
the occasional twitching of his ears to indicate that he was not necessarily sleeping.
CHAPTER 69
Flares and Fading Hope
- Pi struggles with chronic insomnia driven by anxiety, while Richard Parker adapts by becoming a 'champion napper' in various cramped positions.
- The protagonist repeatedly exhausts his supply of flares in response to distant lights that may have been ships, stars, or mere illusions.
- The realization of the mathematical improbability of a ship spotting such a small target leads Pi to abandon hope in humanity and focus on finding land.
- The chemical scent of spent flares triggers a powerful olfactory hallucination of Pondicherry, providing a brief mental escape from his isolation.
- During the brief, intense illumination of the flares, the previously black and opaque ocean reveals itself to be teeming with life.
From a single smell a whole town arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, I see the Pacific Ocean.)
My sleep pattern changed. Though I rested all the time, I rarely slept longer than an hour or so at a stretch,
even at night. It was not the ceaseless motion of the sea that disturbed me, nor the wind; you get used to those
the way you get used to lumps in a mattress. It was apprehension and anxiety that roused me. It was
remarkable how little sleep I got by on.
Unlike Richard Parker. He became a champion napper. Most of the time he rested beneath the tarpaulin. But
on calm days when the sun was not too harsh and on calm nights, he came out. One of his favourite positions
in the open was lying on the stern bench on his side, stomach overhanging the edge of it, front and back legs
extending down the side benches. It was a lot of tiger to squeeze onto a fairly narrow ledge, but he managed it
by making his back very round. When he was truly sleeping, he laid his head on his front legs, but when his
mood was slightly more active, when he might choose to open his eyes and look about, he turned his head and
lay his chin on the gunnel.
Another favourite position of his was sitting with his back to me, his rear half resting on the floor of the boat
and his front half on the bench, his face buried into the stern, paws right next to his head, looking as if we
were playing hide-and-seek and he were the one counting. In this position he tended to lie very still, with only
the occasional twitching of his ears to indicate that he was not necessarily sleeping.
CHAPTER 69
On many nights I was convinced I saw a light in the distance. Each time I set off a flare. When I had used up
the rocket flares, I expended the hand flares. Were they ships that failed to see me? The light of rising or
setting stars bouncing off the ocean? Breaking waves that moonlight and forlorn hope fashioned into illusion?
Whatever the case, every time it was for nothing. Never a result. Always the bitter emotion of hope raised and
dashed. In time I gave up entirely on being saved by a ship. If the horizon was two and a half miles away at an
altitude of five feet, how far away was it when I was sitting against the mast of my raft, my eyes not even three
feet above the water? What chance was there that a ship crossing the whole great big Pacific would cut into
such a tiny circle? Not only that: that it would cut into such a tiny circle and see me-what chance was there of
that? No, humanity and its unreliable ways could not be counted upon. It was land I had to reach, hard, firm,
certain land.
I remember the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. By some freak of chemistry they smelled exactly like
cumin. It was intoxicating. I sniffed the plastic shells and immediately Pondicherry came to life in my mind, a
marvellous relief from the disappointment of calling for help and not being heard. The experience was very
strong, nearly a hallucination. From a single smell a whole town arose. (Now, when I smell cumin, I see the
Pacific Ocean.)
Page 106
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Richard Parker always froze when a hand flare hissed to life. His eyes, round pupils the size of pinpricks,
fixed on the light steadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre with a pinkish red aureole. I had to
turn away. I held the flare in the air at arm's length and waved it slowly. For about a minute heat showered
down upon my forearm and everything was weirdly lit. Water around the raft, until a moment before opaquely
black, showed itself to be crowded with fish.
CHAPTER 70
The Butchering of a Turtle
- Pi uses a hand flare to signal for help, noticing how the intense light transfixes Richard Parker and reveals a sea crowded with fish.
- Driven by extreme thirst, Pi decides to kill a hawksbill turtle to drink its blood, as recommended by his survival manual.
- Pi risks entering the lifeboat with the tiger, relying on the oppressive midday heat to keep Richard Parker lethargic and non-aggressive.
- The process of killing the turtle is physically exhausting and emotionally grim, requiring Pi to use both a knife and a hatchet against the thrashing creature.
- Despite being decapitated and eviscerated, the turtle's body and severed head continue to show signs of life, highlighting the brutal persistence of nature.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes.
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Richard Parker always froze when a hand flare hissed to life. His eyes, round pupils the size of pinpricks,
fixed on the light steadily. It was too bright for me, a blinding white centre with a pinkish red aureole. I had to
turn away. I held the flare in the air at arm's length and waved it slowly. For about a minute heat showered
down upon my forearm and everything was weirdly lit. Water around the raft, until a moment before opaquely
black, showed itself to be crowded with fish.
CHAPTER 70
Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a small hawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the
"good, nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. My thirst was that bad. I took hold of the
turtle's shell and grappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a good grip, I turned it over in the water
and attempted to pull it onto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would never be able to deal with it
on the raft. Either I let it go-or I tried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot and cloudless day.
Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presence at the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside of an
oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin until sunset.
I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one hand and I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the
other. It was not easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerked the turtle in the air and brought it onto
its back on the tarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more than growl once or twice. He was not up
to exerting himself in such heat.
My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no time to waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a
cookbook. It said to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knife should be "inserted into the neck"
to sever the arteries and veins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was no neck. The turtle had
retracted into its shell; all that showed of its head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles of skin. It
was looking at me upside down with a stern expression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it, poked
a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. I decided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I
had done it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the right of the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the
blade deep into the folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated even further, favouring the side where the
blade was, and suddenly shot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumped back. All four flippers
came out and the creature tried to make its getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly and head
shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet and brought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright
red blood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about three hundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I
might have got much more, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharp and its front flippers were
long and powerful, with two claws on each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particular smell. I took
a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memory is right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank the
blood to the last drop.
I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough belly shell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed
edge of the knife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clear of the flailing flippers. The leathery
skin at the head end of the shell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing away at the rim,
however, where shell met shell, was very hard work, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the time
I had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat and exhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted
reluctantly, with a wet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching and jerking- muscles, fat, blood, guts
and bones. And still the turtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. It made no difference.
Flippers continued to beat. With two blows of the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did not stop.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest
The Butchering of a Turtle
- Driven by extreme thirst, the narrator captures a hawksbill turtle to drink its blood as suggested by a survival manual.
- The narrator risks entering the lifeboat with Richard Parker, relying on the oppressive heat to keep the tiger lethargic and non-aggressive.
- The process of killing the turtle is depicted as a gruesome and difficult struggle against a resilient creature that refuses to die easily.
- Despite the narrator's attempts to behead the turtle, its body and severed head continue to show signs of life and movement.
- The narrator consumes the warm turtle blood to survive, marking a grim shift toward primal desperation and blind determination.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes.
Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a small hawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the
"good, nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. My thirst was that bad. I took hold of the
turtle's shell and grappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a good grip, I turned it over in the water
and attempted to pull it onto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would never be able to deal with it
on the raft. Either I let it go-or I tried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot and cloudless day.
Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presence at the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside of an
oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin until sunset.
I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one hand and I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the
other. It was not easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerked the turtle in the air and brought it onto
its back on the tarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more than growl once or twice. He was not up
to exerting himself in such heat.
My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no time to waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a
cookbook. It said to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knife should be "inserted into the neck"
to sever the arteries and veins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was no neck. The turtle had
retracted into its shell; all that showed of its head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles of skin. It
was looking at me upside down with a stern expression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it, poked
a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. I decided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I
had done it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the right of the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the
blade deep into the folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated even further, favouring the side where the
blade was, and suddenly shot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumped back. All four flippers
came out and the creature tried to make its getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly and head
shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet and brought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright
red blood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about three hundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I
might have got much more, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharp and its front flippers were
long and powerful, with two claws on each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particular smell. I took
a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memory is right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank the
blood to the last drop.
I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough belly shell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed
edge of the knife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clear of the flailing flippers. The leathery
skin at the head end of the shell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing away at the rim,
however, where shell met shell, was very hard work, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the time
I had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat and exhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted
reluctantly, with a wet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching and jerking- muscles, fat, blood, guts
and bones. And still the turtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. It made no difference.
Flippers continued to beat. With two blows of the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did not stop.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest
Page 107
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Brutal Harvest
- Driven by extreme thirst, Pi ventures onto the lifeboat to butcher a hawksbill turtle for its blood.
- The process of killing the turtle is physically exhausting and emotionally taxing, requiring Pi to use a hatchet and knife against the resilient creature.
- Pi drinks the warm turtle blood to survive, though the small yield of liquid barely seems worth the immense effort expended.
- The turtle's incredible biological resilience is shown as its body and severed head continue to move and blink long after the fatal blows.
- The experience forces Pi to realize he must assert dominance over Richard Parker to secure his own territory and safety on the boat.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes.
Butchering a turtle was hard work. My first one was a small hawksbill. It was its blood that tempted me, the
"good, nutritious, salt-free drink" promised by the survival manual. My thirst was that bad. I took hold of the
turtle's shell and grappled with one of its back flippers. When I had a good grip, I turned it over in the water
and attempted to pull it onto the raft. The thing was thrashing violently. I would never be able to deal with it
on the raft. Either I let it go-or I tried my luck on the lifeboat. I looked up. It was a hot and cloudless day.
Richard Parker seemed to tolerate my presence at the bow on such days, when the air was like the inside of an
oven and he did not move from under the tarpaulin until sunset.
I held on to one of the turtle's back flippers with one hand and I pulled on the rope to the lifeboat with the
other. It was not easy climbing aboard. When I had managed it, I jerked the turtle in the air and brought it onto
its back on the tarpaulin. As I had hoped, Richard Parker did no more than growl once or twice. He was not up
to exerting himself in such heat.
My determination was grim and blind. I felt I had no time to waste. I turned to the survival manual as to a
cookbook. It said to lay the turtle on its back. Done. It advised that a knife should be "inserted into the neck"
to sever the arteries and veins running through it. I looked at the turtle. There was no neck. The turtle had
retracted into its shell; all that showed of its head was its eyes and its beak, surrounded by circles of skin. It
was looking at me upside down with a stern expression. I took hold of the knife and, hoping to goad it, poked
a front flipper. It only shrank further into its shell. I decided on a more direct approach. As confidently as if I
had done it a thousand times, I jammed the knife just to the right of the turtle's head, at an angle. I pushed the
blade deep into the folds of skin and twisted it. The turtle retreated even further, favouring the side where the
blade was, and suddenly shot its head forward, beak snapping at me viciously. I jumped back. All four flippers
came out and the creature tried to make its getaway. It rocked on its back, flippers beating wildly and head
shaking from side to side. I took hold of a hatchet and brought it down on the turtle's neck, gashing it. Bright
red blood shot out. I grabbed the beaker and collected about three hundred millilitres, a pop can's worth. I
might have got much more, a litre I would guess, but the turtle's beak was sharp and its front flippers were
long and powerful, with two claws on each. The blood I managed to collect gave off no particular smell. I took
a sip. It tasted warm and animal, if my memory is right. It's hard to remember first impressions. I drank the
blood to the last drop.
I thought I would use the hatchet to remove the tough belly shell, but it proved easier with the sawtoothed
edge of the knife. I set one foot at the centre of the shell, the other clear of the flailing flippers. The leathery
skin at the head end of the shell was easy cutting, except around the flippers. Sawing away at the rim,
however, where shell met shell, was very hard work, especially as the turtle wouldn't stop moving. By the time
I had gone all the way around I was bathed in sweat and exhausted. I pulled on the belly shell. It lifted
reluctantly, with a wet sucking sound. Inner life was revealed, twitching and jerking- muscles, fat, blood, guts
and bones. And still the turtle thrashed about. I slashed its neck to the vertebrae. It made no difference.
Flippers continued to beat. With two blows of the hatchet I cut its head right off. The flippers did not stop.
Worse, the separated head went on gulping for air and blinking its eyes. I pushed it into the sea. The living rest
Page 107
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
of the turtle I lifted and dropped into Richard Parkers territory. He was making noises and sounded as if he
were about to stir. He had probably smelled the turtle's blood. I fled to the raft.
I watched sullenly as he loudly appreciated my gift and made a joyous mess of himself. I was utterly spent.
The effort of butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup of blood.
I started thinking seriously about how I was going to deal with Richard Parker. This forbearance on his part on
hot, cloudless days, if that is what it was and not simple laziness, was not good enough. I couldn't always be
running away from him. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of the tarpaulin, no matter the time of
day or the weather, no matter his mood. It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that come with might.
It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory.
Asserting Territorial Rights
- Pi realizes that fleeing from Richard Parker is unsustainable and decides he must establish clear territorial boundaries through a show of might.
- He outlines a strategic program for taming a wild animal by provoking it into a state of annoyance without inciting a homicidal attack.
- The plan involves using a whistle as a consistent signal of aggression and intentionally misconstruing any movement as a border intrusion.
- The ultimate goal is to use the sea anchor and the motion of the waves to physically destabilize the boat, creating a psychological association between the animal's trespass and discomfort.
It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that come with might. It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory.
of the turtle I lifted and dropped into Richard Parkers territory. He was making noises and sounded as if he
were about to stir. He had probably smelled the turtle's blood. I fled to the raft.
I watched sullenly as he loudly appreciated my gift and made a joyous mess of himself. I was utterly spent.
The effort of butchering the turtle had hardly seemed worth the cup of blood.
I started thinking seriously about how I was going to deal with Richard Parker. This forbearance on his part on
hot, cloudless days, if that is what it was and not simple laziness, was not good enough. I couldn't always be
running away from him. I needed safe access to the locker and the top of the tarpaulin, no matter the time of
day or the weather, no matter his mood. It was rights I needed, the sort of rights that come with might.
It was time to impose myself and carve out my territory.
CHAPTER 7I
To those who should ever find themselves in a predicament such as I was in, I would recommend the
following program:
1. Choose a day when the waves are small but regular. You want a sea that will put on a good show when your
lifeboat is broadside to it, though without capsizing your boat.
2. Stream your sea anchor full out to make your lifeboat as stable and comfortable as possible. Prepare your
safe haven from the lifeboat in case you should need it (you most likely will). If you can, devise some means
of bodily protection. Almost anything can make a shield. Wrapping clothes or blankets around your limbs will
make for a minimal form of armour.
3. Now comes the difficult part: you must provoke the animal that is afflicting you. Tiger, rhinoceros, ostrich,
wild boar, brown bear-no matter the beast, you must get its goat. The best way to do this will most likely be to
go to the edge of your territory and noisily intrude into the neutral zone. I did just that: I went to the edge of
the tarpaulin and stamped upon the middle bench as I mildly blew into the whistle. It is important that you
make a consistent, recognizable noise to signal your aggression. But you must be careful. You want to
provoke your animal, but only so much. You don't want it to attack you outright. If it does, God be with you.
You will be torn to pieces, trampled flat, disembowelled, very likely eaten. You don't want that. You want an
animal that is piqued, peeved, vexed, bothered, irked, annoyed-but not homicidal. Under no circumstances
should you step into your animal's territory. Contain your aggression to staring into its eyes and hurling
toots and taunts.
4. When your animal has been roused, work in all bad faith to provoke a border intrusion. A good way of
bringing this about in my experience is to back off slowly as you are making your noises. BE SURE NOT TO
BREAK EYE CONTACT! As soon as the animal has laid a paw in your territory, or even made a determined
advance into the neutral territory, you have achieved your goal. Don't be picky or legalistic as to where its paw
actually landed. Be quick to be affronted. Don't wait to construe-misconstrue as fast as you can. The point here
is to make your animal understand that its upstairs neighbour is exceptionally persnickety about territory.
5. Once your animal has trespassed upon your territory, be unflagging in your outrage. Whether you have fled
to your safe haven off the lifeboat or retreated to the back of your territory on the lifeboat, START BLOWING
YOUR WHISTLE AT FULL BLAST and IMMEDIATELY TRIP THE SEA ANCHOR. These two actions
are of pivotal importance. You must not delay putting them into effect. If you can help your lifeboat get
Page 108
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
broadside to the waves by other means, with an oar for example, apply yourself right away. The faster your
lifeboat broaches to the waves, the better.
6. Blowing a whistle continuously is exhausting for the weakened castaway, but you must not falter. Your
Training Through Seasickness
- The narrator outlines a brutal training method using a whistle and the sea anchor to induce motion sickness in the animal.
- By rocking the boat and blowing the whistle, the castaway creates a psychological association between the sound and physical nausea.
- The goal is to reduce the predator to a state of total incapacitation, where it lies trembling and retching at the bottom of the boat.
- Vomit is suggested as a functional tool to mark territory and reinforce the boundaries between the human and the animal.
- Once the association is fixed, the whistle alone becomes a powerful deterrent that can control the animal's behavior without physical conflict.
I assure you, in no time you'll have your lifeboat rocking and rolling like Elvis Presley.
to your safe haven off the lifeboat or retreated to the back of your territory on the lifeboat, START BLOWING
YOUR WHISTLE AT FULL BLAST and IMMEDIATELY TRIP THE SEA ANCHOR. These two actions
are of pivotal importance. You must not delay putting them into effect. If you can help your lifeboat get
Page 108
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
broadside to the waves by other means, with an oar for example, apply yourself right away. The faster your
lifeboat broaches to the waves, the better.
6. Blowing a whistle continuously is exhausting for the weakened castaway, but you must not falter. Your
alarmed animal must associate its increasing nausea with the shrill cries of the whistle. You can help things
move along by standing at the end of your boat, feet on opposing gunnels, and swaying in rhythm to the
motion imparted by the sea. However slight you are, however large your lifeboat, you will be amazed at the
difference this will make. I assure you, in no time you'll have your lifeboat rocking and rolling like Elvis
Presley. Just don't forget to be blowing your whistle all the while, and mind you don't make your lifeboat
capsize.
7. You want to keep going until the animal that is your burden-your tiger, your rhinoceros, whatever-is
properly green about the gills with seasickness. You want to hear it heaving and dry retching. You want to see
it lying at the bottom of the lifeboat, limbs trembling, eyes rolled back, a deathly rattle coming from its gaping
mouth. And all the while you must be shattering the animal's ears with the piercing blows of your whistle. If
you become sick yourself, don't waste your vomit by sending it overboard. Vomit makes an excellent border
guard. Puke on the edges of your territory.
8. When your animal appears good and sick, you can stop. Seasickness comes on quickly, but it takes a long
while to go away. You don't want to overstate your case. No one dies of nausea, but it can seriously sap the
will to live. When enough is enough, stream the sea anchor, try to give shade to your animal if it has collapsed
in direct sunlight, and make sure it has water available when it recovers, with anti-seasickness tablets
dissolved in it, if you have any. Dehydration is a serious danger at this point. Otherwise retreat to your
territory and leave your animal in peace. Water, rest and relaxation, besides a stable lifeboat, will bring it back
to life. The animal should be allowed to recover fully before going through steps 1 to 8 again.
9. Treatment should be repeated until the association in the animal's mind between the sound of the whistle
and the feeling of intense, incapacitating nausea is fixed and totally unambiguous. Thereafter, the whistle
alone will deal with trespassing or any other untoward behaviour. Just one shrill blow and you will see your
animal shudder with malaise and repair at top speed to the safest, furthest part of its territory. Once this level
of training is reached, use of the whistle should be sparing.
CHAPTER 72
The High Seas Animal Trainer
- The narrator uses a whistle to create a Pavlovian association between the sound and intense nausea in the tiger.
- To protect himself during training sessions, the narrator fashions makeshift shields out of turtle shells.
- Richard Parker knocks the narrator overboard four times, forcing him to face his dual fears of the tiger and sharks.
- The narrator explains that animals prefer cautionary signals over lethal violence to avoid the high cost of a physical clash.
- By learning to read the tiger's body language, the narrator eventually asserts dominance and successfully completes the training.
A great, full-clawed paw rose in the air and cuffed my shield. The blow sent me flying off the boat.
9. Treatment should be repeated until the association in the animal's mind between the sound of the whistle
and the feeling of intense, incapacitating nausea is fixed and totally unambiguous. Thereafter, the whistle
alone will deal with trespassing or any other untoward behaviour. Just one shrill blow and you will see your
animal shudder with malaise and repair at top speed to the safest, furthest part of its territory. Once this level
of training is reached, use of the whistle should be sparing.
CHAPTER 72
In my case, to protect myself from Richard Parker while I trained him, I made a shield with a turtle shell. I cut
a notch on each side of the shell and connected them with a length of rope. The shield was heavier than I
would have liked, but do soldiers ever get to choose their ordnance?
The first time I tried, Richard Parker bared his teeth, rotated his ears full round, vomited a short guttural roar
and charged. A great, full-clawed paw rose in the air and cuffed my shield. The blow sent me flying off the
boat. I hit the water and instantly let go of the shield. It sank without a trace after hitting me in the shin. I was
beside myself with terror-of Richard Parker, but also of being in the water. In my mind a shark was at that
very second shooting up for me. I swam for the raft in frantic strokes, precisely the sort of wild thrashing that
sharks find so deliciously inviting. Luckily there were no sharks. I reached the raft, let out all the rope and sat
with my arms wrapped around my knees and my head down, trying to put out the fire of fear that was blazing
within me. It was a long time before the trembling of my body stopped completely. I stayed on the raft for the
rest of that day and the whole night. I did not eat or drink.
Page 109
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I was at it again next time I caught a turtle. Its shell was smaller, lighter, and made for a better shield. Once
more I advanced and started stamping on the middle bench with my foot.
I wonder if those who hear this story will understand that my behaviour was not an act of insanity or a covert
suicide attempt but a simple necessity. Either I tamed him, made him see who was Number One and who was
Number Two-or I died the day I wanted to climb aboard the lifeboat during rough weather and he objected.
If I survived my apprenticeship as a high seas animal trainer it was because Richard Parker did not really want
to attack me. Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as a means of settling scores. When animals
fight, it is with the intent to kill and with the understanding that they may be killed. A clash is costly. And so
animals have a full system of cautionary signals designed to avoid a showdown, and they are quick to back
down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tiger attack a fellow predator without warning. Typically a
head-on rush for the adversary will be made, with much snarling and growling. But just before it is too late,
the tiger will freeze, the menace rumbling deep in its throat. It will appraise the situation. If it decides that
there is no threat, it will turn away, feeling that its point has been made.
Richard Parker made his point with me four times. Four times he struck at me with his right paw and sent me
overboard, and four times I lost my shield. I was terrified before, during and after each attack, and I spent a
long time shivering with fear on the raft. Eventually I learned to read the signals he was sending me. I found
that with his ears, his eyes, his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat, he spoke a simple, forcefully
punctuated language that told me what his next move might be. I learned to back down before he lifted his
paw in the air.
Then I made my point, feet on the gunnel, boat rolling, my single-note language blasting from the whistle, and
Richard Parker moaning and gasping at the bottom of the boat.
My fifth shield lasted me the rest of his training.
CHAPTER 73
Taming the Tiger
- The narrator asserts that establishing dominance over Richard Parker was a matter of survival rather than insanity.
- He explains that animals generally avoid violence because a physical clash is costly and potentially fatal for both parties.
- Through repeated failed attempts and being knocked overboard, the narrator eventually learns to interpret the tiger's complex body language.
- The narrator successfully uses a whistle and a turtle-shell shield to assert his position as the 'Number One' predator.
- Beyond physical survival, the narrator expresses a profound spiritual hunger, lamenting the lack of scripture or literature on the lifeboat.
- He maintains a dense, practical diary to document his ordeal, though the entries are undated and reflect a distorted sense of time.
I found that with his ears, his eyes, his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat, he spoke a simple, forcefully punctuated language that told me what his next move might be.
I was at it again next time I caught a turtle. Its shell was smaller, lighter, and made for a better shield. Once
more I advanced and started stamping on the middle bench with my foot.
I wonder if those who hear this story will understand that my behaviour was not an act of insanity or a covert
suicide attempt but a simple necessity. Either I tamed him, made him see who was Number One and who was
Number Two-or I died the day I wanted to climb aboard the lifeboat during rough weather and he objected.
If I survived my apprenticeship as a high seas animal trainer it was because Richard Parker did not really want
to attack me. Tigers, indeed all animals, do not favour violence as a means of settling scores. When animals
fight, it is with the intent to kill and with the understanding that they may be killed. A clash is costly. And so
animals have a full system of cautionary signals designed to avoid a showdown, and they are quick to back
down when they feel they can. Rarely will a tiger attack a fellow predator without warning. Typically a
head-on rush for the adversary will be made, with much snarling and growling. But just before it is too late,
the tiger will freeze, the menace rumbling deep in its throat. It will appraise the situation. If it decides that
there is no threat, it will turn away, feeling that its point has been made.
Richard Parker made his point with me four times. Four times he struck at me with his right paw and sent me
overboard, and four times I lost my shield. I was terrified before, during and after each attack, and I spent a
long time shivering with fear on the raft. Eventually I learned to read the signals he was sending me. I found
that with his ears, his eyes, his whiskers, his teeth, his tail and his throat, he spoke a simple, forcefully
punctuated language that told me what his next move might be. I learned to back down before he lifted his
paw in the air.
Then I made my point, feet on the gunnel, boat rolling, my single-note language blasting from the whistle, and
Richard Parker moaning and gasping at the bottom of the boat.
My fifth shield lasted me the rest of his training.
CHAPTER 73
My greatest wish-other than salvation-was to have a book. A long book with a never-ending story. One I could
read again and again, with new eyes and a fresh understanding each time. Alas, there was no scripture in the
lifeboat. I was a disconsolate Arjuna in a battered chariot without the benefit of Krishna's words. The first time
I came upon a Bible in the bedside table of a hotel room in Canada, I burst into tears. I sent a contribution to
the Gideons the very next day, with a note urging them to spread the range of their activity to all places where
worn and weary travellers might lay down their heads, not just to hotel rooms, and that they should leave not
only Bibles, but other sacred writings as well. I cannot think of a better way to spread the faith. No thundering
from a pulpit, no condemnation from bad churches, no peer pressure, just a book of scripture quietly waiting
to say hello, as gentle and powerful as a little girl's kiss on your cheek.
At the very least, if I had had a good novel! But there was only the survival manual, which I must have read
ten thousand times over the course of my ordeal.
I kept a diary. It's hard to read. I wrote as small as I could. I was afraid I would run out of paper. There's not
much to it. Words scratched on a page trying to capture a reality that overwhelmed me. I started it a week or
so after the sinking of the Tsimtsum. Before that I was too busy and scattered. The entries are not dated or
numbered. What strikes me now is how time is captured. Several days, several weeks, all on one page. I talked
about what you might expect: about things that happened and how I felt, about what I caught and what I didn't,
Page 110
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
about seas and weather, about problems and solutions, about Richard Parker. All very practical stuff.
CHAPTER 74
Faith in the Lifeboat
- Pi expresses a profound longing for a book or sacred scripture to provide spiritual guidance and mental escape during his isolation.
- He maintains a diary with tiny, dense handwriting to document his practical struggles and the overwhelming reality of his ordeal.
- To cope with despair, Pi adapts religious rituals from various faiths, using turtle meat and makeshift clothing as elements of devotion.
- He uses a repetitive verbal exercise to identify everything around himโeven the dangerous tigerโas belonging to God to maintain his perspective.
- Despite moments where his faith feels as though it is unraveling, Pi finds that despair eventually passes, leaving God as a 'shining point of light' in his heart.
I would point to Richard Parker and say aloud, 'THIS IS GOD'S CAT!'
My greatest wish-other than salvation-was to have a book. A long book with a never-ending story. One I could
read again and again, with new eyes and a fresh understanding each time. Alas, there was no scripture in the
lifeboat. I was a disconsolate Arjuna in a battered chariot without the benefit of Krishna's words. The first time
I came upon a Bible in the bedside table of a hotel room in Canada, I burst into tears. I sent a contribution to
the Gideons the very next day, with a note urging them to spread the range of their activity to all places where
worn and weary travellers might lay down their heads, not just to hotel rooms, and that they should leave not
only Bibles, but other sacred writings as well. I cannot think of a better way to spread the faith. No thundering
from a pulpit, no condemnation from bad churches, no peer pressure, just a book of scripture quietly waiting
to say hello, as gentle and powerful as a little girl's kiss on your cheek.
At the very least, if I had had a good novel! But there was only the survival manual, which I must have read
ten thousand times over the course of my ordeal.
I kept a diary. It's hard to read. I wrote as small as I could. I was afraid I would run out of paper. There's not
much to it. Words scratched on a page trying to capture a reality that overwhelmed me. I started it a week or
so after the sinking of the Tsimtsum. Before that I was too busy and scattered. The entries are not dated or
numbered. What strikes me now is how time is captured. Several days, several weeks, all on one page. I talked
about what you might expect: about things that happened and how I felt, about what I caught and what I didn't,
Page 110
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
about seas and weather, about problems and solutions, about Richard Parker. All very practical stuff.
CHAPTER 74
I practised religious rituals that I adapted to the circumstances-solitary Masses without priests or consecrated
Communion hosts, darshans without murtis, and pujas with turtle meat for prasad, acts of devotion to Allah
not knowing where Mecca was and getting my Arabic wrong. They brought me comfort, that is certain. But it
was hard, oh, it was hard. Faith in God is an opening up, a letting go, a deep trust, a free act of love-but
sometimes it was so hard to love. Sometimes my heart was sinking so fast with anger, desolation and
weariness, I was afraid it would sink to the very bottom of the Pacific and I would not be able to lift it back up.
At such moments I tried to elevate myself. I would touch the turban I had made with the remnants of my shirt
and I would say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S HAT!"
I would pat my pants and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ATTIRE!" I would point to Richard Parker and say
aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S CAT!"
I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ARK!"
I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, "THESE ARE GOD'S WIDE ACRES!"
I would point at the sky and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S EAR!"
And in this way I would remind myself of creation and of my place in it.
But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants were falling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's
ark was a jail. God's wide acres were slowly killing me. God's ear didn't seem to be listening.
Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank God it
always passed. A school of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out to be reknotted. Or I thought of my
family, of how they were spared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir and eventually go away, and
God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving.
CHAPTER 75
On the day when I estimated it was Mother's birthday, I sang "Happy Birthday" to her out loud.
CHAPTER 76
Faith Amidst Despair
- The narrator attempts to maintain his sanity and faith by framing his survival tools and environment as divine creations.
- Despite his spiritual efforts, the harsh reality of his situation often leads to a crushing, lightless despair.
- Moments of duty, such as repairing nets or thinking of family, serve as catalysts to lift the narrator out of his mental darkness.
- The narrator establishes a dangerous routine of cleaning up after the tiger, Richard Parker, to maintain hygiene and order on the boat.
But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants were falling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's ark was a jail.
I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ARK!"
I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, "THESE ARE GOD'S WIDE ACRES!"
I would point at the sky and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S EAR!"
And in this way I would remind myself of creation and of my place in it.
But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants were falling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's
ark was a jail. God's wide acres were slowly killing me. God's ear didn't seem to be listening.
Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank God it
always passed. A school of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out to be reknotted. Or I thought of my
family, of how they were spared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir and eventually go away, and
God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving.
CHAPTER 75
On the day when I estimated it was Mother's birthday, I sang "Happy Birthday" to her out loud.
CHAPTER 76
I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. As soon as I became aware that he had had a bowel
movement, I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudging his feces my way with the gaff and
reaching for them from the tarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does not matter with animals
Page 111
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mastery and Despair
- Pi oscillates between religious devotion and profound despair, viewing his survival tools as divine objects while acknowledging the harsh reality of his suffering.
- The narrator engages in a dangerous ritual of cleaning up Richard Parker's feces to assert dominance over the tiger.
- Richard Parker's attempt to hide his waste is interpreted as a sign of deference, signaling a shift in the power dynamic between man and beast.
- Pi uses psychological bullying, including aggressive staring and the use of a whistle, to establish his 'lordly right' over the animal's territory.
- Both the human and the tiger suffer from severe constipation due to their high-protein, low-water diet, making physical relief an arduous trial.
It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the making.
I would point to the lifeboat and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S ARK!"
I would spread my hands wide and say aloud, "THESE ARE GOD'S WIDE ACRES!"
I would point at the sky and say aloud, "THIS IS GOD'S EAR!"
And in this way I would remind myself of creation and of my place in it.
But God's hat was always unravelling. God's pants were falling apart. God's cat was a constant danger. God's
ark was a jail. God's wide acres were slowly killing me. God's ear didn't seem to be listening.
Despair was a heavy blackness that let no light in or out. It was a hell beyond expression. I thank God it
always passed. A school of fish appeared around the net or a knot cried out to be reknotted. Or I thought of my
family, of how they were spared this terrible agony. The blackness would stir and eventually go away, and
God would remain, a shining point of light in my heart. I would go on loving.
CHAPTER 75
On the day when I estimated it was Mother's birthday, I sang "Happy Birthday" to her out loud.
CHAPTER 76
I got into the habit of cleaning up after Richard Parker. As soon as I became aware that he had had a bowel
movement, I went about getting to it, a risky operation involving nudging his feces my way with the gaff and
reaching for them from the tarpaulin. Feces can be infected with parasites. This does not matter with animals
Page 111
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
in the wild since they rarely spend any time next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationship to them;
tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animals normally excrete and move on. In the compact territory
of a zoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces in an animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection
by encouraging the animal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything that remotely resembles food. That
is why enclosures are cleaned, out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to spare the eyes and
noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family's reputation for high standards in zookeeping was not my
concern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks Richard Parker became constipated and his bowel
movements came no more than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring was hardly worth it from a sanitary
point of view. It was for another reason that I did it: it was because the first time Richard Parker relieved
himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that he tried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost on me. To
display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them, would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely,
to hide them, or try to, was a sign of deference-of deference to me.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, his head cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a
quiet, sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptional alertness and deliberation, not only to
preserve my life but also to give him the right signal. The right signal was that when I had his feces in my
hand, I rolled them about for some seconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed them loudly, and
swung my gaze his way a few times in a showy manner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)
long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as to provoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I
blew in a low, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgering him with my eyes (for, of course,
with all animals, including us, to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle cry that had such
ominous associations in his mind, I made clear to Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, to
fondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it was not good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological
bullying. And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gaze always floated in midair, neither on me
nor off me. It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the
making. The exercise always left me utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated as Richard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little
water and too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthly act, was hardly that. It was a
long-drawn, arduous and painful event that left me bathing in sweat and helpless with exhaustion, a trial worse
than a high fever.
Mastery and Excrement
- The narrator explains that while zoos clean enclosures for hygiene, his cleaning of the lifeboat is a calculated act of psychological dominance.
- Richard Parker's attempt to hide his feces signals a submissive deference to the narrator's perceived social authority.
- To reinforce his status, the narrator performs a ritual of handling and sniffing the tiger's waste while maintaining aggressive eye contact and using a whistle.
- Both the narrator and the tiger suffer from severe constipation due to a high-protein, low-water diet, turning bowel movements into rare and painful ordeals.
- The narrator describes the act of 'psychological bullying' as a draining yet exhilarating method of establishing mastery over the predator.
It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the making.
in the wild since they rarely spend any time next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationship to them;
tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animals normally excrete and move on. In the compact territory
of a zoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces in an animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection
by encouraging the animal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything that remotely resembles food. That
is why enclosures are cleaned, out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to spare the eyes and
noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family's reputation for high standards in zookeeping was not my
concern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks Richard Parker became constipated and his bowel
movements came no more than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring was hardly worth it from a sanitary
point of view. It was for another reason that I did it: it was because the first time Richard Parker relieved
himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that he tried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost on me. To
display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them, would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely,
to hide them, or try to, was a sign of deference-of deference to me.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, his head cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a
quiet, sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptional alertness and deliberation, not only to
preserve my life but also to give him the right signal. The right signal was that when I had his feces in my
hand, I rolled them about for some seconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed them loudly, and
swung my gaze his way a few times in a showy manner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)
long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as to provoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I
blew in a low, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgering him with my eyes (for, of course,
with all animals, including us, to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle cry that had such
ominous associations in his mind, I made clear to Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, to
fondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it was not good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological
bullying. And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gaze always floated in midair, neither on me
nor off me. It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the
making. The exercise always left me utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated as Richard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little
water and too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthly act, was hardly that. It was a
long-drawn, arduous and painful event that left me bathing in sweat and helpless with exhaustion, a trial worse
than a high fever.
CHAPTER 77
Mastery and Starvation
- The narrator uses the tiger's feces as a tool for psychological dominance, interpreting the animal's attempt to hide them as a sign of deference.
- By handling and sniffing the excrement while maintaining aggressive eye contact, the narrator asserts a 'lordly right' over Richard Parker's territory.
- Both the human and the tiger suffer from severe constipation due to a high-protein, low-water diet, turning basic biological functions into painful trials.
- As food rations dwindle, the narrator's hunger transforms into vivid, geographical-scale fantasies of Indian cuisine.
- The narrator's survival instincts override his previous fastidiousness, leading him to consume raw fish with increasing desperation and less preparation.
It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the making.
in the wild since they rarely spend any time next to their feces and mostly have a neutral relationship to them;
tree dwellers hardly see them at all and land animals normally excrete and move on. In the compact territory
of a zoo, however, the case is quite different, and to leave feces in an animal's enclosure is to invite reinfection
by encouraging the animal to eat them, animals being gluttons for anything that remotely resembles food. That
is why enclosures are cleaned, out of concern for the intestinal health of animals, not to spare the eyes and
noses of visitors. But upholding the Patel family's reputation for high standards in zookeeping was not my
concern in the case at hand. In a matter of weeks Richard Parker became constipated and his bowel
movements came no more than once a month, so my dangerous janitoring was hardly worth it from a sanitary
point of view. It was for another reason that I did it: it was because the first time Richard Parker relieved
himself in the lifeboat, I noticed that he tried to hide the result. The significance of this was not lost on me. To
display his feces openly, to flaunt the smell of them, would have been a sign of social dominance. Conversely,
to hide them, or try to, was a sign of deference-of deference to me.
I could tell that it made him nervous. He stayed low, his head cocked back and his ears flat to the sides, a
quiet, sustained growl coming from him. I proceeded with exceptional alertness and deliberation, not only to
preserve my life but also to give him the right signal. The right signal was that when I had his feces in my
hand, I rolled them about for some seconds, brought them close to my nose and sniffed them loudly, and
swung my gaze his way a few times in a showy manner, glaring at him wide-eyed (with fear, if only he knew)
long enough to give him the willies, but not so long as to provoke him. And with each swing of my gaze, I
blew in a low, menacing way in the whistle. By doing this, by badgering him with my eyes (for, of course,
with all animals, including us, to stare is an aggressive act) and by sounding that whistle cry that had such
ominous associations in his mind, I made clear to Richard Parker that it was my right, my lordly right, to
fondle and sniff his feces if I wanted to. So you see, it was not good zookeeping I was up to, but psychological
bullying. And it worked. Richard Parker never stared back; his gaze always floated in midair, neither on me
nor off me. It was something I could feel as much as I felt his balls of excrement in my hand: mastery in the
making. The exercise always left me utterly drained from the tension, yet exhilarated.
Since we are on the subject, I became as constipated as Richard Parker. It was the result of our diet, too little
water and too much protein. For me, relieving myself, also a monthly act, was hardly that. It was a
long-drawn, arduous and painful event that left me bathing in sweat and helpless with exhaustion, a trial worse
than a high fever.
CHAPTER 77
As the cartons of survival rations diminished, I reduced my intake till I was following instructions exactly,
holding myself to only two biscuits every eight hours. I was continuously hungry. I thought about food
obsessively. The less I had to eat, the larger became the portions I dreamed of. My fantasy meals grew to be
the size of India. A Ganges of dhal soup. Hot chapattis the size of Rajasthan. Bowls of rice as big as Uttar
Pradesh. Sambars to flood all of Tamil Nadu. Ice cream heaped as high as the Himalayas. My dreaming
became quite expert: all ingredients for my dishes were always in fresh and plentiful supply; the oven or
frying pan was always at just the right temperature; the proportion of things was always bang on; nothing was
ever burnt or undercooked, nothing too hot or too cold. Every meal was simply perfect-only just beyond the
reach of my hands.
By degrees the range of my appetite increased. Whereas at first I gutted fish and peeled their skin fastidiously,
soon I no more than rinsed off their slimy slipperiness before biting into them, delighted to have such a treat
between my teeth. I recall flying fish as being quite tasty, their flesh rosy white and tender. Dorado had a
firmer texture and a stronger taste. I began to pick at fish heads rather than toss them to Richard Parker or use
The Desperation of Hunger
- As survival rations dwindle, the narrator experiences obsessive food fantasies where Indian landscapes are reimagined as massive culinary feasts.
- The narrator's fastidious eating habits dissolve, leading him to consume raw fish skin, eyes, and spinal fluid to stave off starvation.
- Sea turtles transition from being viewed as animal companions or simple bait to becoming a highly prized, multi-course delicacy.
- The physical remains of the turtles, specifically their shells, become essential tools for survival, serving as shields, bowls, and cutting boards.
- The narrator's behavior becomes increasingly primal, comparing his constant scavenging for scraps of fat and flesh to the automatic movements of a monkey.
In the veins of turtles coursed a sweet lassi that had to be drunk as soon as it spurted from their necks, because it coagulated in less than a minute.
As the cartons of survival rations diminished, I reduced my intake till I was following instructions exactly,
holding myself to only two biscuits every eight hours. I was continuously hungry. I thought about food
obsessively. The less I had to eat, the larger became the portions I dreamed of. My fantasy meals grew to be
the size of India. A Ganges of dhal soup. Hot chapattis the size of Rajasthan. Bowls of rice as big as Uttar
Pradesh. Sambars to flood all of Tamil Nadu. Ice cream heaped as high as the Himalayas. My dreaming
became quite expert: all ingredients for my dishes were always in fresh and plentiful supply; the oven or
frying pan was always at just the right temperature; the proportion of things was always bang on; nothing was
ever burnt or undercooked, nothing too hot or too cold. Every meal was simply perfect-only just beyond the
reach of my hands.
By degrees the range of my appetite increased. Whereas at first I gutted fish and peeled their skin fastidiously,
soon I no more than rinsed off their slimy slipperiness before biting into them, delighted to have such a treat
between my teeth. I recall flying fish as being quite tasty, their flesh rosy white and tender. Dorado had a
firmer texture and a stronger taste. I began to pick at fish heads rather than toss them to Richard Parker or use
Page 112
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
them as bait. It was a great discovery when I found that a fresh-tasting fluid could be sucked out not only from
the eyes of larger fish but also from their vertebrae. Turtles-which previously I had roughly opened up with the
knife and tossed onto the floor of the boat for Richard Parker, like a bowl of hot soup-became my favourite
dish.
It seems impossible to imagine that there was a time when I looked upon a live sea turtle as a ten-course meal
of great delicacy, a blessed respite from fish. Yet so it was. In the veins of turtles coursed a sweet lassi that had
to be drunk as soon as it spurted from their necks, because it coagulated in less than a minute. The best
poriyals and kootus in the land could not rival turtle flesh, either cured brown or fresh deep red. No cardamom
payasam I ever tasted was as sweet or as rich as creamy turtle eggs or cured turtle fat. A chopped-up mixture
of heart, lungs, liver, flesh and cleaned-out intestines sprinkled with fish parts, the whole soaked in a
yolk-and-serum gravy, made an unsurpassable, finger-licking thali. By the end of my journey I was eating
everything a turtle had to offer. In the algae that covered the shells of some hawksbills I sometimes found
small crabs and barnacles. Whatever I found in a turtle's stomach became my turn to eat. I whiled away many
a pleasant hour gnawing at a flipper joint or splitting open bones and licking out their marrow. And my fingers
were forever picking away at bits of dry fat and dry flesh that clung to the inner sides of shells, rummaging for
food in the automatic way of monkeys.
Turtle shells were very handy. I couldn't have done without them. They served not only as shields, but as
cutting boards for fish and as bowls for mixing food. And when the elements had destroyed the blankets
beyond repair, I used the shells to
The Desperation of Hunger
- The narrator describes a total shift in perspective where sea turtles become a prized, multi-course delicacy essential for survival.
- Beyond food, turtle shells serve vital secondary purposes as shields, cutting boards, mixing bowls, and makeshift sun shelters.
- The narrator's psychological state becomes entirely dependent on his physical satiety, noting that his mood is at the mercy of his stomach.
- Extreme starvation leads the narrator to attempt eating the tiger's excrement, viewing the waste as a potential source of life-sustaining nutrients.
- A permanent physical revulsion to salt develops as the body adapts to the limited and often foul resources available on the lifeboat.
It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I will be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand the degree of my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's cup.
them as bait. It was a great discovery when I found that a fresh-tasting fluid could be sucked out not only from
the eyes of larger fish but also from their vertebrae. Turtles-which previously I had roughly opened up with the
knife and tossed onto the floor of the boat for Richard Parker, like a bowl of hot soup-became my favourite
dish.
It seems impossible to imagine that there was a time when I looked upon a live sea turtle as a ten-course meal
of great delicacy, a blessed respite from fish. Yet so it was. In the veins of turtles coursed a sweet lassi that had
to be drunk as soon as it spurted from their necks, because it coagulated in less than a minute. The best
poriyals and kootus in the land could not rival turtle flesh, either cured brown or fresh deep red. No cardamom
payasam I ever tasted was as sweet or as rich as creamy turtle eggs or cured turtle fat. A chopped-up mixture
of heart, lungs, liver, flesh and cleaned-out intestines sprinkled with fish parts, the whole soaked in a
yolk-and-serum gravy, made an unsurpassable, finger-licking thali. By the end of my journey I was eating
everything a turtle had to offer. In the algae that covered the shells of some hawksbills I sometimes found
small crabs and barnacles. Whatever I found in a turtle's stomach became my turn to eat. I whiled away many
a pleasant hour gnawing at a flipper joint or splitting open bones and licking out their marrow. And my fingers
were forever picking away at bits of dry fat and dry flesh that clung to the inner sides of shells, rummaging for
food in the automatic way of monkeys.
Turtle shells were very handy. I couldn't have done without them. They served not only as shields, but as
cutting boards for fish and as bowls for mixing food. And when the elements had destroyed the blankets
beyond repair, I used the shells to
protect myself from the sun by propping them against each other and lying beneath them.
It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made for a good mood. The one would follow the other
measure for measure: so much food and water, so much good mood. It was such a terribly fickle existence. I
was at the mercy of turtle meat for smiles.
By the time the last of the biscuits had disappeared, anything was good to eat, no matter the taste. I could put
anything in my mouth, chew it and swallow it-delicious, foul or plain-so long as it wasn't salty. My body
developed a revulsion for salt that I still experience to this day.
I tried once to eat Richard Parker's feces. It happened early on, when my system hadn't learned yet to live with
hunger and my imagination was still wildly searching for solutions. I had delivered fresh solar-still water to
his bucket not long before. After draining it in one go, he had disappeared below the tarpaulin and I had
returned to attending to some small matter in the locker. As I always did in those early days, I glanced below
the tarpaulin every so often to make sure he wasn't up to something. Well, this one time, lo, he was. He was
crouched, his back was rounded and his rear legs were spread. His tail was raised, pushing up against the
tarpaulin. The position was tell-tale. Right away I had food in mind, not animal hygiene. I decided there was
little danger. He was turned the other way and his head was out of sight. If I respected his peace and quiet, he
might not even notice me. I grabbed a bailing cup and stretched my arm forward. My cup arrived in the nick of
time. At the second it was in position at the base of his tail, Richard Parker's anus distended, and out of it, like
a bubble-gum balloon, came a black sphere of excrement. It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I will
be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand the degree of
my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's
cup. A smile cracked my lips and made them bleed. I felt deep gratitude towards Richard Parker. I pulled back
the cup. I took the turd in my fingers. It was very warm, but the smell was not strong. In size it was like a big
ball of gulab jamun, but with none of the softness. In fact, it was as hard as a rock. Load a musket with it and
you could have shot a rhino.
I returned the ball to the cup and added a little water. I covered it and set it aside. My mouth watered as I
waited. When I couldn't stand the wait any longer, I popped the ball into my mouth. I couldn't eat it. The taste
The Desperation of Hunger
- The narrator reflects on the fickle nature of his existence, where his emotional state is entirely dependent on the availability of food and water.
- A profound physical revulsion for salt develops as the narrator's body adapts to extreme survival conditions and limited resources.
- Driven by starvation, the narrator attempts to consume the tiger's excrement, viewing it initially as a potential source of life-sustaining nutrients.
- The experiment fails as the narrator realizes the waste is nutritionally void, leading to a sense of bitterness over the wasted water used to soften it.
- Physical deterioration begins to manifest after several weeks, characterized by swelling in the lower limbs and a debilitating loss of strength.
It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I will be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand the degree of my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's cup.
protect myself from the sun by propping them against each other and lying beneath them.
It was frightening, the extent to which a full belly made for a good mood. The one would follow the other
measure for measure: so much food and water, so much good mood. It was such a terribly fickle existence. I
was at the mercy of turtle meat for smiles.
By the time the last of the biscuits had disappeared, anything was good to eat, no matter the taste. I could put
anything in my mouth, chew it and swallow it-delicious, foul or plain-so long as it wasn't salty. My body
developed a revulsion for salt that I still experience to this day.
I tried once to eat Richard Parker's feces. It happened early on, when my system hadn't learned yet to live with
hunger and my imagination was still wildly searching for solutions. I had delivered fresh solar-still water to
his bucket not long before. After draining it in one go, he had disappeared below the tarpaulin and I had
returned to attending to some small matter in the locker. As I always did in those early days, I glanced below
the tarpaulin every so often to make sure he wasn't up to something. Well, this one time, lo, he was. He was
crouched, his back was rounded and his rear legs were spread. His tail was raised, pushing up against the
tarpaulin. The position was tell-tale. Right away I had food in mind, not animal hygiene. I decided there was
little danger. He was turned the other way and his head was out of sight. If I respected his peace and quiet, he
might not even notice me. I grabbed a bailing cup and stretched my arm forward. My cup arrived in the nick of
time. At the second it was in position at the base of his tail, Richard Parker's anus distended, and out of it, like
a bubble-gum balloon, came a black sphere of excrement. It fell into my cup with a clink, and no doubt I will
be considered to have abandoned the last vestiges of humanness by those who do not understand the degree of
my suffering when I say that it sounded to my ears like the music of a five-rupee coin dropped into a beggar's
cup. A smile cracked my lips and made them bleed. I felt deep gratitude towards Richard Parker. I pulled back
the cup. I took the turd in my fingers. It was very warm, but the smell was not strong. In size it was like a big
ball of gulab jamun, but with none of the softness. In fact, it was as hard as a rock. Load a musket with it and
you could have shot a rhino.
I returned the ball to the cup and added a little water. I covered it and set it aside. My mouth watered as I
waited. When I couldn't stand the wait any longer, I popped the ball into my mouth. I couldn't eat it. The taste
Page 113
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
was acrid, but it wasn't that. It was rather my mouth's conclusion, immediate and obvious: there's nothing to be
had here. It was truly waste matter, with no nutrients in it. I spat it out and was bitter at the loss of precious
water. I took the gaff and went about collecting the rest of Richard Parker's feces. They went straight to the
fish.
After just a few weeks my body began to deteriorate. My feet and ankles started to swell and I was finding it
very tiring to stand.
CHAPTER 78
The Geometry of Solitude
- Pi experiences a moment of extreme desperation, attempting to find nutrients in the tiger's waste before his body begins to physically deteriorate.
- The narrative describes the overwhelming variety of the sky and sea, illustrating how nature shifts between beauty, indifference, and violence.
- The author defines the castaway's existence as a fixed point at the center of a circle, where the horizon remains an inescapable geometric prison.
- The experience of survival is characterized by a series of exhausting opposites, where every environmental state eventually becomes a source of distress.
- Pi reflects on the possibility of another soul trapped in a similar state of isolation, struggling with the same cycle of fear and apathy.
To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle.
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
was acrid, but it wasn't that. It was rather my mouth's conclusion, immediate and obvious: there's nothing to be
had here. It was truly waste matter, with no nutrients in it. I spat it out and was bitter at the loss of precious
water. I took the gaff and went about collecting the rest of Richard Parker's feces. They went straight to the
fish.
After just a few weeks my body began to deteriorate. My feet and ankles started to swell and I was finding it
very tiring to stand.
CHAPTER 78
There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy
on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky was a heavy,
suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. The sky was
dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky was streaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton
ball stretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The sky was a density of dark and blustery rain
clouds that passed by without delivering rain. The sky was painted with a small number of flat clouds that
looked like sandbars. The sky was a mere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the
ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadow perfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of
falling rain. The sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. The
sky was black and spitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge
that wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff.
There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you
secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches. The sea hissed like
sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea was dead silent.
And in between the two, in between the sky and the sea, were all the winds.
And there were all the nights and all the moons.
To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle. However much things may appear to
change-the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest
black-the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumference is ever great. In fact, the
circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the centre of one
circle, while above you two opposing circles spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive
crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon
distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness.
When you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of
Tranquillity, there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with
fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.
Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. When it is light, the openness
of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. When it is day, you are
hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night you are cold
and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries; and wrap yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched
and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too
much of it and you must feast. When there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and
motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of
Page 114
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Castaway's Geometry
- The experience of being a castaway is defined by a constant, unchanging geometry where the individual remains the perpetual center of a vast, circular horizon.
- Survival involves enduring a relentless cycle of physical and psychological opposites, such as the blinding heat of day versus the claustrophobic cold of night.
- The emotional state of a survivor oscillates between extreme boredom and paralyzing terror, though these two states often bleed into one another in a wearying blur.
- In the desperate moral and physical landscape of a lifeboat, the scale of happiness shifts so drastically that a tiny dead fish can feel like the ultimate triumph.
To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle.
There were many skies. The sky was invaded by great white clouds, flat on the bottom but round and billowy
on top. The sky was completely cloudless, of a blue quite shattering to the senses. The sky was a heavy,
suffocating blanket of grey cloud, but without promise of rain. The sky was thinly overcast. The sky was
dappled with small, white, fleecy clouds. The sky was streaked with high, thin clouds that looked like a cotton
ball stretched apart. The sky was a featureless milky haze. The sky was a density of dark and blustery rain
clouds that passed by without delivering rain. The sky was painted with a small number of flat clouds that
looked like sandbars. The sky was a mere block to allow a visual effect on the horizon: sunlight flooding the
ocean, the vertical edges between light and shadow perfectly distinct. The sky was a distant black curtain of
falling rain. The sky was many clouds at many levels, some thick and opaque, others looking like smoke. The
sky was black and spitting rain on my smiling face. The sky was nothing but falling water, a ceaseless deluge
that wrinkled and bloated my skin and froze me stiff.
There were many seas. The sea roared like a tiger. The sea whispered in your ear like a friend telling you
secrets. The sea clinked like small change in a pocket. The sea thundered like avalanches. The sea hissed like
sandpaper working on wood. The sea sounded like someone vomiting. The sea was dead silent.
And in between the two, in between the sky and the sea, were all the winds.
And there were all the nights and all the moons.
To be a castaway is to be a point perpetually at the centre of a circle. However much things may appear to
change-the sea may shift from whisper to rage, the sky might go from fresh blue to blinding white to darkest
black-the geometry never changes. Your gaze is always a radius. The circumference is ever great. In fact, the
circles multiply. To be a castaway is to be caught in a harrowing ballet of circles. You are at the centre of one
circle, while above you two opposing circles spin about. The sun distresses you like a crowd, a noisy, invasive
crowd that makes you cup your ears, that makes you close your eyes, that makes you want to hide. The moon
distresses you by silently reminding you of your solitude; you open your eyes wide to escape your loneliness.
When you look up, you sometimes wonder if at the centre of a solar storm, if in the middle of the Sea of
Tranquillity, there isn't another one like you also looking up, also trapped by geometry, also struggling with
fear, rage, madness, hopelessness, apathy.
Otherwise, to be a castaway is to be caught up in grim and exhausting opposites. When it is light, the openness
of the sea is blinding and frightening. When it is dark, the darkness is claustrophobic. When it is day, you are
hot and wish to be cool and dream of ice cream and pour sea water on yourself. When it is night you are cold
and wish to be warm and dream of hot curries; and wrap yourself in blankets. When it is hot, you are parched
and wish to be wet. When it rains, you are nearly drowned and wish to be dry. When there is food, there is too
much of it and you must feast. When there is none, there is truly none and you starve. When the sea is flat and
motionless, you wish it would stir. When it rises up and the circle that imprisons you is broken by hills of
Page 114
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be
flat again. The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you
are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your
lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh
water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably
go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the
sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall
directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before
the next drops fall.
The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the
other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last forever. You are so bored
you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped
into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom there are elements of
terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself And in
the grip of terror-the worst storm-you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all.
Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing
it when life is threatened and precious.
Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. The elements
couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous, and morally it is
killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your
happiness where you can. You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms
crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet
you have a tiny dead fish.
The Lifeboat Paradox
- Survival at sea is defined by a constant conflict of opposites where every blessing, like rain or sun, carries a simultaneous curse.
- The emotional experience of the castaway swings violently between the extremes of paralyzing boredom and frantic terror.
- Even in the midst of a storm, a survivor may feel a deep weariness, while periods of calm are often haunted by an underlying dread.
- The moral and physical toll of survival reduces life to a high-stakes end game where the smallest success can feel like ultimate victory.
You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth.
water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be
flat again. The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you
are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your
lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh
water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably
go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the
sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall
directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before
the next drops fall.
The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the
other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last forever. You are so bored
you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped
into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom there are elements of
terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself And in
the grip of terror-the worst storm-you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all.
Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing
it when life is threatened and precious.
Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. The elements
couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous, and morally it is
killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your
happiness where you can. You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms
crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet
you have a tiny dead fish.
CHAPTER 79
Opposites on the High Seas
- Survival on a lifeboat is defined by a constant conflict of opposites where every blessing, like rain or sun, carries a hidden curse.
- The emotional experience of the castaway swings violently between the extremes of paralyzing boredom and frantic terror.
- The psychological toll of isolation is so severe that the victim may find profound happiness in the smallest of victories, such as a single dead fish.
- Sharks are a constant presence around the boat, viewed by the narrator not just as predators but as curmudgeonly, familiar companions.
You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth.
water, you suffer that peculiarity of the high seas, suffocation in open spaces, and you wish the sea would be
flat again. The opposites often take place at the same moment, so that when the sun is scorching you till you
are stricken down, you are also aware that it is drying the strips of fish and meat that are hanging from your
lines and that it is a blessing for your solar stills. Conversely, when a rain squall is replenishing your fresh
water supplies, you also know that the humidity will affect your cured provisions and that some will probably
go bad, turning pasty and green. When rough weather abates, and it becomes clear that you have survived the
sky's attack and the sea's treachery, your jubilation is tempered by the rage that so much fresh water should fall
directly into the sea and by the worry that it is the last rain you will ever see, that you will die of thirst before
the next drops fall.
The worst pair of opposites is boredom and terror. Sometimes your life is a pendulum swing from one to the
other. The sea is without a wrinkle. There is not a whisper of wind. The hours last forever. You are so bored
you sink into a state of apathy close to a coma. Then the sea becomes rough and your emotions are whipped
into a frenzy. Yet even these two opposites do not remain distinct. In your boredom there are elements of
terror: you break down into tears; you are filled with dread; you scream; you deliberately hurt yourself And in
the grip of terror-the worst storm-you yet feel boredom, a deep weariness with it all.
Only death consistently excites your emotions, whether contemplating it when life is safe and stale, or fleeing
it when life is threatened and precious.
Life on a lifeboat isn't much of a life. It is like an end game in chess, a game with few pieces. The elements
couldn't be more simple, nor the stakes higher. Physically it is extraordinarily arduous, and morally it is
killing. You must make adjustments if you want to survive. Much becomes expendable. You get your
happiness where you can. You reach a point where you're at the bottom of hell, yet you have your arms
crossed and a smile on your face, and you feel you're the luckiest person on earth. Why? Because at your feet
you have a tiny dead fish.
CHAPTER 79
There were sharks every day, mainly makos and blue sharks, but also oceanic whitetips, and once a tiger shark
straight from the blackest of nightmares. Dawn and dusk were their favourite times. They never seriously
troubled us. On occasion one knocked the hull of the lifeboat with its tail. I don't think it was accidental (other
marine life did it too, turtles and even dorados). I believe it was part of a shark's way of determining the nature
of the lifeboat. A good whack on the offender's nose with a hatchet sent it vanishing post-haste into the deep.
The main nuisance of sharks was that they made being in the water risky, like trespassing on a property where
there's a sign saying Beware of Dog. Otherwise, I grew quite fond of sharks. They were like curmudgeonly old
friends who would never admit that they liked me yet came round to see me all the time. The blue sharks were
smaller, usually no more than four or five feet long, and the most attractive, sleek and slender, with small
mouths and discreet gill slits. Their backs were a rich ultramarine and their stomachs snow white, colours that
vanished to grey or black when they were at any depth, but which close to the surface sparkled with surprising
brilliance. The makos were larger and had mouths bursting with frightening teeth, but they too were nicely
coloured, an indigo blue that shimmered beautifully in the sun. The oceanic whitetips were often shorter than
the makos-some of which stretched to twelve feet-but they were much stockier and had enormous dorsal fins
that they sailed high above the surface of the water, like a war banner, a rapidly moving sight that was always
nerve-racking to behold. Besides, they were a dull colour, a sort of greyish brown, and the mottled white tips
of their fins held no special attraction.
I caught a number of small sharks, blue sharks for the most part, but some makos too. Each time it was just
Encounters with Sharks
- The narrator observes various shark species daily, including makos, blue sharks, and oceanic whitetips, noting their distinct physical traits and behaviors.
- Sharks occasionally strike the lifeboat's hull as a way of investigating the vessel, though they are easily deterred by a blow to the nose.
- The narrator develops a strange fondness for the sharks, viewing them as curmudgeonly friends despite the inherent danger they pose to anyone in the water.
- In a moment of impulsive bravery, the narrator catches a four-foot mako shark with his bare hands and flings it into the tiger's territory.
- The arrival of the thrashing shark in the stern triggers an immediate and violent confrontation with Richard Parker the tiger.
To my horror and delight the thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of water and spray.
There were sharks every day, mainly makos and blue sharks, but also oceanic whitetips, and once a tiger shark
straight from the blackest of nightmares. Dawn and dusk were their favourite times. They never seriously
troubled us. On occasion one knocked the hull of the lifeboat with its tail. I don't think it was accidental (other
marine life did it too, turtles and even dorados). I believe it was part of a shark's way of determining the nature
of the lifeboat. A good whack on the offender's nose with a hatchet sent it vanishing post-haste into the deep.
The main nuisance of sharks was that they made being in the water risky, like trespassing on a property where
there's a sign saying Beware of Dog. Otherwise, I grew quite fond of sharks. They were like curmudgeonly old
friends who would never admit that they liked me yet came round to see me all the time. The blue sharks were
smaller, usually no more than four or five feet long, and the most attractive, sleek and slender, with small
mouths and discreet gill slits. Their backs were a rich ultramarine and their stomachs snow white, colours that
vanished to grey or black when they were at any depth, but which close to the surface sparkled with surprising
brilliance. The makos were larger and had mouths bursting with frightening teeth, but they too were nicely
coloured, an indigo blue that shimmered beautifully in the sun. The oceanic whitetips were often shorter than
the makos-some of which stretched to twelve feet-but they were much stockier and had enormous dorsal fins
that they sailed high above the surface of the water, like a war banner, a rapidly moving sight that was always
nerve-racking to behold. Besides, they were a dull colour, a sort of greyish brown, and the mottled white tips
of their fins held no special attraction.
I caught a number of small sharks, blue sharks for the most part, but some makos too. Each time it was just
Page 115
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
after sunset, in the dying light of the day, and I caught them with my bare hands as they came close to the
lifeboat.
The first one was my largest, a mako over four feet long. It had come and gone near the bow several times. As
it was passing by yet again, I impulsively dropped my hand into the water and grabbed it just ahead of the tail,
where its body was thinnest. Its harsh skin afforded such a marvellously good grip that without thinking about
what I was doing, I pulled. As I pulled, it jumped, giving my arm a terrific shake. To my horror and delight the
thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second I didn't know
what to do next. The thing was smaller than I-but wasn't I being a foolhardy Goliath here? Shouldn't I let go? I
turned and swung, and falling on the tarpaulin, I threw the mako towards the stern. The fish fell from the sky
into Richard Parker's territory. It landed with a crash and started thwacking about with such thunder that I was
afraid it would demolish the boat. Richard Parker was startled. He attacked immediately.
An epic battle began. Of interest to zoologists I can report the following: a tiger will not at first attack a shark
The Tiger and the Mako
- The narrator impulsively captures a large mako shark with his bare hands and hurls it into the lifeboat.
- The shark lands in Richard Parker's territory, triggering a violent and unprecedented battle between the tiger and the predatory fish.
- During the struggle, Richard Parker makes a tactical error by placing his paw in the shark's mouth, resulting in a painful bite and a deafening roar.
- The tiger eventually kills and consumes the shark, though his paws are left raw and injured by the mako's sandpaper-like skin.
- The narrator manages to scavenge some of the shark's remains, finding the flesh tasty and the cartilage a welcome change in texture.
To my horror and delight the thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second I didn't know what to do next. The thing was smaller than I-but wasn't I being a foolhardy Goliath here?
after sunset, in the dying light of the day, and I caught them with my bare hands as they came close to the
lifeboat.
The first one was my largest, a mako over four feet long. It had come and gone near the bow several times. As
it was passing by yet again, I impulsively dropped my hand into the water and grabbed it just ahead of the tail,
where its body was thinnest. Its harsh skin afforded such a marvellously good grip that without thinking about
what I was doing, I pulled. As I pulled, it jumped, giving my arm a terrific shake. To my horror and delight the
thing vaulted in the air in an explosion of water and spray. For the merest fraction of a second I didn't know
what to do next. The thing was smaller than I-but wasn't I being a foolhardy Goliath here? Shouldn't I let go? I
turned and swung, and falling on the tarpaulin, I threw the mako towards the stern. The fish fell from the sky
into Richard Parker's territory. It landed with a crash and started thwacking about with such thunder that I was
afraid it would demolish the boat. Richard Parker was startled. He attacked immediately.
An epic battle began. Of interest to zoologists I can report the following: a tiger will not at first attack a shark
out of water with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker started clubbing the
shark. I shuddered at every blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered to a human would break every
bone, would turn any piece of furniture into splinters, would reduce an entire house into a pile of rubble. That
the mako was not enjoying the treatment was evident from the way it was twisting and turning and beating its
tail and reaching with its mouth.
Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar with sharks, had never encountered a predatory
fish-whatever the case, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when I was reminded that Richard
Parker was not perfect, that despite his honed instincts he too could bumble. He put his left paw into the
mako's mouth. The mako closed its jaws. Immediately Richard Parker reared onto his back legs. The shark
was jerked up, but it wouldn't let go. Richard Parker fell back down, opened his mouth wide and full-out
roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot
day. I can well imagine that somewhere far off, 150 miles away, a ship's watch looked up, startled, and later
reported the oddest thing, that he thought he heard a cat's meow coming from three o'clock. Days later that
roar was still ringing in my guts. But a shark is deaf, conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn't think
of pinching a tiger's paw, let alone of trying to swallow one, received a volcanic roar full in the face and
quaked and trembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the shark perceived only a dull vibration.
Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark's head with his free front paw and biting it with his jaws,
while his rear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The shark held on to his paw, its only line of defence
and attack, and thrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about. With great effort I managed to
gain enough control of my body to get onto the raft and release it. The lifeboat drifted away. I saw flashes of
orange and deep blue, of fur and skin, as the lifeboat rocked from side to side. Richard Parker's snarling was
simply terrifying.
At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutes Richard Parker sat up, licking his left paw.
In the following days he spent much time tending his four paws. A shark's skin is covered with minute
tubercles that make it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himself while repeatedly raking the shark.
His left paw was injured, but the damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws were missing. As for the
mako, except for the tips of the tail and the mouth area, incongruously untouched, it was a half-eaten,
butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps of internal organs were strewn about.
I managed to gaff some of the shark's remains, but to my disappointment the vertebrae of sharks do not hold
fluid. At least the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness of cartilage was a welcome respite from so
much soft food.
The Tiger and the Mako
- Richard Parker engages in a brutal physical struggle with a mako shark, demonstrating his immense strength through powerful clubbing blows.
- The tiger makes a rare tactical error by placing his paw in the shark's mouth, leading to a terrifying display of raw power and a deafening roar.
- The narrator experiences profound terror from the tiger's roar, which he describes as a volcanic force that physically shook the air.
- Despite the shark's rough skin and defensive bite, the tiger eventually kills and butchers the predator, leaving a mess of flesh and organs.
- The narrator learns to hunt smaller sharks himself, discovering that stabbing them through the eyes is the most efficient method of execution.
Richard Parker fell back down, opened his mouth wide and full-out roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot day.
out of water with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker started clubbing the
shark. I shuddered at every blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered to a human would break every
bone, would turn any piece of furniture into splinters, would reduce an entire house into a pile of rubble. That
the mako was not enjoying the treatment was evident from the way it was twisting and turning and beating its
tail and reaching with its mouth.
Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar with sharks, had never encountered a predatory
fish-whatever the case, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when I was reminded that Richard
Parker was not perfect, that despite his honed instincts he too could bumble. He put his left paw into the
mako's mouth. The mako closed its jaws. Immediately Richard Parker reared onto his back legs. The shark
was jerked up, but it wouldn't let go. Richard Parker fell back down, opened his mouth wide and full-out
roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot
day. I can well imagine that somewhere far off, 150 miles away, a ship's watch looked up, startled, and later
reported the oddest thing, that he thought he heard a cat's meow coming from three o'clock. Days later that
roar was still ringing in my guts. But a shark is deaf, conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn't think
of pinching a tiger's paw, let alone of trying to swallow one, received a volcanic roar full in the face and
quaked and trembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the shark perceived only a dull vibration.
Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark's head with his free front paw and biting it with his jaws,
while his rear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The shark held on to his paw, its only line of defence
and attack, and thrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about. With great effort I managed to
gain enough control of my body to get onto the raft and release it. The lifeboat drifted away. I saw flashes of
orange and deep blue, of fur and skin, as the lifeboat rocked from side to side. Richard Parker's snarling was
simply terrifying.
At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutes Richard Parker sat up, licking his left paw.
In the following days he spent much time tending his four paws. A shark's skin is covered with minute
tubercles that make it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himself while repeatedly raking the shark.
His left paw was injured, but the damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws were missing. As for the
mako, except for the tips of the tail and the mouth area, incongruously untouched, it was a half-eaten,
butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps of internal organs were strewn about.
I managed to gaff some of the shark's remains, but to my disappointment the vertebrae of sharks do not hold
fluid. At least the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness of cartilage was a welcome respite from so
much soft food.
Page 116
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Subsequently I went for smaller sharks, pups really, and I killed them myself. I found that stabbing them
through the eyes with the knife was a faster, less tiresome way of killing them than hacking at the tops of their
heads with the hatchet.
CHAPTER 80
The Battle for Authority
- Richard Parker engages in a brutal and clumsy struggle with a mako shark, sustaining a paw injury after accidentally placing it in the predator's mouth.
- The tiger's terrifying roar during the fight is so powerful it causes the narrator to collapse in fear, though the deaf shark remains unaffected.
- Driven by extreme hunger, the narrator risks his life by staring down Richard Parker to claim a large dorado that landed on the boat.
- This psychological victory establishes the narrator's mastery over the tiger, allowing him to spend more time safely on the lifeboat's tarpaulin.
For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger.
out of water with its jaws but will rather strike at it with its forepaws. Richard Parker started clubbing the
shark. I shuddered at every blow. They were simply terrible. Just one delivered to a human would break every
bone, would turn any piece of furniture into splinters, would reduce an entire house into a pile of rubble. That
the mako was not enjoying the treatment was evident from the way it was twisting and turning and beating its
tail and reaching with its mouth.
Perhaps it was because Richard Parker was not familiar with sharks, had never encountered a predatory
fish-whatever the case, it happened: an accident, one of those few times when I was reminded that Richard
Parker was not perfect, that despite his honed instincts he too could bumble. He put his left paw into the
mako's mouth. The mako closed its jaws. Immediately Richard Parker reared onto his back legs. The shark
was jerked up, but it wouldn't let go. Richard Parker fell back down, opened his mouth wide and full-out
roared. I felt a blast of hot air against my body. The air visibly shook, like the heat coming off a road on a hot
day. I can well imagine that somewhere far off, 150 miles away, a ship's watch looked up, startled, and later
reported the oddest thing, that he thought he heard a cat's meow coming from three o'clock. Days later that
roar was still ringing in my guts. But a shark is deaf, conventionally speaking. So while I, who wouldn't think
of pinching a tiger's paw, let alone of trying to swallow one, received a volcanic roar full in the face and
quaked and trembled and turned liquid with fear and collapsed, the shark perceived only a dull vibration.
Richard Parker turned and started clawing the shark's head with his free front paw and biting it with his jaws,
while his rear legs began tearing at its stomach and back. The shark held on to his paw, its only line of defence
and attack, and thrashed its tail. Tiger and shark twisted and tumbled about. With great effort I managed to
gain enough control of my body to get onto the raft and release it. The lifeboat drifted away. I saw flashes of
orange and deep blue, of fur and skin, as the lifeboat rocked from side to side. Richard Parker's snarling was
simply terrifying.
At last the boat stopped moving. After several minutes Richard Parker sat up, licking his left paw.
In the following days he spent much time tending his four paws. A shark's skin is covered with minute
tubercles that make it as rough as sandpaper. He had no doubt cut himself while repeatedly raking the shark.
His left paw was injured, but the damage did not seem permanent; no toes or claws were missing. As for the
mako, except for the tips of the tail and the mouth area, incongruously untouched, it was a half-eaten,
butchered mess. Chunks of reddish grey flesh and clumps of internal organs were strewn about.
I managed to gaff some of the shark's remains, but to my disappointment the vertebrae of sharks do not hold
fluid. At least the flesh was tasty and unfishy, and the crunchiness of cartilage was a welcome respite from so
much soft food.
Page 116
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Subsequently I went for smaller sharks, pups really, and I killed them myself. I found that stabbing them
through the eyes with the knife was a faster, less tiresome way of killing them than hacking at the tops of their
heads with the hatchet.
CHAPTER 80
Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a special dorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and
we were in the midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was actively swatting at them. I was huddled
behind a turtle shell, shielding myself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of net hanging from it
extended into the open. I was hoping to catch fish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fish
whizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of the water. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying
fish got away, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like a cannonball. The thud it made shook the
whole boat. A spurt of blood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I dropped beneath the hail of flying fish
and reached for the dorado just ahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearly there, and turning all
kinds of colours. What a catch! What a catch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. The fish
was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good forty pounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine would
irrigate a desert.
Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. I sensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish
were still coming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was the fish in my hands that was now the focus
of his attention. He was eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wing dangling from it. His back
became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he was making to
attack me. It was too late to get away, too late even to blow my whistle. My time had come.
But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was so hungry. There are only so many days you can go
without eating.
And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger-because I was more set on eating than I was on staying
alive-without any means of defence, naked in every sense of the term, I looked Richard Parker dead in the
eyes. Suddenly his brute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothing compared to the strength in my
mind. I stared into his eyes, wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tell you that a tiger,
indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of a direct stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild ox has
turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are two very different things (and it's a useless bit of
knowledge if you're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you hold one lion in the thrall of your gaze,
another will come up to you from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status
and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest of lunges to be on
top of me. But I held my stare.
Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away. He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped
with disbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried away to the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to
Richard Parker a fair chunk of the fish.
From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer in question, and I began to spend progressively more
time on the lifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on the more comfortable tarpaulin. I was
still scared of Richard Parker, but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longer strained me. You
can get used to anything-haven't I already said that? Isn't that what all survivors say?
Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against its rolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little-since the ends
The Stare of Mastery
- Pi captures a massive forty-pound dorado after it accidentally crashes into the lifeboat during a storm of flying fish.
- The tiger, Richard Parker, prepares to attack Pi to claim the large fish, leading to a life-threatening standoff.
- Driven by extreme hunger and desperation, Pi stares directly into the tiger's eyes, engaging in a psychological battle for dominance.
- Richard Parker eventually yields and turns away, marking a permanent shift in the power dynamic between the boy and the predator.
- Following this victory, Pi gains the confidence to occupy more space on the lifeboat and no longer feels constant strain from the tiger's presence.
For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger.
Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a special dorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and
we were in the midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was actively swatting at them. I was huddled
behind a turtle shell, shielding myself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of net hanging from it
extended into the open. I was hoping to catch fish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fish
whizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of the water. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying
fish got away, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like a cannonball. The thud it made shook the
whole boat. A spurt of blood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I dropped beneath the hail of flying fish
and reached for the dorado just ahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearly there, and turning all
kinds of colours. What a catch! What a catch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. The fish
was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good forty pounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine would
irrigate a desert.
Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. I sensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish
were still coming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was the fish in my hands that was now the focus
of his attention. He was eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wing dangling from it. His back
became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he was making to
attack me. It was too late to get away, too late even to blow my whistle. My time had come.
But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was so hungry. There are only so many days you can go
without eating.
And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger-because I was more set on eating than I was on staying
alive-without any means of defence, naked in every sense of the term, I looked Richard Parker dead in the
eyes. Suddenly his brute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothing compared to the strength in my
mind. I stared into his eyes, wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tell you that a tiger,
indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of a direct stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild ox has
turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are two very different things (and it's a useless bit of
knowledge if you're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you hold one lion in the thrall of your gaze,
another will come up to you from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status
and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest of lunges to be on
top of me. But I held my stare.
Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away. He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped
with disbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried away to the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to
Richard Parker a fair chunk of the fish.
From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer in question, and I began to spend progressively more
time on the lifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on the more comfortable tarpaulin. I was
still scared of Richard Parker, but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longer strained me. You
can get used to anything-haven't I already said that? Isn't that what all survivors say?
Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against its rolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little-since the ends
Page 117
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
of the lifeboat were higher than its middle-and so I could keep an eye on Richard Parker.
Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting just above the middle bench, my back to Richard Parker
and his territory. In this position I was further away from the edges of the boat and less exposed to wind and
spray.
CHAPTER 81
Mastery and the Dorado
- Pi captures a massive forty-pound dorado that accidentally strikes the boat during a chaotic storm of flying fish.
- The catch triggers a life-threatening standoff with Richard Parker, who prepares to attack Pi for the prize.
- Driven by extreme hunger and desperation, Pi stares down the tiger, winning a psychological battle for dominance and authority.
- This victory establishes Pi's mastery over the predator, allowing him to occupy more space on the lifeboat with less fear.
- Pi reflects that his survival is sustained by his role as the provider of food and water, making his presence miraculous to the tiger.
For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger.
Of all the dorados, I remember one in particular, a special dorado. It was early morning on a cloudy day, and
we were in the midst of a storm of flying fish. Richard Parker was actively swatting at them. I was huddled
behind a turtle shell, shielding myself from the flying fish. I had a gaff with a piece of net hanging from it
extended into the open. I was hoping to catch fish in this way. I wasn't having much luck. A flying fish
whizzed by. The dorado that was chasing it burst out of the water. It was a bad calculation. The anxious flying
fish got away, just missing my net, but the dorado hit the gunnel like a cannonball. The thud it made shook the
whole boat. A spurt of blood sprayed the tarpaulin. I reacted quickly. I dropped beneath the hail of flying fish
and reached for the dorado just ahead of a shark. I pulled it aboard. It was dead, or nearly there, and turning all
kinds of colours. What a catch! What a catch! I thought excitedly. Thanks be to you, Jesus-Matsya. The fish
was fat and fleshy. It must have weighed a good forty pounds. It would feed a horde. Its eyes and spine would
irrigate a desert.
Alas, Richard Parker's great head had turned my way. I sensed it from the corner of my eyes. The flying fish
were still coming, but he was no longer interested in them; it was the fish in my hands that was now the focus
of his attention. He was eight feet away. His mouth was half open, a fish wing dangling from it. His back
became rounder. His rump wriggled. His tail twitched. It was clear: he was in a crouch and he was making to
attack me. It was too late to get away, too late even to blow my whistle. My time had come.
But enough was enough. I had suffered so much. I was so hungry. There are only so many days you can go
without eating.
And so, in a moment of insanity brought on by hunger-because I was more set on eating than I was on staying
alive-without any means of defence, naked in every sense of the term, I looked Richard Parker dead in the
eyes. Suddenly his brute strength meant only moral weakness. It was nothing compared to the strength in my
mind. I stared into his eyes, wide-eyed and defiant, and we faced off. Any zookeeper will tell you that a tiger,
indeed any cat, will not attack in the face of a direct stare but will wait until the deer or antelope or wild ox has
turned its eyes. But to know that and to apply it are two very different things (and it's a useless bit of
knowledge if you're hoping to stare down a gregarious cat. While you hold one lion in the thrall of your gaze,
another will come up to you from behind). For two, perhaps three seconds, a terrific battle of minds for status
and authority was waged between a boy and a tiger. He needed to make only the shortest of lunges to be on
top of me. But I held my stare.
Richard Parker licked his nose, groaned and turned away. He angrily batted a flying fish. I had won. I gasped
with disbelief, heaved the dorado into my hands and hurried away to the raft. Shortly thereafter, I delivered to
Richard Parker a fair chunk of the fish.
From that day onwards I felt my mastery was no longer in question, and I began to spend progressively more
time on the lifeboat, first at the bow, then, as I gained confidence, on the more comfortable tarpaulin. I was
still scared of Richard Parker, but only when it was necessary. His simple presence no longer strained me. You
can get used to anything-haven't I already said that? Isn't that what all survivors say?
Initially I lay on the tarpaulin with my head against its rolled-up bow edge. It was raised a little-since the ends
Page 117
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
of the lifeboat were higher than its middle-and so I could keep an eye on Richard Parker.
Later on I turned the other way, with my head resting just above the middle bench, my back to Richard Parker
and his territory. In this position I was further away from the edges of the boat and less exposed to wind and
spray.
CHAPTER 81
I know my survival is hard to believe. When I think back, I can hardly believe it myself.
My crude exploitation of Richard Parker's weak sea legs is not the only explanation. There is another: I was
the source of food and water. Richard Parker had been a zoo animal as long as he could remember, and he was
used to sustenance coming to him without his lifting a paw. True, when it rained and the whole boat became a
rain catcher, he understood where the water came from. And when we were hit by a school of flying fish, there
too my role was not apparent. But these events did not change the reality of things, which was that when he
looked beyond the gunnel, he saw no jungle that he could hunt in and no river from which he could drink
freely. Yet I brought him food and I brought him fresh water. My agency was pure and miraculous. It
conferred power upon me. Proof: I remained alive day after day, week after week. Proof: he did not attack me,
even when I was asleep on the tarpaulin. Proof: I am here to tell you this story.
The Provider and the Beast
- Pi attributes his survival to his role as the provider of food and water, which established a miraculous agency over Richard Parker.
- Fresh water is treated as a substance more precious than gemstones, leading Pi to obsessively protect and store every drop in plastic bags.
- The constant threat of dehydration and starvation forces Pi to consume raw food with frantic, indiscriminate speed to prevent the tiger from taking it.
- Pi experiences a moment of profound self-realization when he notices his eating habits have devolved into the same noisy, unchewing 'wolfing-down' as the animal.
It came as an unmistakable indication to me of how low I had sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate like an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker ate.
I know my survival is hard to believe. When I think back, I can hardly believe it myself.
My crude exploitation of Richard Parker's weak sea legs is not the only explanation. There is another: I was
the source of food and water. Richard Parker had been a zoo animal as long as he could remember, and he was
used to sustenance coming to him without his lifting a paw. True, when it rained and the whole boat became a
rain catcher, he understood where the water came from. And when we were hit by a school of flying fish, there
too my role was not apparent. But these events did not change the reality of things, which was that when he
looked beyond the gunnel, he saw no jungle that he could hunt in and no river from which he could drink
freely. Yet I brought him food and I brought him fresh water. My agency was pure and miraculous. It
conferred power upon me. Proof: I remained alive day after day, week after week. Proof: he did not attack me,
even when I was asleep on the tarpaulin. Proof: I am here to tell you this story.
CHAPTER 82
I kept rainwater and the water I collected from the solar stills in the locker, out of Richard Parker's sight, in the
three 50-litre plastic bags. I sealed them with string. Those plastic bags wouldn't have been more precious to
me had they contained gold, sapphires, rubies and diamonds. I worried incessantly about them. My worst
nightmare was that I would open the locker one morning and find that all three had spilled or, worse still, had
split. To forestall such a tragedy, I wrapped them in blankets to keep them from rubbing against the metal hull
of the lifeboat, and I moved them as little as possible to reduce wear and tear. But I fretted over the necks of
the bags. Would the string not wear them thin? How would I seal the bags if their necks were torn?
When the going was good, when the rain was torrential, when the bags had as much water as I thought they
could take, I filled the baiiling cups, the two plastic buckets, the two multi-purpose plastic containers, the three
beakers and the empty cans of water (which I now preciously kept). Next I filled all the plastic vomit bags,
sealing them by twisting them shut and making a knot. After that, if the rain was still coming down, I used
myself as a container. I stuck the end of the rain-catcher tube in my mouth and I drank and I drank and I drank.
I always added a little sea water to Richard Parker's fresh water, in a greater proportion in the days following a
rainfall, in a lesser during periods of drought. On occasion, in the early days, he dipped his head overboard,
sniffed the sea and took a few sips, but quickly he stopped doing it.
Still, we barely got by. The scarcity of fresh water was the single most constant source of anxiety and
suffering throughout our journey.
Of whatever food I caught, Richard Parker took the lion's share, so to speak. I had little choice in the matter.
He was immediately aware when I landed a turtle or a dorado or a shark, and I had to give quickly and
Page 118
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
generously. I think I set world records for sawing open the belly shells of turtles. As for fish, they were hewn
to pieces practically while they were still flopping about. If I got to be so indiscriminate about what I ate, it
was not simply because of appalling hunger; it was also plain rush. Sometimes I just didn't have the time to
consider what was before me. It either went into my mouth that instant or was lost to Richard Parker, who was
pawing and stamping the ground and huffing impatiently on the edge of his territory. It came as an
unmistakable indication to me of how low I had sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate
like an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker
ate.
CHAPTER 83
Sinking to Animal Instincts
- The narrator reflects on his descent into animalistic behavior, noting that his frantic and unchewing way of eating now mirrors that of Richard Parker.
- A massive storm arrives, transforming the sea into a landscape of gloomy valleys and mountain-sized swells that threaten to swamp the lifeboat.
- To survive the crushing weight of the water, the narrator is forced to deploy sea anchors which keep the boat from tumbling but cause it to take on massive amounts of water.
- In a desperate bid for survival, the narrator chooses the risk of being trapped with a tiger over certain drowning, frantically battening down the tarpaulin to seal the boat.
- The physical struggle to secure the boat occurs during a terrifying ascent up a swell, with the narrator working at a pace faster than a sewing machine.
It came as an unmistakable indication to me of how low I had sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate like an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker ate.
generously. I think I set world records for sawing open the belly shells of turtles. As for fish, they were hewn
to pieces practically while they were still flopping about. If I got to be so indiscriminate about what I ate, it
was not simply because of appalling hunger; it was also plain rush. Sometimes I just didn't have the time to
consider what was before me. It either went into my mouth that instant or was lost to Richard Parker, who was
pawing and stamping the ground and huffing impatiently on the edge of his territory. It came as an
unmistakable indication to me of how low I had sunk the day I noticed, with a pinching of the heart, that I ate
like an animal, that this noisy, frantic, unchewing wolfing-down of mine was exactly the way Richard Parker
ate.
CHAPTER 83
The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds looked as if they were stumbling along before the wind,
frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a manner that made my heart sink. I took in the
solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen up till now were mere
hillocks of water. These swells were truly mountains. The valleys we found ourselves in were so deep they
were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat started sliding down them, nearly surfing. The raft was
getting exceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the water and dragged along bouncing every which
way. I deployed both sea anchors fully, at different lengths so that they would not interfere with each other.
Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope. We would rush
up until we reached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and a tipping forward of the lifeboat. The
view would be clear for miles around. But the mountain would shift, and the ground beneath us would start
sinking in a most stomach-sickening way. In no time we would be sitting once again at the bottom of a dark
valley, different from the last but the same, with thousands of tons of water hovering above us and with only
our flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move once more, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness,
and the roller coaster would start again.
The sea anchors did their job well-in fact, nearly too well. Every swell at its crest wanted to take us for a
tumble, but the anchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled us through, but at the expense of pulling
the front of the boat down. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at the bow. I was soaked through
and through each time.
Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on taking us along. This time the bow vanished underwater.
I was shocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed to hold on. The boat was swamped. I heard
Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me was death by water or death by
animal. I chose death by animal.
While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped onto the tarpaulin and unrolled it towards the stern,
closing in Richard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Faster than a sewing machine working a piece of
cloth, I hooked down the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We were climbing again. The boat was lurching
upwards steadily. It was hard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now covered and the tarpaulin battened
down, except at my end. I squeezed in between the side bench and the tarpaulin and pulled the remaining
tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and
the side benches were only one and a half feet wide. But I was not so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to
move onto the floor of the boat. There were four hooks left to catch. I slipped a hand through the opening and
worked the rope. With each hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. I managed two. Two hooks left.
The boat was rushing upwards in a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirty degrees. I could
feel myself being pulled down towards the stern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching one
Mountains of Water
- A massive storm transforms the sea into a landscape of mountainous swells and deep, gloomy valleys.
- The protagonist uses sea anchors to stabilize the lifeboat, though the force of the waves repeatedly swamps the bow.
- Faced with the choice between drowning or sharing a confined space with a tiger, the narrator chooses the animal.
- In a desperate race against the rising water, the narrator manages to batten down the tarpaulin to seal the boat.
- The physical struggle to secure the final hooks occurs while the boat is tilted at a precarious thirty-degree angle.
The only choice left to me was death by water or death by animal. I chose death by animal.
The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds looked as if they were stumbling along before the wind,
frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a manner that made my heart sink. I took in the
solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen up till now were mere
hillocks of water. These swells were truly mountains. The valleys we found ourselves in were so deep they
were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat started sliding down them, nearly surfing. The raft was
getting exceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the water and dragged along bouncing every which
way. I deployed both sea anchors fully, at different lengths so that they would not interfere with each other.
Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope. We would rush
up until we reached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and a tipping forward of the lifeboat. The
view would be clear for miles around. But the mountain would shift, and the ground beneath us would start
sinking in a most stomach-sickening way. In no time we would be sitting once again at the bottom of a dark
valley, different from the last but the same, with thousands of tons of water hovering above us and with only
our flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move once more, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness,
and the roller coaster would start again.
The sea anchors did their job well-in fact, nearly too well. Every swell at its crest wanted to take us for a
tumble, but the anchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled us through, but at the expense of pulling
the front of the boat down. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at the bow. I was soaked through
and through each time.
Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on taking us along. This time the bow vanished underwater.
I was shocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed to hold on. The boat was swamped. I heard
Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me was death by water or death by
animal. I chose death by animal.
While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped onto the tarpaulin and unrolled it towards the stern,
closing in Richard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Faster than a sewing machine working a piece of
cloth, I hooked down the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We were climbing again. The boat was lurching
upwards steadily. It was hard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now covered and the tarpaulin battened
down, except at my end. I squeezed in between the side bench and the tarpaulin and pulled the remaining
tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and
the side benches were only one and a half feet wide. But I was not so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to
move onto the floor of the boat. There were four hooks left to catch. I slipped a hand through the opening and
worked the rope. With each hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. I managed two. Two hooks left.
The boat was rushing upwards in a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirty degrees. I could
feel myself being pulled down towards the stern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching one
Page 119
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Mountainous Storm
- A massive storm transforms the sea into a landscape of deep, gloomy valleys and mountain-sized swells that threaten to swamp the lifeboat.
- Pi is forced to abandon his raft and take shelter under the tarpaulin with Richard Parker, choosing the risk of the tiger over certain death by drowning.
- The physical and mental toll of the storm leads to a state of numbness where terror becomes monotonous and the protagonist eventually gives up.
- In the aftermath, Pi discovers the loss of his raft and most of his food, leaving him spiritually devastated despite surviving the night.
- The recovery of a single orange whistle from the bottom of the boat serves as a symbolic and literal lifeline for Pi's continued survival.
The only choice left to me was death by water or death by animal. I chose death by animal.
The storm came on slowly one afternoon. The clouds looked as if they were stumbling along before the wind,
frightened. The sea took its cue. It started rising and falling in a manner that made my heart sink. I took in the
solar stills and the net. Oh, you should have seen that landscape! What I had seen up till now were mere
hillocks of water. These swells were truly mountains. The valleys we found ourselves in were so deep they
were gloomy. Their sides were so steep the lifeboat started sliding down them, nearly surfing. The raft was
getting exceptionally rough treatment, being pulled out of the water and dragged along bouncing every which
way. I deployed both sea anchors fully, at different lengths so that they would not interfere with each other.
Climbing the giant swells, the boat clung to the sea anchors like a mountain climber to a rope. We would rush
up until we reached a snow-white crest in a burst of light and foam and a tipping forward of the lifeboat. The
view would be clear for miles around. But the mountain would shift, and the ground beneath us would start
sinking in a most stomach-sickening way. In no time we would be sitting once again at the bottom of a dark
valley, different from the last but the same, with thousands of tons of water hovering above us and with only
our flimsy lightness to save us. The land would move once more, the sea-anchor ropes would snap to tautness,
and the roller coaster would start again.
The sea anchors did their job well-in fact, nearly too well. Every swell at its crest wanted to take us for a
tumble, but the anchors, beyond the crest, heaved mightily and pulled us through, but at the expense of pulling
the front of the boat down. The result was an explosion of foam and spray at the bow. I was soaked through
and through each time.
Then a swell came up that was particularly intent on taking us along. This time the bow vanished underwater.
I was shocked and chilled and scared witless. I barely managed to hold on. The boat was swamped. I heard
Richard Parker roar. I felt death was upon us. The only choice left to me was death by water or death by
animal. I chose death by animal.
While we sank down the back of the swell, I jumped onto the tarpaulin and unrolled it towards the stern,
closing in Richard Parker. If he protested, I did not hear him. Faster than a sewing machine working a piece of
cloth, I hooked down the tarpaulin on both sides of the boat. We were climbing again. The boat was lurching
upwards steadily. It was hard to keep my balance. The lifeboat was now covered and the tarpaulin battened
down, except at my end. I squeezed in between the side bench and the tarpaulin and pulled the remaining
tarpaulin over my head. I did not have much space. Between bench and gunnel there was twelve inches, and
the side benches were only one and a half feet wide. But I was not so foolhardy, even in the face of death, as to
move onto the floor of the boat. There were four hooks left to catch. I slipped a hand through the opening and
worked the rope. With each hook done, it was getting harder to get the next. I managed two. Two hooks left.
The boat was rushing upwards in a smooth and unceasing motion. The incline was over thirty degrees. I could
feel myself being pulled down towards the stern. Twisting my hand frantically I succeeded in catching one
Page 119
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
more hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This was not a job meant to be done from the inside of the
lifeboat but from the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something made easier by the fact that holding on to it
was preventing me from sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftly passed a forty-five-degree
incline.
We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when we reached the summit of the swell and broke through its
crest onto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell's supply of water crashed down on us. I felt as if I
were being pummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forward and everything was reversed: I was
now at the lower end of the lifeboat, and the water that had swamped it, with a tiger soaking in it, came my
way. I did not feel the tiger-I had no precise idea of where Richard Parker was; it was pitch-black beneath the
tarpaulin-but before we reached the next valley I was half-drowned.
For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down, until terror
became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up. I held on to the tarpaulin rope
with one hand and the edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body lay flat against the side bench. In
this position-water pouring in, water pouring out-the tarpaulin beat me to a pulp, I was soaked and chilled, and
I was bruised and cut by bones and turtle shells. The noise of the storm was constant, as was Richard Parker's
snarling.
Sometime during the night my mind noted that the storm was over. We were bobbing on the sea in a normal
way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starry and cloudless. I undid the tarpaulin and
lay on top of it.
I noticed the loss of the raft at dawn. All that was left of it were two tied oars and the life jacket between them.
They had the same effect on me as the last standing beam of a burnt-down house would have on a
householder. I turned and scrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My little marine town had
vanished. That the sea anchors, miraculously, were not lost-they continued to tug at the lifeboat faithfully-was
a consolation that had no effect. The loss of the raft was perhaps not fatal to my body, but it felt fatal to my
spirits.
The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn in several places, some tears evidently the work of
Richard Parker's claws. Much of our food was gone, either lost overboard or destroyed by the water that had
come in. I was sore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound was swollen and white. I was nearly too
afraid to check the contents of the locker. Thank God none of the water bags had split. The net and the solar
stills, which I had not entirely deflated, had filled the empty space and prevented the bags from moving too
much.
I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin at the stern. Richard Parker was so silent I wondered
whether he had drowned. He hadn't. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to the middle bench and daylight came to
him, he stirred and growled. He climbed out of the water and set himself on the stern bench. I took out needle
and thread and went about mending the tears in the tarpaulin.
Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed the boat. Richard Parker watched me distractedly. He
seemed to find nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and I proceeded slowly. One haul brought me
something I had lost. I considered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand was all that remained between me and
death: the last of the orange whistles.
The Storm's Brutal Aftermath
- Pi endures a violent storm while trapped under the tarpaulin, experiencing a transition from sheer terror to a state of monotonous numbness.
- The storm destroys Pi's raft, leaving only a few oars and a life jacket, a loss that deeply wounds his spirit and sense of security.
- Upon assessing the damage, Pi finds the lifeboat in a sorry state with much of their food supply lost or ruined by seawater.
- Despite the devastation, Pi discovers that the water bags and a single orange whistle have survived, providing a slim hope for continued survival.
- Richard Parker survives the ordeal in silence, emerging from the flooded boat to watch Pi begin the slow process of bailing and mending.
For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down, until terror became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up.
more hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This was not a job meant to be done from the inside of the
lifeboat but from the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something made easier by the fact that holding on to it
was preventing me from sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftly passed a forty-five-degree
incline.
We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when we reached the summit of the swell and broke through its
crest onto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell's supply of water crashed down on us. I felt as if I
were being pummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forward and everything was reversed: I was
now at the lower end of the lifeboat, and the water that had swamped it, with a tiger soaking in it, came my
way. I did not feel the tiger-I had no precise idea of where Richard Parker was; it was pitch-black beneath the
tarpaulin-but before we reached the next valley I was half-drowned.
For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down, until terror
became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up. I held on to the tarpaulin rope
with one hand and the edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body lay flat against the side bench. In
this position-water pouring in, water pouring out-the tarpaulin beat me to a pulp, I was soaked and chilled, and
I was bruised and cut by bones and turtle shells. The noise of the storm was constant, as was Richard Parker's
snarling.
Sometime during the night my mind noted that the storm was over. We were bobbing on the sea in a normal
way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starry and cloudless. I undid the tarpaulin and
lay on top of it.
I noticed the loss of the raft at dawn. All that was left of it were two tied oars and the life jacket between them.
They had the same effect on me as the last standing beam of a burnt-down house would have on a
householder. I turned and scrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My little marine town had
vanished. That the sea anchors, miraculously, were not lost-they continued to tug at the lifeboat faithfully-was
a consolation that had no effect. The loss of the raft was perhaps not fatal to my body, but it felt fatal to my
spirits.
The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn in several places, some tears evidently the work of
Richard Parker's claws. Much of our food was gone, either lost overboard or destroyed by the water that had
come in. I was sore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound was swollen and white. I was nearly too
afraid to check the contents of the locker. Thank God none of the water bags had split. The net and the solar
stills, which I had not entirely deflated, had filled the empty space and prevented the bags from moving too
much.
I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin at the stern. Richard Parker was so silent I wondered
whether he had drowned. He hadn't. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to the middle bench and daylight came to
him, he stirred and growled. He climbed out of the water and set himself on the stern bench. I took out needle
and thread and went about mending the tears in the tarpaulin.
Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed the boat. Richard Parker watched me distractedly. He
seemed to find nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and I proceeded slowly. One haul brought me
something I had lost. I considered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand was all that remained between me and
death: the last of the orange whistles.
CHAPTER 84
Page 120
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Storm Aftermath and Ocean Giants
- Pi survives a violent storm that nearly capsizes the lifeboat and leaves him physically battered and emotionally numb.
- The loss of the raft at dawn serves as a major psychological blow, symbolizing the destruction of Pi's 'marine town' and his sense of security.
- A massive whale approaches the boat, making direct eye contact with Pi and Richard Parker before peacefully submerging.
- Pi finds solace in imagining a complex social network of whales who recognize his plight and attempt to help him.
- The appearance of various sea creatures and birds provides a mix of awe, envy, and a desperate hope for land.
Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
more hook with the rope. It was the best I could do. This was not a job meant to be done from the inside of the
lifeboat but from the outside. I pulled hard on the rope, something made easier by the fact that holding on to it
was preventing me from sliding down the length of the boat. The boat swiftly passed a forty-five-degree
incline.
We must have been at a sixty-degree incline when we reached the summit of the swell and broke through its
crest onto the other side. The smallest portion of the swell's supply of water crashed down on us. I felt as if I
were being pummelled by a great fist. The lifeboat abruptly tilted forward and everything was reversed: I was
now at the lower end of the lifeboat, and the water that had swamped it, with a tiger soaking in it, came my
way. I did not feel the tiger-I had no precise idea of where Richard Parker was; it was pitch-black beneath the
tarpaulin-but before we reached the next valley I was half-drowned.
For the rest of that day and into the night, we went up and down, up and down, up and down, until terror
became monotonous and was replaced by numbness and a complete giving-up. I held on to the tarpaulin rope
with one hand and the edge of the bow bench with the other, while my body lay flat against the side bench. In
this position-water pouring in, water pouring out-the tarpaulin beat me to a pulp, I was soaked and chilled, and
I was bruised and cut by bones and turtle shells. The noise of the storm was constant, as was Richard Parker's
snarling.
Sometime during the night my mind noted that the storm was over. We were bobbing on the sea in a normal
way. Through a tear in the tarpaulin I glimpsed the night sky. Starry and cloudless. I undid the tarpaulin and
lay on top of it.
I noticed the loss of the raft at dawn. All that was left of it were two tied oars and the life jacket between them.
They had the same effect on me as the last standing beam of a burnt-down house would have on a
householder. I turned and scrutinized every quarter of the horizon. Nothing. My little marine town had
vanished. That the sea anchors, miraculously, were not lost-they continued to tug at the lifeboat faithfully-was
a consolation that had no effect. The loss of the raft was perhaps not fatal to my body, but it felt fatal to my
spirits.
The boat was in a sorry state. The tarpaulin was torn in several places, some tears evidently the work of
Richard Parker's claws. Much of our food was gone, either lost overboard or destroyed by the water that had
come in. I was sore all over and had a bad cut on my thigh; the wound was swollen and white. I was nearly too
afraid to check the contents of the locker. Thank God none of the water bags had split. The net and the solar
stills, which I had not entirely deflated, had filled the empty space and prevented the bags from moving too
much.
I felt exhausted and depressed. I unhooked the tarpaulin at the stern. Richard Parker was so silent I wondered
whether he had drowned. He hadn't. As I rolled back the tarpaulin to the middle bench and daylight came to
him, he stirred and growled. He climbed out of the water and set himself on the stern bench. I took out needle
and thread and went about mending the tears in the tarpaulin.
Later I tied one of the buckets to a rope and bailed the boat. Richard Parker watched me distractedly. He
seemed to find nearly everything I did boring. The day was hot and I proceeded slowly. One haul brought me
something I had lost. I considered it. Cradled in the palm of my hand was all that remained between me and
death: the last of the orange whistles.
CHAPTER 84
Page 120
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and
generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a
wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor
the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I
awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked
up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker
growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took
me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It
was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the
whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking
under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its
tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I
already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their
spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived
archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they
understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy
cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and
Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be
very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the
grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't
sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the
hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay.
Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun.
I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I
gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds
that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth
open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible.
Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water.
They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed.
We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It
kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with
curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the
line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and
plunged its head underwater to get at it.
Encounters with Ocean Behemoths
- A massive whale approaches the lifeboat, observing the castaway and Richard Parker with an eye the size of a human head.
- The narrator imagines a whimsical, empathetic society of whales that communicate his plight across the Pacific Ocean.
- The text condemns the hunting of whales as a heinous crime, contrasting their gentleness with human cruelty.
- Dolphins and various seafaring birds provide brief moments of awe and envy for the narrator as they navigate the sea with ease.
- The narrator attempts to hunt a short-tailed shearwater by baiting it with fish after it lands near the boat.
It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and
generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a
wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor
the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I
awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked
up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker
growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took
me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It
was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the
whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking
under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its
tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I
already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their
spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived
archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they
understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy
cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and
Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be
very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the
grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't
sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the
hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay.
Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun.
I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I
gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds
that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth
open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible.
Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water.
They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed.
We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It
kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with
curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the
line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and
plunged its head underwater to get at it.
My heart pounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for some
Encounters with Marine Giants
- A massive whale approaches the lifeboat, observing both the narrator and Richard Parker with an eye the size of a human head.
- The narrator finds comfort in the presence of whales, imagining they are sentient beings communicating his plight across the ocean.
- Dolphins and various seafaring birds, including albatrosses and petrels, provide moments of awe and envy for the stranded castaway.
- The narrator condemns the hunting of whales as a heinous crime, viewing the animals as gentle and empathetic behemoths.
- A short-tailed shearwater eventually lands near the boat, prompting the narrator to attempt to capture it for food.
It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and
generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a
wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor
the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I
awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked
up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker
growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took
me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It
was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the
whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking
under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its
tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I
already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their
spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived
archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they
understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy
cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and
Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be
very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the
grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't
sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the
hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay.
Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun.
I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I
gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds
that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth
open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible.
Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water.
They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed.
We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It
kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with
curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the
line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and
plunged its head underwater to get at it.
My heart pounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for some
Page 121
Encounters with Marine Giants
- A massive whale approaches the lifeboat, observing both Pi and Richard Parker with an eye the size of a human head.
- Pi finds comfort in the presence of whales, imagining they are sentient beings who communicate his plight to one another.
- The narrative shifts to a condemnation of whaling, describing the practice as a heinous crime against gentle, empathetic creatures.
- Pi observes various sea birds and dolphins, viewing them with a mixture of awe, envy, and a desperate hope for land.
- The section concludes with Pi attempting to hunt a short-tailed shearwater that has landed near the boat out of curiosity.
It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and
generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a
wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor
the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I
awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked
up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker
growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took
me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It
was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the
whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking
under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its
tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I
already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their
spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived
archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they
understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy
cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and
Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be
very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the
grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't
sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the
hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay.
Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun.
I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I
gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds
that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth
open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible.
Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water.
They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed.
We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It
kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with
curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the
line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and
plunged its head underwater to get at it.
My heart pounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for some
Page 121
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Encounters with Marine Life
- A massive whale approaches the lifeboat, making eye contact with Pi and Richard Parker before sinking back into the depths.
- Pi imagines a whimsical narrative where the whales are gentle, sentient beings who attempt to communicate his plight to others.
- Various seabirds and dolphins visit the boat, providing Pi with a sense of awe and envy at their freedom and supernatural grace.
- Pi captures and kills a masked booby, consuming every edible part of the bird to sustain himself before giving the remains to the tiger.
- Despite his hope that the birds are omens of nearby land, they ultimately prove to be seafaring creatures with no connection to the shore.
It was an eye. It was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
I was on the tarpaulin, wrapped in a blanket, sleeping and dreaming and awakening and daydreaming and
generally passing the time. There was a steady breeze. From time to time spray was blown off the crest of a
wave and wet the boat. Richard Parker had disappeared under the tarpaulin. He liked neither getting wet nor
the ups and downs of the boat. But the sky was blue, the air was warm, and the sea was regular in its motion. I
awoke because there was a blast. I opened my eyes and saw water in the sky. It crashed down on me. I looked
up again. Cloudless blue sky. There was another blast, to my left, not as powerful as the first. Richard Parker
growled fiercely. More water crashed against me. It had an unpleasant smell.
I looked over the edge of the boat. The first thing I saw was a large black object floating in the water. It took
me a few seconds to understand what it was. An arching wrinkle around its edge was my clue. It was an eye. It
was a whale. Its eye, the size of my head, was looking directly at me.
Richard Parker came up from beneath the tarpaulin. He hissed. I sensed from a slight change in the glint of the
whale's eye that it was now looking at Richard Parker. It gazed for thirty seconds or so before gently sinking
under. I worried that it might strike us with its tail, but it went straight down and vanished in the dark blue. Its
tail was a huge, fading, round bracket.
I believe it was a whale looking for a mate. It must have decided that my size wouldn't do, and besides, I
already seemed to have a mate.
We saw a number of whales but none so close up as that first one. I would be alerted to their presence by their
spouting. They would emerge a short distance away, sometimes three or four of them, a short-lived
archipelago of volcanic islands. These gentle behemoths always lifted my spirits. I was convinced that they
understood my condition, that at the sight of me one of them exclaimed, "Oh! It's that castaway with the pussy
cat Bamphoo was telling me about. Poor boy. Hope he has enough plankton. I must tell Mumphoo and
Tomphoo and Stimphoo about him. I wonder if there isn't a ship around I could alert. His mother would be
very happy to see him again. Goodbye, my boy. I'll try to help. My name's Pimphoo." And so, through the
grapevine, every whale of the Pacific knew of me, and I would have been saved long ago if Pimphoo hadn't
sought help from a Japanese ship whose dastardly crew harpooned her, the same fate as befell Lamphoo at the
hands of a Norwegian ship. The hunting of whales is a heinous crime.
Dolphins were fairly regular visitors. One group stayed with us a whole day and night. They were very gay.
Their plunging and turning and racing just beneath the hull seemed to have no purpose other than sporting fun.
I tried to catch one. But none came close to the gaff. And even if one had, they were too fast and too big. I
gave up and just watched them.
I saw six birds in all. I took each one to be an angel announcing nearby land. But these were seafaring birds
that could span the Pacific with hardly a flutter of the wings. I watched them with awe and envy and self-pity.
Twice I saw an albatross. Each flew by high in the air without taking any notice of us. I stared with my mouth
open. They were something supernatural and incomprehensible.
Another time, a short distance from the boat, two Wilson's petrels skimmed by, feet skipping on the water.
They, too, took no notice of us, and left me similarly amazed.
We at last attracted the attention of a short-tailed shearwater. It circled above us, eventually dropping down. It
kicked out its legs, turned its wings and alighted in the water, floating as lightly as a cork. It eyed me with
curiosity. I quickly baited a hook with a bit of flying fish and threw the line its way. I put no weights on the
line and had difficulty getting it close to the bird. On my third try the bird paddled up to the sinking bait and
plunged its head underwater to get at it.
My heart pounded with excitement. I did not pull on the line for some
Page 121
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
seconds. When I did, the bird merely squawked and regurgitated what it had just swallowed. Before I could try
again, it unfolded its wings and pulled itself up into the air. Within two, three beatings of its wings it was on
its way.
I had better luck with a masked booby. It appeared out of nowhere, gliding towards us, wings spanning over
three feet. It landed on the gunnel within hand's reach of me. Its round eyes took me in, the expression puzzled
and serious. It was a large bird with a pure snowy white body and wings that were jet-black at their tips and
rear edges. Its big, bulbous head had a very pointed orange-yellow beak and the red eyes behind the black
mask made it look like a thief who had had a very long night. Only the oversized, brown webbed feet left
something to be desired in their design. The bird was fearless. It spent several minutes tweaking its feathers
with its beak, exposing soft down. When it was finished, it looked up and everything fell into place, and it
showed itself for what it was: a smooth, beautiful, aerodynamic airship. When I offered it a bit of dorado, it
pecked it out of my hand, jabbing the palm.
I broke its neck by leveraging its head backwards, one hand pushing up the beak, the other holding the neck.
The feathers were so well attached that when I started pulling them out, skin came off-I was not plucking the
bird; I was tearing it apart. It was light enough as it was, a volume with no weight. I took the knife and skinned
it instead. For its size there was a disappointing amount of flesh, only a little on its chest. It had a more chewy
texture than dorado flesh, but I didn't find there was much of a difference in taste. In its stomach, besides the
morsel of dorado I had just given it, I found three small fish. After rinsing them of digestive juices, I ate them.
I ate the bird's heart, liver and lungs. I swallowed its eyes and tongue with a gulp of water. I crashed its head
and picked out its small brain. I ate the webbings of its feet. The rest of the bird was skin, bone and feathers. I
dropped it beyond the edge of the tarpaulin for Richard Parker, who hadn't seen the bird arrive. An orange paw
reached out.
Days later feathers and down were still floating up from his den and being blown out to sea. Those that landed
in the water were swallowed by fish.
None of the birds ever announced land.
Birds and Celestial Trees
- Pi captures a fearless masked booby that lands on the boat, admiring its aerodynamic beauty before killing it for food.
- Driven by extreme hunger, Pi consumes nearly every part of the bird, including its organs, eyes, and brain, before giving the remains to Richard Parker.
- A violent storm brings a rare and terrifying display of lightning striking the open ocean, which Pi describes as a 'great celestial tree.'
- While the tiger Richard Parker is paralyzed by fear during the storm, Pi finds himself in a state of spiritual exaltation and wonder.
- The contrast between the brutal reality of survival and the sublime beauty of nature highlights Pi's shifting psychological state.
The water was shot through with what looked like white roots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean.
seconds. When I did, the bird merely squawked and regurgitated what it had just swallowed. Before I could try
again, it unfolded its wings and pulled itself up into the air. Within two, three beatings of its wings it was on
its way.
I had better luck with a masked booby. It appeared out of nowhere, gliding towards us, wings spanning over
three feet. It landed on the gunnel within hand's reach of me. Its round eyes took me in, the expression puzzled
and serious. It was a large bird with a pure snowy white body and wings that were jet-black at their tips and
rear edges. Its big, bulbous head had a very pointed orange-yellow beak and the red eyes behind the black
mask made it look like a thief who had had a very long night. Only the oversized, brown webbed feet left
something to be desired in their design. The bird was fearless. It spent several minutes tweaking its feathers
with its beak, exposing soft down. When it was finished, it looked up and everything fell into place, and it
showed itself for what it was: a smooth, beautiful, aerodynamic airship. When I offered it a bit of dorado, it
pecked it out of my hand, jabbing the palm.
I broke its neck by leveraging its head backwards, one hand pushing up the beak, the other holding the neck.
The feathers were so well attached that when I started pulling them out, skin came off-I was not plucking the
bird; I was tearing it apart. It was light enough as it was, a volume with no weight. I took the knife and skinned
it instead. For its size there was a disappointing amount of flesh, only a little on its chest. It had a more chewy
texture than dorado flesh, but I didn't find there was much of a difference in taste. In its stomach, besides the
morsel of dorado I had just given it, I found three small fish. After rinsing them of digestive juices, I ate them.
I ate the bird's heart, liver and lungs. I swallowed its eyes and tongue with a gulp of water. I crashed its head
and picked out its small brain. I ate the webbings of its feet. The rest of the bird was skin, bone and feathers. I
dropped it beyond the edge of the tarpaulin for Richard Parker, who hadn't seen the bird arrive. An orange paw
reached out.
Days later feathers and down were still floating up from his den and being blown out to sea. Those that landed
in the water were swallowed by fish.
None of the birds ever announced land.
CHAPTER 85
Once there was lightning. The sky was so black, day looked like night. The downpour was heavy. I heard
thunder far away. I thought it would stay at that. But a wind came up, throwing the rain this way and that.
Right after, a white splinter came crashing down from the sky, puncturing the water. It was some distance
from the lifeboat, but the effect was perfectly visible. The water was shot through with what looked like white
roots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean. I had never imagined such a thing possible, lightning
striking the sea. The clap of thunder was tremendous. The flash of light was incredibly vivid.
I turned to Richard Parker and said, "Look, Richard Parker, a bolt of lightning." I saw how he felt about it. He
was flat on the floor of the boat, limbs splayed and visibly trembling.
The effect on me was completely the opposite. It was something to pull me out of my limited mortal ways and
thrust me into a state of exalted wonder.
Suddenly a bolt struck much closer. Perhaps it was meant for us: we had just fallen off the crest of a swell and
were sinking down its back when its top was hit. There was an explosion of hot air and hot water. For two,
perhaps three seconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a broken cosmic window danced in the
Page 122
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Divinity and False Hope
- A violent thunderstorm strikes the ocean, creating a visual spectacle that Pi perceives as a celestial tree of light.
- While Richard Parker cowers in terror, Pi experiences a profound spiritual awakening and a sense of exalted wonder.
- Pi interprets the dangerous lightning strike as a miraculous outbreak of divinity, finding genuine happiness in the face of potential death.
- The appearance of a large ship brings a surge of ecstatic joy as Pi believes their salvation and return to civilization are finally at hand.
- Pi's reaction to the ship highlights the extreme emotional transition from spiritual transcendence to the desperate hope for physical rescue.
For two, perhaps three seconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a broken cosmic window danced in the sky, insubstantial yet overwhelmingly powerful.
Once there was lightning. The sky was so black, day looked like night. The downpour was heavy. I heard
thunder far away. I thought it would stay at that. But a wind came up, throwing the rain this way and that.
Right after, a white splinter came crashing down from the sky, puncturing the water. It was some distance
from the lifeboat, but the effect was perfectly visible. The water was shot through with what looked like white
roots; briefly, a great celestial tree stood in the ocean. I had never imagined such a thing possible, lightning
striking the sea. The clap of thunder was tremendous. The flash of light was incredibly vivid.
I turned to Richard Parker and said, "Look, Richard Parker, a bolt of lightning." I saw how he felt about it. He
was flat on the floor of the boat, limbs splayed and visibly trembling.
The effect on me was completely the opposite. It was something to pull me out of my limited mortal ways and
thrust me into a state of exalted wonder.
Suddenly a bolt struck much closer. Perhaps it was meant for us: we had just fallen off the crest of a swell and
were sinking down its back when its top was hit. There was an explosion of hot air and hot water. For two,
perhaps three seconds, a gigantic, blinding white shard of glass from a broken cosmic window danced in the
Page 122
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
sky, insubstantial yet overwhelmingly powerful. Ten thousand trumpets and twenty thousand drums could not
have made as much noise as that bolt of lightning; it was positively deafening. The sea turned white and all
colour disappeared. Everything was either pure white light or pure black shadow. The light did not seem to
illuminate so much as to penetrate. As quickly as it had appeared, the bolt vanished-the spray of hot water had
not finished landing upon us and already it was gone. The punished swell returned to black and rolled on
indifferently.
I was dazed, thunderstruck-nearly in the true sense of the word. But not afraid.
"Praise be to Allah, Lord of All Worlds, the Compassionate, the Merciful, Ruler of Judgment Day!" I
muttered. To Richard Parker I shouted, "Stop your trembling! This is miracle. This is an outbreak of divinity.
This is...this is..." I could not find what it was, this thing so vast and fantastic. I was breathless and wordless. I
lay back on the tarpaulin, arms and legs spread wide. The rain chilled me to the bone. But I was smiling. I
remember that close encounter with electrocution and third-degree burns as one of the few times during my
ordeal when I felt genuine happiness.
At moments of wonder, it is easy to avoid small thinking, to entertain thoughts that span the universe, that
capture both thunder and tinkle, thick and thin, the near and the far.
CHAPTER 86
"Richard Parker, a ship!"
I had the pleasure of shouting that once. I was overwhelmed with happiness. All hurt and frustration fell away
and I positively blazed with joy.
"We've made it! We're saved! Do you understand, Richard Parker? WE'RE SAVED! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
I tried to control my excitement. What if the ship passed too far away to see us? Should I launch a rocket
flare? Nonsense!
"It's coming right towards us, Richard Parker! Oh, I thank you, Lord Ganesha! Blessed be you in all your
manifestations, Allah-Brahman!"
It couldn't miss us. Can there be any happiness greater than the happiness of salvation? The answer-believe
me-is No. I got to my feet, the first time in a long time I had made such an effort.
"Can you believe it, Richard Parker? People, food, a bed. Life is ours once again. Oh, what bliss!"
The ship came closer still. It looked like an oil tanker. The shape of its bow was becoming distinct. Salvation
wore a robe of black metal with white trim.
"And what if...?"
The Illusion of Salvation
- Pi experiences a surge of pure joy and spiritual gratitude when he spots a massive oil tanker approaching his lifeboat.
- The prospect of rescue triggers a hopeful fantasy where Pi imagines his family survived the shipwreck and is waiting for him in Canada.
- The initial relief turns to terror as Pi realizes the ship is not stopping but is actually on a collision course with his small craft.
- Richard Parker reacts with a powerful, primal warning as the 'mountain' of metal threatens to crush them both.
- Pi frantically attempts to row out of the path of the advancing juggernaut as the reality of his situation shifts from salvation to survival.
Salvation wore a robe of black metal with white trim.
I had the pleasure of shouting that once. I was overwhelmed with happiness. All hurt and frustration fell away
and I positively blazed with joy.
"We've made it! We're saved! Do you understand, Richard Parker? WE'RE SAVED! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
I tried to control my excitement. What if the ship passed too far away to see us? Should I launch a rocket
flare? Nonsense!
"It's coming right towards us, Richard Parker! Oh, I thank you, Lord Ganesha! Blessed be you in all your
manifestations, Allah-Brahman!"
It couldn't miss us. Can there be any happiness greater than the happiness of salvation? The answer-believe
me-is No. I got to my feet, the first time in a long time I had made such an effort.
"Can you believe it, Richard Parker? People, food, a bed. Life is ours once again. Oh, what bliss!"
The ship came closer still. It looked like an oil tanker. The shape of its bow was becoming distinct. Salvation
wore a robe of black metal with white trim.
"And what if...?"
I did not dare say the words. But might there not be a chance that Father and Mother and Ravi were still alive?
The Tsimtsum had had a number of lifeboats. Perhaps they had reached Canada weeks ago and were anxiously
waiting for news from me. Perhaps I was the only person from the wreck unaccounted for.
Page 123
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"My God, oil tankers are big!"
It was a mountain creeping up on us.
"Perhaps they're already in Winnipeg. I wonder what our house looks like. Do you suppose, Richard Parker,
that Canadian houses have inner courtyards in the traditional Tamil style? Probably not. I suppose they would
fill up with snow in winter. Pity. There's no peace like the peace of an inner courtyard on a sunny day. I
wonder what spices grow in Manitoba?"
The ship was very close. The crew better be stopping short or turning sharply soon.
"Yes, what spices...? Oh my God!"
I realized with horror that the tanker was not simply coming our way-it was in fact bearing down on us. The
bow was a vast wall of metal that was getting wider every second. A huge wave girdling it was advancing
towards us relentlessly. Richard Parker finally sensed the looming juggernaut. He turned and went "Woof!
Woof!" but not doglike-it was tigerlike: powerful, scary and utterly suited to the situation.
"Richard Parker, it's going to run us over! What are we going to do? Quick, quick, a flare! No! Must row. Oar
in oarlock...there! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUM-"
Salvation Barely Missed
- A massive tanker nearly crushes the lifeboat, passing within two feet of the small vessel.
- Despite Pi's desperate attempts to signal the ship with flares, whistles, and shouting, the crew remains oblivious to their presence.
- The encounter highlights the emotional divide between Pi, who feels the crushing weight of missed salvation, and Richard Parker, who lacks the context to understand the tragedy.
- In the aftermath of the near-death experience, Pi experiences a profound surge of love and gratitude for the tiger's companionship.
- To cope with the ongoing isolation and despair, Pi develops a method of 'gentle asphyxiation' using a wet cloth to induce vivid hallucinations and pass the time.
The ship slid by for what seemed like a mile, a mile of high, black canyon wall, a mile of castle fortification with not a single sentinel to notice us languishing in the moat.
I realized with horror that the tanker was not simply coming our way-it was in fact bearing down on us. The
bow was a vast wall of metal that was getting wider every second. A huge wave girdling it was advancing
towards us relentlessly. Richard Parker finally sensed the looming juggernaut. He turned and went "Woof!
Woof!" but not doglike-it was tigerlike: powerful, scary and utterly suited to the situation.
"Richard Parker, it's going to run us over! What are we going to do? Quick, quick, a flare! No! Must row. Oar
in oarlock...there! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUMPF! HUM-"
The bow wave pushed us up. Richard Parker crouched, and the hairs on him stood up. The lifeboat slid off the
bow wave and missed the tanker by less than two feet.
The ship slid by for what seemed like a mile, a mile of high, black canyon wall, a mile of castle fortification
with not a single sentinel to notice us languishing in the moat. I fired off a rocket flare, but I aimed it poorly.
Instead of surging over the bulwarks and exploding in the captain's face, it ricocheted off the ship's side and
went straight into the Pacific, where it died with a hiss. I blew on my whistle with all my might. I shouted at
the top of my lungs. All to no avail.
Its engines rumbling loudly and its propellers chopping explosively underwater, the ship churned past us and
left us bouncing and bobbing in its frothy wake. After so many weeks of natural sounds, these mechanical
noises were strange and awesome and stunned me into silence.
In less than twenty minutes a ship of three hundred thousand tons became a speck on the horizon. When I
turned away, Richard Parker was still looking in its direction. After a few seconds he turned away too and our
gazes briefly met. My eyes expressed longing, hurt, anguish, loneliness. All he was aware of was that
something stressful and momentous had happened, something beyond the outer limits of his understanding. He
did not see that it was salvation barely missed. He only saw that the alpha here, this odd, unpredictable tiger,
had been very excited. He settled down to another nap. His sole comment on the event was a cranky meow.
"I love you!" The words burst out pure and unfettered, infinite. The feeling flooded my chest. "Truly I do. I
love you, Richard Parker. If I didn't have you now, I don't know what I would do. I don't think I would make
it. No, I wouldn't. I would die of hopelessness. Don't give up, Richard Parker, don't give up. I'll get you to
land, I promise, I promise!"
CHAPTER 87
Page 124
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
One of my favourite methods of escape was what amounts to gentle asphyxiation. I used a piece of cloth that I
cut from the remnants of a blanket. I called it my dream rag. I wet it with sea water so that it was soaked but
not dripping. I lay comfortably on the tarpaulin and I placed the dream rag on my face, fitting it to my
features. I would fall into a daze, not difficult for someone in such an advanced state of lethargy to begin with.
But the dream rag gave a special quality to my daze. It must have been the way it restricted my air intake. I
would be visited by the most extraordinary dreams, trances, visions, thoughts, sensations, remembrances. And
time would be gobbled up. When a twitch or a gasp disturbed me and the rag fell away, I'd come to full
consciousness, delighted to find that time had slipped by. The dryness of the rag was part proof. But more than
that was the feeling that things were different, that the present moment was different from the previous present
moment.
CHAPTER 88
Dream Rags and Ocean Trash
- Pi develops a 'dream rag' technique, using a wet cloth to restrict his oxygen and induce vivid hallucinations to escape the monotony of survival.
- The lifeboat encounters a massive patch of ocean debris, including a refrigerator filled with rotting animal remains and curdled milk.
- Pi attempts to reach the outside world by writing a message in a salvaged wine bottle detailing his situation and the presence of Richard Parker.
- The harsh environment of the Pacific begins to physically disintegrate every object on the boat, from the plastic bags to the blankets.
- The relentless sun and salt act as destructive forces, bleaching colors and wearing down the textures of all remaining supplies.
The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry mouths.
One of my favourite methods of escape was what amounts to gentle asphyxiation. I used a piece of cloth that I
cut from the remnants of a blanket. I called it my dream rag. I wet it with sea water so that it was soaked but
not dripping. I lay comfortably on the tarpaulin and I placed the dream rag on my face, fitting it to my
features. I would fall into a daze, not difficult for someone in such an advanced state of lethargy to begin with.
But the dream rag gave a special quality to my daze. It must have been the way it restricted my air intake. I
would be visited by the most extraordinary dreams, trances, visions, thoughts, sensations, remembrances. And
time would be gobbled up. When a twitch or a gasp disturbed me and the rag fell away, I'd come to full
consciousness, delighted to find that time had slipped by. The dryness of the rag was part proof. But more than
that was the feeling that things were different, that the present moment was different from the previous present
moment.
CHAPTER 88
One day we came upon trash. First the water glistened with patches of oil. Coming up soon after was the
domestic and industrial waste: mainly plastic refuse in a variety of forms and colours, but also pieces of
lumber, beer cans, wine bottles, tatters of cloth, bits of rope and, surrounding it all, yellow foam. We advanced
into it. I looked to see if there was anything that might be of use to us. I picked out an empty corked wine
bottle. The lifeboat bumped into a refrigerator that had lost its motor. It floated with its door to the sky. I
reached out, grabbed the handle and lifted the door open. A smell leapt out so pungent and disgusting that it
seemed to colour the air. Hand to my mouth, I looked in. There were stains, dark juices, a quantity of
completely rotten vegetables, milk so curdled and infected it was a greenish jelly, and the quartered remains of
a dead animal in such an advanced state of black putrefaction that I couldn't identify it. Judging by its size I
think that it was lamb. In the closed, humid confines of the refrigerator, the smell had had the time to develop,
to ferment, to grow bitter and angry. It assaulted my senses with a pent-up rage that made my head reel, my
stomach churn and my legs wobble. Luckily, the sea quickly filled the horrid hole and the thing sank beneath
the surface. The space left vacant by the departed refrigerator was filled by other trash.
We left the trash behind. For a long time, when the wind came from that direction, I could still smell it. It took
the sea a day to wash off the oily smears from the sides of the lifeboat.
I put a message in the bottle: "Japanese-owned cargo ship Tsimtsum, flying Panamanian flag, sank July 2nd,
1977, in Pacific, four days out of Manila. Am in lifeboat. Pi Patel my name. Have some food, some water, but
Bengal tiger a serious problem. Please advise family in Winnipeg, Canada. Any help very much appreciated.
Thank you." I corked the bottle and covered the cork with a piece of plastic. I tied the plastic to the neck of the
bottle with nylon string, knotting it tightly. I launched the bottle into the water.
CHAPTER 89
Everything suffered. Everything became sun-bleached and weather-beaten. The lifeboat, the raft until it was
lost, the tarpaulin, the stills, the rain catchers, the plastic bags, the lines, the blankets, the net-all became worn,
stretched, slack, cracked, dried, rotted, torn, discoloured. What was orange became whitish orange. What was
smooth became rough. What was rough became smooth. What was sharp became blunt. What was whole
became tattered. Rubbing fish skins and turtle fat on things, as I did, greasing them a little, made no
difference. The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry mouths. As for the sun, it roasted
everything. It kept Richard Parker in partial subjugation. It picked skeletons clean and fired them to a
Page 125
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Salt and the Sun
- The relentless sun and salt water cause the physical degradation of every object on the lifeboat, turning once-vibrant materials into rotted, bleached remnants.
- Both Pi and Richard Parker suffer extreme physical wasting, becoming emaciated skeletons as the environment sucks the moisture and life from their bodies.
- Pi enters a state of semi-consciousness, using a 'dream rag' to blur the lines between his harsh reality and hallucinatory daydreams.
- In a moment of profound desperation and physical weakness, Pi touches Richard Parker for the first time to check if the tiger is still alive.
- The diary entries conclude with a final, repetitive resignation to death as the pens run out of ink, though Pi continues to endure beyond his written record.
The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry mouths.
Everything suffered. Everything became sun-bleached and weather-beaten. The lifeboat, the raft until it was
lost, the tarpaulin, the stills, the rain catchers, the plastic bags, the lines, the blankets, the net-all became worn,
stretched, slack, cracked, dried, rotted, torn, discoloured. What was orange became whitish orange. What was
smooth became rough. What was rough became smooth. What was sharp became blunt. What was whole
became tattered. Rubbing fish skins and turtle fat on things, as I did, greasing them a little, made no
difference. The salt went on eating everything with its million hungry mouths. As for the sun, it roasted
everything. It kept Richard Parker in partial subjugation. It picked skeletons clean and fired them to a
Page 125
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
gleaming white. It burned off my clothes and would have burned off my skin, dark though it was, had I not
protected it beneath blankets and propped-up turtle shells. When the heat was unbearable I took a bucket and
poured sea water on myself; sometimes the water was so warm it felt like syrup. The sun also took care of all
smells. I don't remember any smells. Or only the smell of the spent hand-flare shells. They smelled like cumin,
did I mention that? I don't even remember what Richard Parker smelled like.
We perished away. It happened slowly, so that I didn't notice it all the time. But I noticed it regularly. We
were two emaciated mammals, parched and starving. Richard Parker's fur lost its lustre, and some of it even
fell away from his shoulders and haunches. He lost a lot of weight, became a skeleton in an oversized bag of
faded fur. I, too, withered away, the moistness sucked out of me, my bones showing plainly through my thin
flesh.
I began to imitate Richard Parker in sleeping an incredible number of hours. It wasn't proper sleep, but a state
of semi-consciousness in which daydreams and reality were nearly indistinguishable. I made much use of my
dream rag.
These are the last pages of my diary:
Today saw a shark bigger than any I've seen till now. A primeval monster twenty feet long. Striped. A tiger
shark-very dangerous. Circled us. Feared it would attack. Have survived one tiger; thought I would die at the
hands of another. Did not attack. Floated away. Cloudy weather, but nothing.
No rain. Only morning greyness. Dolphins. Tried to gaff one. Found I could not stand. R.P. weak and
ill-tempered. Am so weak, if he attacks I won't be able to defend myself. Simply do not have the energy to
blow whistle.
Calm and burning hot day. Sun beating without mercy. Feel my brains are boiling inside my head. Feel horrid.
Prostrate body and soul. Will die soon. R.P. breathing but not moving. Will die too. Will not kill me.
Salvation. An hour of heavy, delicious, beautifal rain. Filled mouth, filled bags and cans, filled body till it
could not take another drop. Let myself be soaked to rinse off salt. Crawled over to see R.P. Not reacting.
Body curled, tail flat. Coat clumpy with wetness. Smaller when wet. Bony. Touched him for first time ever.
To see if dead. Not. Body still warm. Amazing to touch him. Even in this condition, firm, muscular, alive.
Touched him and fur shuddered as if I were a gnat. At length, head half in water stirred. Better to drink than to
drown. Better sign still: tail jumped. Threw piece of turtle meat in front of nose. Nothing. At last half rose-to
drink. Drank and drank. Ate. Did not rise fully. Spent a good hour licking himself all over. Slept.
It's no use. Today I die.
I will die today.
I die.
This was my last entry. I went on from there, endured, but without noting it. Do you see these invisible spirals
on the imargins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. It was the pens that ran out.
Page 126
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 90
The Onset of Blindness
- Pi survives a close encounter with a massive tiger shark and a period of extreme dehydration before a heavy rainstorm provides temporary relief.
- Physical contact is made with Richard Parker for the first time as Pi checks to see if the weakened tiger is still alive.
- Both the narrator and the tiger succumb to a mysterious blindness, likely caused by extreme malnutrition and the harsh environment.
- The narrator reaches a point of total physical and moral exhaustion, resolving to die and offering final goodbyes to his family and the tiger.
- The written journal ends as the pens run out, leaving the remaining ordeal to be recorded only through memory.
I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering began.
Today saw a shark bigger than any I've seen till now. A primeval monster twenty feet long. Striped. A tiger
shark-very dangerous. Circled us. Feared it would attack. Have survived one tiger; thought I would die at the
hands of another. Did not attack. Floated away. Cloudy weather, but nothing.
No rain. Only morning greyness. Dolphins. Tried to gaff one. Found I could not stand. R.P. weak and
ill-tempered. Am so weak, if he attacks I won't be able to defend myself. Simply do not have the energy to
blow whistle.
Calm and burning hot day. Sun beating without mercy. Feel my brains are boiling inside my head. Feel horrid.
Prostrate body and soul. Will die soon. R.P. breathing but not moving. Will die too. Will not kill me.
Salvation. An hour of heavy, delicious, beautifal rain. Filled mouth, filled bags and cans, filled body till it
could not take another drop. Let myself be soaked to rinse off salt. Crawled over to see R.P. Not reacting.
Body curled, tail flat. Coat clumpy with wetness. Smaller when wet. Bony. Touched him for first time ever.
To see if dead. Not. Body still warm. Amazing to touch him. Even in this condition, firm, muscular, alive.
Touched him and fur shuddered as if I were a gnat. At length, head half in water stirred. Better to drink than to
drown. Better sign still: tail jumped. Threw piece of turtle meat in front of nose. Nothing. At last half rose-to
drink. Drank and drank. Ate. Did not rise fully. Spent a good hour licking himself all over. Slept.
It's no use. Today I die.
I will die today.
I die.
This was my last entry. I went on from there, endured, but without noting it. Do you see these invisible spirals
on the imargins of the page? I thought I would run out of paper. It was the pens that ran out.
Page 126
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 90
I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches
and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in
three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut
the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in
his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish
and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge
in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The
ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye
doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare.
I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching.
The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The
very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink
as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch
that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of
my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My
lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it
was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen
and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker
was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared
to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering
began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant.
It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last
another one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I
was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as
I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To
make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so
long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed
that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed
my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for
having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son
and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see
you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I
The Onset of Blindness
- Pi discovers that Richard Parker has gone blind after the tiger fails to catch a piece of fish and stares vacantly into space.
- The narrator soon experiences his own vision loss, which begins as a stinging sensation and progresses to total darkness.
- Physical deterioration reaches a breaking point as Pi suffers from extreme dehydration, starvation, and swollen limbs.
- Believing death is imminent, Pi says a final prayer and bids farewell to his family and the tiger.
- In his final moments of consciousness, Pi is shocked to hear a human voice asking if someone is there.
All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of my left eye, like a small window too high up.
I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches
and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in
three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut
the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in
his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish
and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge
in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The
ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye
doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare.
I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching.
The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The
very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink
as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch
that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of
my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My
lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it
was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen
and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker
was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared
to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering
began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant.
It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last
another one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I
was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as
I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To
make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so
long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed
that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed
my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for
having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son
and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see
you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I
love."
Page 127
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
I heard the words, "Is someone there?"
The Onset of Blindness
- Richard Parker loses his sight first, failing to catch food and showing no reaction to a direct stare.
- The narrator soon succumbs to the same affliction, experiencing oozing eyes and a total loss of vision.
- Physical deterioration reaches a breaking point as the narrator suffers from extreme dehydration and starvation.
- Believing death is imminent, the narrator says a final goodbye to his family and his tiger companion.
- In the absolute darkness of his blindness and despair, the narrator hears a mysterious human voice.
It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind.
I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches
and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in
three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut
the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in
his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish
and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge
in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The
ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye
doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare.
I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching.
The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The
very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink
as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch
that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of
my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My
lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it
was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen
and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker
was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared
to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering
began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant.
It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last
another one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I
was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as
I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To
make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so
long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed
that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed
my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for
having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son
and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see
you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I
love."
Page 127
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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 Onset of Blindness
- Pi discovers that Richard Parker has gone blind when the tiger fails to catch a piece of fish and shows no reaction to a direct stare.
- The physical toll of the journey reaches a breaking point as Pi also loses his sight, describing the darkness as a black spot that eventually consumes his entire vision.
- Facing extreme dehydration and starvation, Pi loses his fear of death and prepares to die, offering a final prayer and apology to his family and the tiger.
- In the depths of his sensory deprivation and near-death state, Pi suddenly hears a human voice asking if someone is there.
It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind.
I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches
and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in
three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut
the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in
his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish
and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge
in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The
ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye
doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare.
I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching.
The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The
very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink
as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch
that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of
my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My
lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it
was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen
and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker
was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared
to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering
began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant.
It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last
another one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I
was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as
I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To
make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so
long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed
that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed
my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for
having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son
and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see
you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I
love."
Page 127
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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?"
Blindness and the Brink
- Pi discovers that Richard Parker has gone blind after the tiger fails to catch a piece of fish thrown directly at his face.
- The physical toll of the journey reaches a breaking point as Pi also loses his sight to a painful infection and extreme malnutrition.
- Believing death is imminent, Pi says a final goodbye to his family and Richard Parker, surrendering his fate to God.
- In the total darkness of his blindness and perceived madness, Pi hears a mysterious human voice asking if someone is there.
It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind.
I said, "Richard Parker, is something wrong? Have you gone blind?" as I waved my hand in his face.
For a day or two he had been rubbing his eyes and meowing disconsolately, but I thought nothing of it. Aches
and pains were the only part of our diet that was abundant. I caught a dorado. We hadn't eaten anything in
three days. A turtle had come up to the lifeboat the day before, but I had been too weak to pull it aboard. I cut
the fish in two halves. Richard Parker was looking my way. I threw him his share. I expected him to catch it in
his mouth smartly. It crashed into his blank face. He bent down. After sniffing left and right, he found the fish
and began eating it. We were slow eaters now.
I peered into his eyes. They looked no different from any other day. Perhaps there was a little more discharge
in the inner corners, but it was nothing dramatic, certainly not as dramatic as his overall appearance. The
ordeal had reduced us to skin and bones.
I realized that I had my answer in the very act of looking. I was stairing into his eyes as if I were an eye
doctor, while he was looking back vacantly. Only a blind wild cat would fail to react to such a stare.
I felt pity for Richard Parker. Our end was approaching.
The next day I started feeling a stinging in my eyes. I rubbed and rubbed, but the itch wouldn't go away. The
very opposite: it got worse, and unlike Richard Parker, my eyes started to ooze pus. Then darkness came, blink
as I might. At first it was right in front of me, a black spot at the centre of everything. It spread into a blotch
that reached to the edges of my vision. All I saw of the sun the next morning was a crack of light at the top of
my left eye, like a small window too high up. By noon, everything was pitch-black.
I clung to life. I was weakly frantic. The heat was infernal. I had so little strength I could no longer stand. My
lips were hard and cracked. My mouth was dry and pasty, coated with a glutinous saliva as foul to taste as it
was to smell. My skin was burnt. My shrivelled muscles ached. My limbs, especially my feet, were swollen
and a constant source of pain. I was hungry and once again there was no food. As for water, Richard Parker
was taking so much that I was down to five spoonfuls a day. But this physical suffering was nothing compared
to the moral torture I was about to endure. I would rate the day I went blind as the day my extreme suffering
began. I could not tell you when exactly in the journey it happened. Time, as I said before, became irrelevant.
It must have been sometime between the hundredth and the two-hundredth day. I was certain I would not last
another one.
By the next morning I had lost all fear of death, and I resolved to die.
I came to the sad conclusion that I could no longer take care of Richard Parker. I had failed as a zookeeper. I
was more affected by his imminent demise than I was by my own. But truly, broken down and wasted away as
I was, I could do no more for him.
Nature was sinking fast. I could feel a fatal weakness creeping up on me. I would be dead by the afternoon. To
make my going more comfortable I decided to put off a little the intolerable thirst I had been living with for so
long. I gulped down as much water as I could take. If only I could have had a last bite to eat. But it seemed
that was not to be. I set myself against the rolled-up edge of the tarpaulin in the middle of the boat. I closed
my eyes and waited for my breath to leave my body. I muttered, "Goodbye, Richard Parker. I'm sorry for
having failed you. I did my best. Farewell. Dear Father, dear Mother, dear Ravi, greetings. Your loving son
and brother is coming to meet you. Not an hour has gone by that I haven't thought of you. The moment I see
you will be the happiest of my life. And now I leave matters in the hands of God, who is love and whom I
love."
Page 127
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
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
A Dialogue of Hunger
- The narrator, suffering from blindness and isolation, begins hearing a raspy voice and assumes he has finally succumbed to madness.
- To cope with his starvation, the narrator describes an elaborate vegetarian Indian feast featuring various sambars, chutneys, and desserts.
- The mysterious voice counters with a preference for 'non-veg' French delicacies such as boiled beef tongue, tripe, and calf's brains.
- The narrator is repulsed by the voice's suggestions, viewing the consumption of organs as sacrilegious and a sign of moral decay.
It's astonishing what you hear when you're alone in the blackness of your dying mind.
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. Fig-ment. 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-"
Page 128
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"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?"
Page 129
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"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!"
Conversations with a Tiger
- Pi experiences a hallucinatory dialogue with a voice that obsesses over eating various animal organs and meats.
- The realization dawns on Pi that the voice belongs to Richard Parker, the tiger, after the voice expresses a visceral disgust for carrots.
- Pi questions the tiger about his history, discovering that Richard Parker has killed and eaten a man and a woman in the past.
- The conversation highlights the amoral nature of animal instinct versus Pi's human sense of morality and guilt.
- Despite the grim subject of cannibalism and killing, the dialogue shifts toward a shared longing for food, specifically Indian oothappam.
I was elated to be on speaking terms with a tiger.
"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."
"Would you eat the congealed blood of a dead pig?"
"Every day, with apple sauce!"
"Would you eat anything from an animal, the last remains?"
"Scrapple and sausage! I'd have a heaping plate!"
"How about a carrot? Would you eat a plain, raw carrot?"
There was no answer.
Page 130
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Did you not hear me? Would you eat a carrot?"
"I heard you. To be honest, if I had the choice, I wouldn't. I don't have much of a stomach for that kind of
food. I find it quite distasteful."
I laughed. I knew it. I wasn't hearing voices. I hadn't gone mad. It was Richard Parker who was speaking to
me! The carnivorous rascal. All this time together and he had chosen an hour before we were to die to pipe up.
I was elated to be on speaking terms with a tiger. Immediately I was filled with a vulgar curiosity, the sort that
movie stars suffer from at the hands of their fans.
"I'm curious, tell me-have you ever killed a man?"
I doubted it. Man-eaters among animals are as rare as murderers among men, and Richard Parker was caught
while still a cub. But who's to say that his mother, before she was nabbed by Thirsty, hadn't caught a human
being?
"What a question," replied Richard Parker.
"Seems reasonable."
"It does?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"You have the reputation that you have."
"I do?"
"Of course. Are you blind to that fact?"
"I am."
"Well, let me make clear what you evidently can't see: you have that reputation. So, have you ever killed a
man?"
Silence.
"Well? Answer me."
"Yes."
"Oh! It sends shivers down my spine. How many?"
"Two."
"You've killed two men?"
"No. A man and a woman."
Page 131
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"At the same time?"
"No. The man first, the woman second."
"You monster! I bet you thought it was great fun. You must have found their cries and their struggles quite
entertaining."
"Not really."
"Were they good?"
"Were they good?"
"Yes. Don't be so obtuse. Did they taste good?"
"No, they didn't taste good."
"I thought so. I've heard it's an acquired taste in animals. So why did you kill them?"
"Need."
"The need of a monster. Any regrets?"
"It was them or me."
"That is need expressed in all its amoral simplicity. But any regrets now?"
"It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance."
"Instinct, it's called instinct. Still, answer thte question, any regrets now?"
"I don't think about it."
"The very definition of an animal. That's all you are."
"And what are you?"
"A human being,, I'll have you know."
"What boastful pride."
"It's the plain truth."
"So, you would throw the first stone, would you?"
"Have you ever had oothappam?"
"No, I haven't. But tell me about it. What is oothappam?"
"It is so good."
Page 132
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Sounds delicious. Tell me more."
Blindness and the French Echo
- Pi experiences a surreal, delirious conversation with a voice he initially attributes to the tiger, Richard Parker.
- The dialogue shifts from philosophical debates about instinct and humanity to a detailed discussion of Indian cuisine.
- Pi realizes the voice is not an internal hallucination or the tiger, but another person adrift at sea.
- The two survivors discover a tragic commonality: they are both starving, dehydrated, and have recently gone blind.
- Despite their shared misery, the discovery of another human presence provides a brief, desperate moment of connection.
You speak as if your tongue were a saw and English words were made of wood.
"It was the doing of a moment. It was circumstance."
"Instinct, it's called instinct. Still, answer thte question, any regrets now?"
"I don't think about it."
"The very definition of an animal. That's all you are."
"And what are you?"
"A human being,, I'll have you know."
"What boastful pride."
"It's the plain truth."
"So, you would throw the first stone, would you?"
"Have you ever had oothappam?"
"No, I haven't. But tell me about it. What is oothappam?"
"It is so good."
Page 132
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Sounds delicious. Tell me more."
"Oothappam is often made with leftover batter, but rarely has a culinary afterthought been so memorable."
"I can already taste it."
I fell asleep. Or, rather, into a state of dying delirium.
But something was niggling at me. I couldn't say what. Whatever it was, it was disturbing my dying.
I came to. I knew what it was that was bothering me.
"Excuse me?"
"Yes?" came Richard Parker's voice faintly.
"Why do you have an accent?"
"I don't. It is you who has an accent."
"No, I don't. You pronounce the 'ze'."
"I pronounce ze 'ze', as it should be. You speak with warm marbles in your mouth. You have an Indian
accent."
"You speak as if your tongue were a saw and English words were made of wood. You have a French accent."
It was utterly incongruous. Richard Parker was born in Bangladesh and raised in Tamil Nadu, so why should
he have a French accent? Granted, Pondicherry was once a French colony, but no one would have me believe
that some of the zoo animals had frequented the Alliance Francaise on rue Dumas.
It was very perplexing. I fell into a fog again.
I woke up with a gasp. Someone was there! This voice coming to my ears was neither a wind with an accent
nor an animal speaking up. It was someone else! My heart beat fiercely, making one last go at pushing some
blood through my worn-out system. My mind made a final attempt at being lucid.
"Only an echo, I fear," I heard, barely audibly.
"Wait, I'm here!" I shouted.
"An echo at sea..."
"No, it's me!"
"That this would end!"
"My friend!"
"I'm wasting away..."
Page 133
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Stay, stay!"
I could barely hear him.
I shrieked.
He shrieked back.
It was too much. I would go mad.
I had an idea.
"MY NAME," I roared to the elements with my last breath, "IS PISCINE MOLITOR PATEL." How could an
echo create a name? "Do you hear me? I am Piscine Molitor Patel, known to all as Pi Patel!"
"What? Is someone there?"
"Yes, someone's there!"
"What! Can it be true? Please, do you have any food? Anything at all. I have no food left. I haven't eaten
anything in days. I must have something. I'll be grateful for whatever you can spare. I beg you."
"But I have no food either," I answered, dismayed. "I haven't eaten anything in days myself. I was hoping you
would have food. Do you have water? My supplies are very low."
"No, I don't. You have no food at all? Nothing?"
"No, nothing."
There was silence, a heavy silence.
"Where are you?" I asked.
"I'm here," he replied wearily.
"But where is that? I can't see you."
"Why can't you see me?"
"I've gone blind."
"What?" he exclaimed.
"I've gone blind. My eyes see nothing but darkness. I blink for nothing. These last two days, if my skin can be
trusted to measure time. It only can tell me if it's day or night."
I heard a terrible wail.
"What? What is it, my friend?" I asked.
He kept wailing.
Page 134
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Please answer me. What is it? I'm blind and we have no food and water, but we have each other. That is
something. Something precious. So what is it, my dear brother?"
"I too am blind!"
"What?"
"I too blink for nothing, as you say."
Blindness and the Boot
- Pi discovers that he is not alone in the Pacific when he encounters another survivor on a separate lifeboat.
- Both men have been struck blind, a condition attributed to extreme malnutrition and poor hygiene during their ordeal.
- The two survivors engage in a surreal, delirious conversation about food, including a minimalist story about a banana.
- The stranger attempts to barter a leather boot as a food source, leading to a dark and absurd argument over trade and hygiene.
- Despite their shared misery, the interaction is marked by a mix of tragic wailing and sharp, desperate humor.
I had met another blind man on another lifeboat in the Pacific!
"What?" he exclaimed.
"I've gone blind. My eyes see nothing but darkness. I blink for nothing. These last two days, if my skin can be
trusted to measure time. It only can tell me if it's day or night."
I heard a terrible wail.
"What? What is it, my friend?" I asked.
He kept wailing.
Page 134
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Please answer me. What is it? I'm blind and we have no food and water, but we have each other. That is
something. Something precious. So what is it, my dear brother?"
"I too am blind!"
"What?"
"I too blink for nothing, as you say."
He wailed again. I was struck dumb. I had met another blind man on another lifeboat in the Pacific!
"But how could you be blind?" I mumbled.
"Probably for the same reason you are. The result of poor hygiene on a starving body at the end of its tether."
We both broke down. He wailed and I sobbed. It was too much, truly it was too much.
"I have a story," I said, after a while.
"A story?"
"Yes."
"Of what use is a story? I'm hungry."
"It's a story about food."
"Words have no calories."
"Seek food where food is to be found."
"That's an idea."
Silence. A famishing silence.
"Where are you?" he asked.
"Here. And you?"
"Here."
I heard a splashing sound as an oar dipped into water. I reached for one of the oars I had salvaged from the
wrecked raft. It was so heavy. I felt with my hands and found the closest oarlock. I dropped the oar in it. I
pulled on the handle. I had no strength. But I rowed as best I could.
"Let's hear your story," he said, panting.
"Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it
fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it."
Page 135
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
He stopped rowing. "What a beautiful story!"
"Thank you."
"I have tears in my eyes."
"I have another element," I said.
"What is it?"
"The banana fell to the ground and someone came upon it and ate it-and afterwards that person felt better."
"It takes the breath away!" he exclaimed.
"Thank you."
A pause.
"But you don't have any bananas?"
"No. An orang-utan distracted me."
"A what?"
"It's a long story."
"Any toothpaste?"
"No."
"Delicious on fish. Any cigarettes?"
"I ate them already."
"You ate them?"
"I still have the filters. You can have them if you like."
"The filters? What would I do with cigarette filters without the tobacco? How could you eat cigarettes?"
"What should I have done with them? I don't smoke."
"You should have kept them for trading."
"Trading? With whom?"
"With me!"
"My brother, when I ate them I was alone in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific."
"So?"
Page 136
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"So, the chance of meeting someone in the middle of the Pacific with whom to trade my cigarettes did not
strike me as an obvious prospect."
"You have to plan ahead, you stupid boy! Now you have nothing to trade."
"But even if I had something to trade, what would I trade it for? What do you have that I would want?"
"I have a boot," he said.
"A boot?"
"Yes, a fine leather boot."
"What would I do with a leather boot in a lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific? Do you think I go for hikes in
my spare time?"
"You could eat it!"
"Eat a boot? What an idea."
"You eat cigarettes-why not a boot?"
"The idea is disgusting. Whose boot, by the way?"
"How should I know?"
"You're suggesting I eat a complete stranger's boot?"
"What difference does it make?"
"I'm flabbergasted. A boot. Putting aside the fact that I am a Hindu and we Hindus consider cows sacred,
eating a leather boot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot might exude in addition to all the filth
it might step in while shod."
"So no boot for you."
"Let's see it first."
"No."
"What? Do you expect me to trade something with you sight unseen?"
"We're both blind, may I remind you."
"Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitiful salesman are you? No wonder you're starved for
customers."
"That's right. I am."
The Terrible Cost of Richard Parker
- Pi and a mysterious blind Frenchman engage in a surreal, desperate conversation about eating leather boots and imaginary food.
- The two survivors manage to tether their boats together in the vast Pacific, seeking human connection and comfort in their shared blindness.
- Upon boarding Pi's boat, the stranger reveals his murderous intent, planning to kill and eat Pi to survive.
- Richard Parker, the tiger, intervenes by killing the intruder, saving Pi's life while simultaneously destroying a part of his soul.
- The encounter highlights the brutal reality of survival where the presence of the tiger acts as both a protector and a source of profound moral trauma.
He gave me a life, my own, but at the expense of taking one.
"I'm flabbergasted. A boot. Putting aside the fact that I am a Hindu and we Hindus consider cows sacred,
eating a leather boot conjures to my mind eating all the filth that a foot might exude in addition to all the filth
it might step in while shod."
"So no boot for you."
"Let's see it first."
"No."
"What? Do you expect me to trade something with you sight unseen?"
"We're both blind, may I remind you."
"Describe this boot to me, then! What kind of a pitiful salesman are you? No wonder you're starved for
customers."
"That's right. I am."
"Well, the boot?"
Page 137
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"It's a leather boot."
"What kind of leather boot?"
"The regular kind."
"Which means?"
"A boot with a shoelace and eyelets and a tongue. With an inner sole. The regular kind."
"What colour?"
"Black."
"In what condition?"
"Worn. The leather soft and supple, lovely to the touch."
"And the smell?"
"Of warm, fragrant leather."
"I must admit-I must admit-it sounds tempting!"
"You can forget about it."
"Why?"
Silence.
"Will you not answer, my brother?"
"There's no boot."
"No boot?"
"No."
"That makes me sad."
"I ate it."
"You ate the boot?"
"Yes."
"Was it good?"
"No. Were the cigarettes good?"
Page 138
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"No. I couldn't finish them."
"I couldn't finish the boot."
"Once upon a time there was a banana and it grew. It grew until it was large, firm, yellow and fragrant. Then it
fell to the
ground and someone came upon it and ate it and afterwards that person felt better."
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry for all I've said and done. I'm a worthless person," he burst out.
"What do you mean? You are the most precious, wonderful person on earth. Come, my brother, let us be
together and feast on each other's company."
"Yes!"
The Pacific is no place for rowers, especially when they are weak and blind, when their lifeboats are large and
unwieldy, and when the wind is not cooperating. He was close by; he was far away. He was to my left; he was
to my right. He was ahead of me; he was behind me. But at last we managed it. Our boats touched with a
bump evensweeter-sounding than a turtle's. He threw me a rope and I tethered his boat to mine. I opened my
arms to embrace him and to be embraced by him. My eyes were brimming with tears and I was smiling. He
was directly in front of me, a presence glowing through my blindness.
"My sweet brother," I whispered.
"I am here," he replied.
I heard a faint growl.
"Brother, there's something I forgot to mention."
He landed upon me heavily. We fell half onto the tarpaulin, half onto the middle bench. His hands reached for
my throat.
"Brother," I gasped through his overeager embrace, "my heart is with you, but I must urgently suggest we
repair to another part of my humble ship."
"You're damn right your heart is with me!" he said. "And your liver and your flesh!"
I could feel him moving off the tarpaulin onto the middle bench and, fatally, bringing a foot down to the floor
of the boat.
"No, no, my brother! Don't! We're not-"
I tried to hold him back. Alas, it was too late. Before I could say the word alone, I was alone again. I heard the
merest clicking of claws against the bottom of the boat, no more than the sound of a pair of spectacles falling
to the floor, and the next moment my dear brother shrieked in my face like I've never heard a man shriek
before. He let go of me.
This was the terrible cost of Richard Parker. He gave me a life, my own, but at the expense of taking one. He
ripped the flesh off the man's frame and cracked his bones. The smell of blood filled my nose. Something in
me died then that has never come back to life.
Page 139
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 91
Cannibalism and the Emerald Island
- Richard Parker kills the stranger who boarded the boat, providing Pi with a gruesome survival at the cost of another life.
- Upon regaining his sight, Pi discovers the butchered remains of the man and admits to using the flesh for bait and sustenance.
- The trauma of the encounter and the act of cannibalism leaves a permanent scar on Pi's psyche, leading him to pray for the man's soul daily.
- Following this period of starvation and madness, Pi encounters a mysterious, brilliantly green island made of unknown vegetation.
- Pi initially distrusts his senses, believing the lush forest to be a high-quality hallucination born of his desperation.
His eviscerated torso, with its broken ribs curving up like the frame of a ship, looked like a miniature version of the lifeboat, such was its blood-drenched and horrifying state.
I tried to hold him back. Alas, it was too late. Before I could say the word alone, I was alone again. I heard the
merest clicking of claws against the bottom of the boat, no more than the sound of a pair of spectacles falling
to the floor, and the next moment my dear brother shrieked in my face like I've never heard a man shriek
before. He let go of me.
This was the terrible cost of Richard Parker. He gave me a life, my own, but at the expense of taking one. He
ripped the flesh off the man's frame and cracked his bones. The smell of blood filled my nose. Something in
me died then that has never come back to life.
Page 139
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 91
I climbed aboard my brother's boat. With my hands I explored it. I found he had lied to me. He had a little
turtle meat, a dorado head, and even-a supreme treat-some biscuit crumbs. And he had water. It all went into
my mouth. I returned to my boat and released his.
Crying as I had done did my eyes some good. The small window at the top left of my vision opened a crack. I
rinsed my eyes with sea water. With every rinsing, the window opened further. My vision came back within
two days.
I saw such a vision that I nearly wished I had remained blind. His butchered, dismembered body lay on the
floor of the boat. Richard Parker had amply supped on him, including on his face, so that I never saw who my
brother was. His eviscerated torso, with its broken ribs curving up like the frame of a ship, looked like a
miniature version of the lifeboat, such was its blood-drenched and horrifying state.
I will confess that I caught one of his arms with the gaff and used his flesh as bait. I will further confess that,
driven by the extremity of my need and the madness to which it pushed me, I ate some of his flesh. I mean
small pieces, little strips that I meant for the gaff's hook that, when dried by the sun, looked like ordinary
animal flesh. They slipped into my mouth nearly unnoticed. You must understand, my suffering was
unremitting and he was already dead. I stopped as soon as I caught a fish.
I pray for his soul every day.
CHAPTER 92
I made an exceptional botanical discovery. But there will be many who disbelieve the following episode. Still,
I give it to you now because it's part of the story and it happened to me.
I was on my side. It was an hour or two past noon on a day of quiet sunshine and gentle breeze. I had slept a
short while, a diluted sleep that had brought no rest and no dreams. I turned over to my other side, expending
as little energy as possible in doing so. I opened my eyes.
In the near distance I saw trees. I did not react. I was certain it was an illusion that a few blinks would make
disappear.
The trees remained. In fact, they grew to be a forest. They were part of a low-lying island. I pushed myself up.
I continued to disbelieve my eyes. But it was a thrill to be deluded in such a high-quality way. The trees were
beautiful. They were like none I had ever seen before. They had a pale bark, and equally distributed branches
that carried an amazing profusion of leaves. These leaves were brilliantly green, a green so bright and emerald
that, next to it, vegetation during the monsoons was drab olive.
I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act like lumberjacks. But the trees would not fall.
I looked down. I was both satisfied and disappointed with what I saw. The island had no soil. Not that the trees
Page 140
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Emerald Illusion
- Pi discovers a mysterious, low-lying island characterized by an impossible profusion of brilliant green trees and a lack of soil.
- The island's unique geology consists of a dense, porous mass of tube-shaped seaweed that absorbs the ocean waves without surf.
- Initially convinced the sight is a mental delusion or a chimera, Pi is hesitant to test the reality of the land for fear of disappointment.
- Physical contact and the overwhelming scent of organic vegetation finally convince Pi that the island is real, leading to an emotional collapse.
- Overcome with joy and physical weakness, Pi attempts to alert Richard Parker to their salvation as they reach the strange shore.
To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to my eyes.
I made an exceptional botanical discovery. But there will be many who disbelieve the following episode. Still,
I give it to you now because it's part of the story and it happened to me.
I was on my side. It was an hour or two past noon on a day of quiet sunshine and gentle breeze. I had slept a
short while, a diluted sleep that had brought no rest and no dreams. I turned over to my other side, expending
as little energy as possible in doing so. I opened my eyes.
In the near distance I saw trees. I did not react. I was certain it was an illusion that a few blinks would make
disappear.
The trees remained. In fact, they grew to be a forest. They were part of a low-lying island. I pushed myself up.
I continued to disbelieve my eyes. But it was a thrill to be deluded in such a high-quality way. The trees were
beautiful. They were like none I had ever seen before. They had a pale bark, and equally distributed branches
that carried an amazing profusion of leaves. These leaves were brilliantly green, a green so bright and emerald
that, next to it, vegetation during the monsoons was drab olive.
I blinked deliberately, expecting my eyelids to act like lumberjacks. But the trees would not fall.
I looked down. I was both satisfied and disappointed with what I saw. The island had no soil. Not that the trees
Page 140
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
stood in water. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a dense mass of vegetation, as sparkling green as the
leaves. Who had ever heard of land with no soil? With trees growing out of pure vegetation? I felt satisfaction
because such a geology confirmed that I was right, that this island was a chimera, a play of the mind. By the
same token I felt disappointment because an island, any island, however strange, would have been very good
to come upon.
Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to
my eyes. Green is a lovely colour. It is the colour of Islam. It is my favourite colour.
The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a beach, there being
neither sand nor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, since the waves that fell upon the island
simply vanished into its porosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards inland, the island sloped to the sea
and, forty or so yards into it, fell off precipitously, disappearing from sight into the depths of the Pacific,
surely the smallest continental shelf on record.
I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last I refrained from putting a strain on it; when the
lifeboat nudged the island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabric of the island seemed to be an
intricate, tightly webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker than two fingers. What a
fanciful island, I thought.
After some minutes I crept up to the side of the boat. "Look for green," said the survival manual. Well, this
was green. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshine food colouring and flashing neon lights. A
green to get drunk on. "Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land," pursued the manual. The island was
within reach of a foot. To judge-and be disappointed-or not to judge, that was the question.
I decided to judge. I looked about to see if there were sharks. There were none. I turned on my stomach, and
holding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. My foot entered the sea. It was pleasingly cool. The
island lay just a little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. I expected the bubble of illusion to
burst at any second.
It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met the rubbery resistance of something flexible but solid. I put
more weight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weight on my foot. Still I did not sink. Still I did
not believe.
Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It came to my olfactory sense, full and fresh,
overwhelming: the smell of vegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing but salt-water-bleached smells, this
reek of vegetable organic matter was intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only thing that sank was
my mind; my thought process became disjointed. My leg began to shake.
"My God! My God!" I whimpered.
I fell overboard.
The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave me the strength to pull myself forward onto the island.
I babbled incoherent thanks to God and collapsed.
But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted to get to my feet. Blood rushed away from my head.
The ground shook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought I would faint. I steadied myself. All
I seemed able to do was pant. I managed to sit up.
"Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!" I shouted.
The Floating Green Chimera
- The narrator encounters a mysterious island composed entirely of dense, sparkling green vegetation without any visible soil.
- Initially dismissing the sight as a mental delusion or a 'chimera,' the narrator is struck by the impossible geology of trees growing from pure organic matter.
- The island lacks a traditional shore, featuring a porous edge where waves simply vanish into a webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed.
- Upon physically testing the land, the narrator finds it solid and rubbery, finally believing in its reality through the overwhelming, intoxicating scent of vegetation.
- Overcome with emotion and physical weakness, the narrator collapses onto the island and calls out to Richard Parker, celebrating their salvation.
To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to my eyes.
stood in water. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a dense mass of vegetation, as sparkling green as the
leaves. Who had ever heard of land with no soil? With trees growing out of pure vegetation? I felt satisfaction
because such a geology confirmed that I was right, that this island was a chimera, a play of the mind. By the
same token I felt disappointment because an island, any island, however strange, would have been very good
to come upon.
Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to
my eyes. Green is a lovely colour. It is the colour of Islam. It is my favourite colour.
The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a beach, there being
neither sand nor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, since the waves that fell upon the island
simply vanished into its porosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards inland, the island sloped to the sea
and, forty or so yards into it, fell off precipitously, disappearing from sight into the depths of the Pacific,
surely the smallest continental shelf on record.
I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last I refrained from putting a strain on it; when the
lifeboat nudged the island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabric of the island seemed to be an
intricate, tightly webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker than two fingers. What a
fanciful island, I thought.
After some minutes I crept up to the side of the boat. "Look for green," said the survival manual. Well, this
was green. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshine food colouring and flashing neon lights. A
green to get drunk on. "Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land," pursued the manual. The island was
within reach of a foot. To judge-and be disappointed-or not to judge, that was the question.
I decided to judge. I looked about to see if there were sharks. There were none. I turned on my stomach, and
holding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. My foot entered the sea. It was pleasingly cool. The
island lay just a little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. I expected the bubble of illusion to
burst at any second.
It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met the rubbery resistance of something flexible but solid. I put
more weight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weight on my foot. Still I did not sink. Still I did
not believe.
Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It came to my olfactory sense, full and fresh,
overwhelming: the smell of vegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing but salt-water-bleached smells, this
reek of vegetable organic matter was intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only thing that sank was
my mind; my thought process became disjointed. My leg began to shake.
"My God! My God!" I whimpered.
I fell overboard.
The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave me the strength to pull myself forward onto the island.
I babbled incoherent thanks to God and collapsed.
But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted to get to my feet. Blood rushed away from my head.
The ground shook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought I would faint. I steadied myself. All
I seemed able to do was pant. I managed to sit up.
"Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!" I shouted.
Page 141
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Floating Algae Island
- Pi discovers a mysterious island composed entirely of a dense, sparkling green mass of vegetation without any visible soil.
- Initially dismissing the land as a mental delusion or a chimera, Pi is shocked to find the island is physically solid and real.
- The island's unique biology consists of tubular seaweed that provides both fresh water and a sugary, edible outer layer.
- Overwhelmed by the sensory shift from salt water to vegetation, Pi experiences a profound spiritual and physical revival upon reaching the shade of a tree.
My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word.
stood in water. Rather, they stood in what appeared to be a dense mass of vegetation, as sparkling green as the
leaves. Who had ever heard of land with no soil? With trees growing out of pure vegetation? I felt satisfaction
because such a geology confirmed that I was right, that this island was a chimera, a play of the mind. By the
same token I felt disappointment because an island, any island, however strange, would have been very good
to come upon.
Since the trees continued to stand, I continued to look. To take in green, after so much blue, was like music to
my eyes. Green is a lovely colour. It is the colour of Islam. It is my favourite colour.
The current gently pushed the lifeboat closer to the illusion. Its shore could not be called a beach, there being
neither sand nor pebbles, and there was no pounding of surf either, since the waves that fell upon the island
simply vanished into its porosity. From a ridge some three hundred yards inland, the island sloped to the sea
and, forty or so yards into it, fell off precipitously, disappearing from sight into the depths of the Pacific,
surely the smallest continental shelf on record.
I was getting used to the mental delusion. To make it last I refrained from putting a strain on it; when the
lifeboat nudged the island, I did not move, only continued to dream. The fabric of the island seemed to be an
intricate, tightly webbed mass of tube-shaped seaweed, in diameter a little thicker than two fingers. What a
fanciful island, I thought.
After some minutes I crept up to the side of the boat. "Look for green," said the survival manual. Well, this
was green. In fact, it was chlorophyll heaven. A green to outshine food colouring and flashing neon lights. A
green to get drunk on. "Ultimately, a foot is the only good judge of land," pursued the manual. The island was
within reach of a foot. To judge-and be disappointed-or not to judge, that was the question.
I decided to judge. I looked about to see if there were sharks. There were none. I turned on my stomach, and
holding on to the tarpaulin, I slowly brought a leg down. My foot entered the sea. It was pleasingly cool. The
island lay just a little further down, shimmering in the water. I stretched. I expected the bubble of illusion to
burst at any second.
It did not. My foot sank into clear water and met the rubbery resistance of something flexible but solid. I put
more weight down. The illusion would not give. I put my full weight on my foot. Still I did not sink. Still I did
not believe.
Finally, it was my nose that was the judge of land. It came to my olfactory sense, full and fresh,
overwhelming: the smell of vegetation. I gasped. After months of nothing but salt-water-bleached smells, this
reek of vegetable organic matter was intoxicating. It was then that I believed, and the only thing that sank was
my mind; my thought process became disjointed. My leg began to shake.
"My God! My God!" I whimpered.
I fell overboard.
The combined shock of solid land and cool water gave me the strength to pull myself forward onto the island.
I babbled incoherent thanks to God and collapsed.
But I could not stay still. I was too excited. I attempted to get to my feet. Blood rushed away from my head.
The ground shook violently. A dizzying blindness overcame me. I thought I would faint. I steadied myself. All
I seemed able to do was pant. I managed to sit up.
"Richard Parker! Land! Land! We are saved!" I shouted.
Page 141
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that
strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of
marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of
something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted
of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway
between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the
centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the
inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a
neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water.
I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty-but the outer was not only edible,
it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find
a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as
in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness
that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare
it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the
algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into
my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it
had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed
a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the
shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet.
But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of
shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head
spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them.
But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to
the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade
and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones
inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and
not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when
you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty.
Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed
grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there
was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The
trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft
enough that I could mark it with my fingernail.
The Edible Island
- The narrator discovers a strange, tubular seaweed that provides both fresh water and a sugary, edible outer layer.
- Physical exhaustion makes the slight incline of the island feel like a mountain, forcing the narrator to crawl toward shade.
- The narrator experiences a profound spiritual and emotional connection to a solitary tree, viewing it as a symbol of purity and divine praise.
- Scientific observation reveals that the trees on the island grow directly out of the algae without any visible soil.
- The presence of Richard Parker in the lifeboat serves as a reminder of the lingering danger despite the island's apparent sanctuary.
My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word.
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that
strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of
marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of
something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted
of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway
between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the
centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the
inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a
neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water.
I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty-but the outer was not only edible,
it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find
a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as
in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness
that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare
it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the
algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into
my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it
had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed
a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the
shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet.
But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of
shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head
spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them.
But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to
the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade
and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones
inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and
not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when
you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty.
Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed
grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there
was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The
trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft
enough that I could mark it with my fingernail.
The cordate leaves were large and broad, and ended in a single
point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it
smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever
seen. All I know was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves.
I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at the island,
The Discovery of the Island
- The narrator discovers a strange, tubular seaweed that provides immediate physical comfort and strength through its vibrant green color.
- Upon inspection, the algae contains fresh water and a sweet, sugary outer layer that contrasts with a bitter, salty inner core.
- Despite extreme physical weakness, the narrator crawls to a solitary tree to seek shade and spiritual solace.
- The island's ecosystem appears unique and impossible, as the trees grow directly out of the algae without any visible soil.
- The narrator experiences a profound religious exaltation while observing the mysterious flora, even as Richard Parker watches from the lifeboat.
My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word.
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that
strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of
marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of
something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted
of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway
between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the
centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the
inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a
neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water.
I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty-but the outer was not only edible,
it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find
a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as
in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness
that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare
it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the
algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into
my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it
had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed
a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the
shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet.
But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of
shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head
spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them.
But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to
the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade
and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones
inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and
not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when
you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty.
Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed
grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there
was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The
trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft
enough that I could mark it with my fingernail.
The cordate leaves were large and broad, and ended in a single
point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it
smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever
seen. All I know was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves.
I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at the island,
Page 142
The Sugary Algae Island
- The narrator discovers a strange, tubular seaweed that provides immediate physical comfort and strength through its vibrant green color.
- Upon inspection, the algae contains fresh water and consists of a bitter inner core and a sugary, delicious outer layer.
- Starved for sweetness after a diet of fish and turtles, the narrator ravenously consumes the algae until a moat is formed around him.
- The narrator crawls to a solitary tree, marveling at its existence despite the complete absence of soil on the island.
- The island's ecosystem appears to be a botanical anomaly where trees grow directly out of the dense, parasitic or commensal algae mats.
My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet.
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that
strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of
marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of
something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted
of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway
between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the
centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the
inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a
neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water.
I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty-but the outer was not only edible,
it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find
a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as
in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness
that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare
it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the
algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into
my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it
had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed
a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the
shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet.
But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of
shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head
spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them.
But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to
the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade
and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones
inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and
not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when
you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty.
Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed
grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there
was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The
trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft
enough that I could mark it with my fingernail.
The cordate leaves were large and broad, and ended in a single
point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it
smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever
seen. All I know was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves.
I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at the island,
Page 142
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Algae Island
- The narrator discovers a strange, tubular algae that provides both fresh water and a sugary, edible outer layer.
- Despite extreme physical weakness, the narrator finds spiritual and physical refuge under a solitary, mysterious tree.
- Richard Parker the tiger cautiously explores the island during the day but returns to the safety of the lifeboat every night.
- The island's unique, rubbery vegetation acts as a cushioned surface, allowing the narrator to relearn how to walk without injury.
- The narrator observes that the trees grow directly out of the algae without any visible soil, suggesting a parasitic or commensal relationship.
My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find a long-forgotten word.
The smell of vegetation was extraordinarily strong. As for the greenness, it was so fresh and soothing that
strength and comfort seemed to be physically pouring into my system through my eyes.
What was this strange, tubular seaweed, so intricately entangled? Was it edible? It seemed to be a variety of
marine algae, but quite rigid, far more so than normal algae. The feel of it in the hand was wet and as of
something crunchy. I pulled at it. Strands of it broke off without too much effort. In cross-section it consisted
of two concentric walls: the wet, slightly rough outer wall, so vibrantly green, and an inner wall midway
between the outer wall and the core of the algae. The division in the two tubes that resulted was very plain: the
centre tube was white in colour, while the tube that surrounded it was decreasingly green as it approached the
inner wall. I brought a piece of the algae to my nose. Beyond the agreeable fragrance of the vegetable, it had a
neutral smell. I licked it. My pulse quickened. The algae was wet with fresh water.
I bit into it. My chops were in for a shock. The inner tube was bitterly salty-but the outer was not only edible,
it was delicious. My tongue began to tremble as if it were a finger flipping through a dictionary, trying to find
a long-forgotten word. It found it, and my eyes closed with pleasure at hearing it: sweet. Not as in good, but as
in sugary. Turtles and fish are many things, but they are never, ever sugary. The algae had a light sweetness
that outdid in delight even the sap of our maple trees here in Canada. In consistency, the closest I can compare
it to is water chestnuts.
Saliva forcefully oozed through the dry pastiness of my mouth. Making loud noises of pleasure, I tore at the
algae around me. The inner and outer tubes separated cleanly and easily. I began stuffing the sweet outer into
my mouth. I went at it with both hands, force-feeding my mouth and setting it to work harder and faster than it
had in a very long time. I ate till there was a regular moat around me.
A solitary tree stood about two hundred feet away. It was the only tree downhill from the ridge, which seemed
a very long way off. I say ridge; the word perhaps gives an incorrect impression of how steep the rise from the
shore was. The island was low-lying, as I've said. The rise was gentle, to a height of perhaps fifty or sixty feet.
But in the state I was in, that height loomed like a mountain. The tree was more inviting. I noticed its patch of
shade. I tried to stand again. I managed to get to a squatting position but as soon as I made to rise, my head
spun and I couldn't keep my balance. And even if I hadn't fallen over, my legs had no strength left in them.
But my will was strong. I was determined to move forward. I crawled, dragged myself, weakly leapfrogged to
the tree.
I know I will never know a joy so vast as I experienced when I entered that tree's dappled, shimmering shade
and heard the dry, crisp sound of the wind rustling its leaves. The tree was not as large or as tall as the ones
inland, and for being on the wrong side of the ridge, more exposed to the elements, it was a little scraggly and
not so uniformly developed as its mates. But it was a tree, and a tree is a blessedly good thing to behold when
you've been lost at sea for a long, long time. I sang that tree's glory, its solid, unhurried purity, its slow beauty.
Oh, that I could be like it, rooted to the ground but with my every hand raised up to God in praise! I wept.
As my heart exalted Allah, my mind began to take in information about Allah's works. The tree did indeed
grow right out of the algae, as I had seen from the lifeboat. There was not the least trace of soil. Either there
was soil deeper down, or this species of tree was a remarkable instance of a commensal or a parasite. The
trunk was about the width of a man's chest. The bark was greyish green in colour, thin and smooth, and soft
enough that I could mark it with my fingernail.
The cordate leaves were large and broad, and ended in a single
point. The head of the tree had the lovely full roundness of a mango tree, but it was not a mango. I thought it
smelled somewhat like a lote tree, but it wasn't a lote either. Nor a mangrove. Nor any other tree I had ever
seen. All I know was that it was beautiful and green and lush with leaves.
I heard a growl. I turned. Richard Parker was observing me from the lifeboat. He was looking at the island,
Page 142
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
too. He seemed to want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after much snarling and pacing, he leapt from
the boat. I brought the orange whistle to my mouth. But he didn't have aggression on his mind. Simple balance
was enough of a challenge; he was as wobbly on his feet as I was. When he advanced, he crawled close to the
ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn cub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge and
disappeared into the interior of the island.
I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, in a general way, bathing in bliss. I felt nauseous
when I exerted myself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground was shifting beneath me and that I was
going to fall over, even when I was sitting still.
I started worrying about Richard Parker in the late afternoon. Now that the setting, the territory, had changed, I
wasn't sure how he would take to me if he came upon me.
Reluctantly, strictly for safety's sake, I crawled back to the lifeboat. However Richard Parker took possession
of the island, the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searched for something to moor the lifeboat
to. Evidently the algae covered the shore thickly, for it was all I could find. Finally, I resolved the problem by
driving an oar, handle first, deep into the algae and tethering the boat to it.
I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body was spent from taking in so much food, and there was
the nervous tension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the day ended, I hazily remember hearing
Richard Parker roaring in the distance, but sleep overcame me.
I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my lower belly. I thought it was a cramp, that
perhaps I had poisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker was aboard. He had
returned while I was sleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet. I found his return puzzling
but thought no further about it-the cramp was quickly getting worse. I was doubled over with pain, shaking
with it, when a process, normal for most but long forgotten by me, set itself into motion: defecation. It was
very painful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most refreshing sleep I had had since the night before the
Tsimtsum sank.
When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. I crawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous way. My eyes
feasted once more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I had such a plentiful breakfast that I dug a big
hole.
Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours before jumping off the boat. When he did, mid-morning, as soon
as he landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in the water and seemed very tense. He hissed and
clawed the air with a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His anxiety passed, and noticeably
surer-footed than the previous day, he disappeared another time over the ridge.
That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy. The only way I could make the ground stop moving
was to close my eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. I fell instantly. The ground rushed up to
me before I could move a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with such tightly woven, rubbery vegetation,
was an ideal place to relearn how to walk. I could fall any which way, it was impossible to hurt myself.
The next day, after another restful night on the boat-to which, once again, Richard Parker had returned-I was
able to walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach the tree. I could feel my strength increasing by the
hour. With the gaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. I plucked off some leaves. They were
soft and unwaxed, but they tasted bitter. Richard Parker was attached to his den on the lifeboat-that was my
explanation for why he had returned another night.
I saw him coming back that evening, as the sun was setting. I had retethered the lifeboat to the buried oar. I
Recovery on the Algae Island
- Pi and Richard Parker explore a mysterious algae island, though both are physically weakened and struggle with their balance on solid ground.
- Despite the vastness of the island, Richard Parker returns to the safety of the lifeboat each night, treating it as his established den.
- Pi experiences a painful but restorative physical recovery, regaining the strength to stand and walk on the island's rubbery, forgiving surface.
- The island provides an abundance of food in the form of algae, though the tree leaves Pi discovers are surprisingly bitter.
- A sense of territorial tension remains as Pi continues to use the lifeboat as his primary sanctuary to avoid potential conflict with the tiger.
When he advanced, he crawled close to the ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn cub.
too. He seemed to want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after much snarling and pacing, he leapt from
the boat. I brought the orange whistle to my mouth. But he didn't have aggression on his mind. Simple balance
was enough of a challenge; he was as wobbly on his feet as I was. When he advanced, he crawled close to the
ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn cub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge and
disappeared into the interior of the island.
I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, in a general way, bathing in bliss. I felt nauseous
when I exerted myself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground was shifting beneath me and that I was
going to fall over, even when I was sitting still.
I started worrying about Richard Parker in the late afternoon. Now that the setting, the territory, had changed, I
wasn't sure how he would take to me if he came upon me.
Reluctantly, strictly for safety's sake, I crawled back to the lifeboat. However Richard Parker took possession
of the island, the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searched for something to moor the lifeboat
to. Evidently the algae covered the shore thickly, for it was all I could find. Finally, I resolved the problem by
driving an oar, handle first, deep into the algae and tethering the boat to it.
I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body was spent from taking in so much food, and there was
the nervous tension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the day ended, I hazily remember hearing
Richard Parker roaring in the distance, but sleep overcame me.
I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my lower belly. I thought it was a cramp, that
perhaps I had poisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker was aboard. He had
returned while I was sleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet. I found his return puzzling
but thought no further about it-the cramp was quickly getting worse. I was doubled over with pain, shaking
with it, when a process, normal for most but long forgotten by me, set itself into motion: defecation. It was
very painful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most refreshing sleep I had had since the night before the
Tsimtsum sank.
When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. I crawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous way. My eyes
feasted once more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I had such a plentiful breakfast that I dug a big
hole.
Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours before jumping off the boat. When he did, mid-morning, as soon
as he landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in the water and seemed very tense. He hissed and
clawed the air with a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His anxiety passed, and noticeably
surer-footed than the previous day, he disappeared another time over the ridge.
That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy. The only way I could make the ground stop moving
was to close my eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. I fell instantly. The ground rushed up to
me before I could move a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with such tightly woven, rubbery vegetation,
was an ideal place to relearn how to walk. I could fall any which way, it was impossible to hurt myself.
The next day, after another restful night on the boat-to which, once again, Richard Parker had returned-I was
able to walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach the tree. I could feel my strength increasing by the
hour. With the gaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. I plucked off some leaves. They were
soft and unwaxed, but they tasted bitter. Richard Parker was attached to his den on the lifeboat-that was my
explanation for why he had returned another night.
I saw him coming back that evening, as the sun was setting. I had retethered the lifeboat to the buried oar. I
Page 143
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Recovery on the Algae Island
- Pi and Richard Parker explore a mysterious algae-covered island, both struggling with their physical weakness and the sensation of shifting ground.
- Despite the new territory, Richard Parker returns to the safety of the lifeboat each night, maintaining the established boundaries between him and Pi.
- Pi experiences a painful but vital return to normal bodily functions, signaling a turning point in his physical recovery and strength.
- The island's soft, rubbery surface provides a safe environment for Pi to relearn how to walk after his long confinement at sea.
- Richard Parker undergoes a dramatic transformation, regaining his predatory vigor and speed as he gallops across the island's interior.
This magnificent animal bursting over the ridge at full gallop couldn't possibly be the same listless, bedraggled tiger who was my companion in misfortune?
too. He seemed to want to come ashore but was afraid. Finally, after much snarling and pacing, he leapt from
the boat. I brought the orange whistle to my mouth. But he didn't have aggression on his mind. Simple balance
was enough of a challenge; he was as wobbly on his feet as I was. When he advanced, he crawled close to the
ground and with trembling limbs, like a newborn cub. Giving me a wide berth, he made for the ridge and
disappeared into the interior of the island.
I passed the day eating, resting, attempting to stand and, in a general way, bathing in bliss. I felt nauseous
when I exerted myself too much. And I kept feeling that the ground was shifting beneath me and that I was
going to fall over, even when I was sitting still.
I started worrying about Richard Parker in the late afternoon. Now that the setting, the territory, had changed, I
wasn't sure how he would take to me if he came upon me.
Reluctantly, strictly for safety's sake, I crawled back to the lifeboat. However Richard Parker took possession
of the island, the bow and the tarpaulin remained my territory. I searched for something to moor the lifeboat
to. Evidently the algae covered the shore thickly, for it was all I could find. Finally, I resolved the problem by
driving an oar, handle first, deep into the algae and tethering the boat to it.
I crawled onto the tarpaulin. I was exhausted. My body was spent from taking in so much food, and there was
the nervous tension arising from my sudden change of fortunes. As the day ended, I hazily remember hearing
Richard Parker roaring in the distance, but sleep overcame me.
I awoke in the night with a strange, uncomfortable feeling in my lower belly. I thought it was a cramp, that
perhaps I had poisoned myself with the algae. I heard a noise. I looked. Richard Parker was aboard. He had
returned while I was sleeping. He was meowing and licking the pads of his feet. I found his return puzzling
but thought no further about it-the cramp was quickly getting worse. I was doubled over with pain, shaking
with it, when a process, normal for most but long forgotten by me, set itself into motion: defecation. It was
very painful, but afterwards I fell into the deepest, most refreshing sleep I had had since the night before the
Tsimtsum sank.
When I woke up in the morning I felt much stronger. I crawled to the solitary tree in a vigorous way. My eyes
feasted once more upon it, as did my stomach on the algae. I had such a plentiful breakfast that I dug a big
hole.
Richard Parker once again hesitated for hours before jumping off the boat. When he did, mid-morning, as soon
as he landed on the shore he jumped back and half fell in the water and seemed very tense. He hissed and
clawed the air with a paw. It was curious. I had no idea what he was doing. His anxiety passed, and noticeably
surer-footed than the previous day, he disappeared another time over the ridge.
That day, leaning against the tree, I stood. I felt dizzy. The only way I could make the ground stop moving
was to close my eyes and grip the tree. I pushed off and tried to walk. I fell instantly. The ground rushed up to
me before I could move a foot. No harm done. The island, coated with such tightly woven, rubbery vegetation,
was an ideal place to relearn how to walk. I could fall any which way, it was impossible to hurt myself.
The next day, after another restful night on the boat-to which, once again, Richard Parker had returned-I was
able to walk. Falling half a dozen times, I managed to reach the tree. I could feel my strength increasing by the
hour. With the gaff I reached up and pulled down a branch from the tree. I plucked off some leaves. They were
soft and unwaxed, but they tasted bitter. Richard Parker was attached to his den on the lifeboat-that was my
explanation for why he had returned another night.
I saw him coming back that evening, as the sun was setting. I had retethered the lifeboat to the buried oar. I
Page 143
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
was at the bow, checking that the rope was properly secured to the stem. He appeared all of a sudden. At first I
didn't recognize him. This magnificent animal bursting over the ridge at full gallop couldn't possibly be the
same listless, bedraggled tiger who was my companion in misfortune? But it was. It was Richard Parker and
he was coming my way at high speed. He looked purposeful. His powerful neck rose above his lowered head.
His coat and his muscles shook at every step. I could hear the drumming of his heavy body against the ground.
The Tiger's Return
- Richard Parker regains his physical strength and predatory vitality, transforming from a listless companion back into a magnificent and terrifying hunter.
- Pi uses his whistle to establish a defensive boundary when the tiger charges the lifeboat, successfully deterring a direct attack.
- The tiger demonstrates surprising resolve by leaping into the sea to reach the stern of the boat rather than retreating from the whistle.
- A fragile truce is maintained as both man and tiger occupy their respective territories on the lifeboat, despite the constant underlying threat.
- Pi begins a physical recovery process by eating algae and practicing walking in preparation to explore the mysterious island.
I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapid and direct approach of a known killer.
was at the bow, checking that the rope was properly secured to the stem. He appeared all of a sudden. At first I
didn't recognize him. This magnificent animal bursting over the ridge at full gallop couldn't possibly be the
same listless, bedraggled tiger who was my companion in misfortune? But it was. It was Richard Parker and
he was coming my way at high speed. He looked purposeful. His powerful neck rose above his lowered head.
His coat and his muscles shook at every step. I could hear the drumming of his heavy body against the ground.
I have read that there are two fears that cannot be trained out of us: the startle reaction upon hearing an
unexpected noise, and vertigo. I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapid and direct approach of a known
killer.
I fumbled for the whistle. When he was twenty-five feet from the lifeboat I blew into the whistle with all my
might. A piercing cry split the air.
It had the desired effect. Richard Parker braked. But he clearly wanted to move forward again. I blew a second
time. He started turning and hopping on the spot in a most peculiar, deer-like way, snarling fiercely. I blew a
third time. Every hair on him was raised. His claws were full out. He was in a state of extreme agitation. I
feared that the defensive wall of my whistle blows was about to crumble and that he would attack me.
Instead, Richard Parker did the most unexpected thing: he jumped into the sea. I was astounded. The very
thing I thought he would never do, he did, and with might and resolve. He energetically paddled his way to the
stern of the lifeboat. I thought of blowing again, but instead opened the locker lid and sat down, retreating to
the inner sanctum of my territory.
He surged onto the stern, quantities of water pouring off him, making my end of the boat pitch up. He
balanced on the gunnel and the stern bench for a moment, assessing me. My heart grew faint. I did not think I
would be able to blow into the whistle again. I looked at him blankly. He flowed down to the floor of the
lifeboat and disappeared under the tarpaulin. I could see parts of him from the edges of the locker lid. I threw
myself upon the tarpaulin, out of his sight-but directly above him. I felt an overwhelming urge to sprout wings
and fly off.
I calmed down. I reminded myself forcefully that this had been my situation for the last long while, to be
living with a live tiger hot beneath me.
As my breathing slowed down, sleep came to me.
Sometime during the night I awoke and, my fear forgotten, looked over. He was dreaming: he was shaking and
growling in his sleep. He was loud enough about it to have woken me up.
In the morning, as usual, he went over the ridge.
I decided that as soon as I was strong enough I would go exploring the inland. It seemed quite large, if the
shoreline was any indication; left and right it stretched on with only a slight curve, showing the island to have
a fair girth. I spent the day walking-and falling-from the shore to the tree and back, in an attempt to restore my
legs to health. At every fall I had a full meal of algae.
When Richard Parker returned as the day was ending, a little earlier than the previous day, I was expecting
him. I sat tight and did not blow the whistle. He came to the water's edge and in one mighty leap reached the
side of the lifeboat. He entered his territory without intruding into mine, only causing the boat to lurch to one
side. His return to form was quite terrifying.
The: next morning, after giving Richard Parker plenty of advance, I set off to explore the island. I walked up
to the ridge. I reached it easily, proudly moving one foot ahead of the other in a gait that was spirited if still a
Page 144
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Island of Meerkats
- Pi uses a whistle to assert dominance over Richard Parker, successfully driving the tiger back into the sea and establishing territorial boundaries on the lifeboat.
- After regaining some physical strength by eating algae, Pi ventures inland to explore the mysterious green island.
- The island's interior reveals a surreal, designed landscape featuring a vast green plateau, a central forest, and hundreds of uniform ponds.
- Pi discovers an immense colony of hundreds of thousands of meerkats that show no fear of humans and exist in a state of constant, chirping activity.
- The sheer scale of the meerkat population and their lack of defensive instincts create a sense of wonder and safety for Pi as he navigates the colony.
The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up.
unexpected noise, and vertigo. I would like to add a third, to wit, the rapid and direct approach of a known
killer.
I fumbled for the whistle. When he was twenty-five feet from the lifeboat I blew into the whistle with all my
might. A piercing cry split the air.
It had the desired effect. Richard Parker braked. But he clearly wanted to move forward again. I blew a second
time. He started turning and hopping on the spot in a most peculiar, deer-like way, snarling fiercely. I blew a
third time. Every hair on him was raised. His claws were full out. He was in a state of extreme agitation. I
feared that the defensive wall of my whistle blows was about to crumble and that he would attack me.
Instead, Richard Parker did the most unexpected thing: he jumped into the sea. I was astounded. The very
thing I thought he would never do, he did, and with might and resolve. He energetically paddled his way to the
stern of the lifeboat. I thought of blowing again, but instead opened the locker lid and sat down, retreating to
the inner sanctum of my territory.
He surged onto the stern, quantities of water pouring off him, making my end of the boat pitch up. He
balanced on the gunnel and the stern bench for a moment, assessing me. My heart grew faint. I did not think I
would be able to blow into the whistle again. I looked at him blankly. He flowed down to the floor of the
lifeboat and disappeared under the tarpaulin. I could see parts of him from the edges of the locker lid. I threw
myself upon the tarpaulin, out of his sight-but directly above him. I felt an overwhelming urge to sprout wings
and fly off.
I calmed down. I reminded myself forcefully that this had been my situation for the last long while, to be
living with a live tiger hot beneath me.
As my breathing slowed down, sleep came to me.
Sometime during the night I awoke and, my fear forgotten, looked over. He was dreaming: he was shaking and
growling in his sleep. He was loud enough about it to have woken me up.
In the morning, as usual, he went over the ridge.
I decided that as soon as I was strong enough I would go exploring the inland. It seemed quite large, if the
shoreline was any indication; left and right it stretched on with only a slight curve, showing the island to have
a fair girth. I spent the day walking-and falling-from the shore to the tree and back, in an attempt to restore my
legs to health. At every fall I had a full meal of algae.
When Richard Parker returned as the day was ending, a little earlier than the previous day, I was expecting
him. I sat tight and did not blow the whistle. He came to the water's edge and in one mighty leap reached the
side of the lifeboat. He entered his territory without intruding into mine, only causing the boat to lurch to one
side. His return to form was quite terrifying.
The: next morning, after giving Richard Parker plenty of advance, I set off to explore the island. I walked up
to the ridge. I reached it easily, proudly moving one foot ahead of the other in a gait that was spirited if still a
Page 144
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw
beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great
green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered,
identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement
giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would
conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats.
And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and
stood up.
We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the
literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous
burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a
pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,
non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands
on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile
and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range-the Kalahari Desert of
southern Africa-on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on
the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing
itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle
and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their
faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their
genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats-more, a million-turning to me and
standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at
most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood
rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable.
But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing
before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings
bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least
tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the
sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest,
most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping,
twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and
went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest
meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the
answer-that they were harmless-was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were
densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
The Island of Meerkats
- The narrator discovers a mysterious island plateau covered in green algae and a forest arranged in a seemingly designed, uniform pattern.
- The island is inhabited by an immense colony of meerkats, estimated to number in the hundreds of thousands or even a million.
- Despite being wild animals, the meerkats show no fear of the narrator, allowing him to walk among them and even nudge them aside with his feet.
- The creatures exhibit strange behaviors, such as standing in unison like commuters or bending down to the ponds in a manner resembling prayer.
- The sheer scale of the colony creates a unique auditory environment filled with a shifting, bird-like cacophony of chirps and barks.
The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up.
little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw
beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great
green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered,
identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement
giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would
conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats.
And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and
stood up.
We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the
literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous
burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a
pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,
non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands
on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile
and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range-the Kalahari Desert of
southern Africa-on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on
the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing
itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle
and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their
faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their
genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats-more, a million-turning to me and
standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at
most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood
rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable.
But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing
before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings
bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least
tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the
sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest,
most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping,
twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and
went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest
meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the
answer-that they were harmless-was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were
densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
They took to my barging
without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies against my
ankles as I looked into a pond.
All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size-roughly forty feet in diameter. I
The Island of Meerkats
- The narrator discovers a vast green plateau covered in algae and a forest arranged in a seemingly designed pattern of ponds and trees.
- The island is inhabited by an immense population of meerkats, estimated to be in the hundreds of thousands or even millions.
- Despite being carnivorous mammals native to the Kalahari Desert, these meerkats show absolutely no fear of the narrator's presence.
- The sheer number of creatures creates a unique auditory environment of constant squeaking, chirping, and barking that shifts like a flock of birds.
- The meerkats are so densely packed and docile that the narrator must gently nudge them aside with his feet to move through the colony.
The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up.
little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw
beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great
green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered,
identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement
giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would
conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats.
And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and
stood up.
We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the
literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous
burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a
pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,
non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands
on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile
and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range-the Kalahari Desert of
southern Africa-on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on
the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing
itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle
and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their
faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their
genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats-more, a million-turning to me and
standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at
most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood
rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable.
But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing
before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings
bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least
tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the
sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest,
most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping,
twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and
went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest
meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the
answer-that they were harmless-was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were
densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
They took to my barging
without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies against my
ankles as I looked into a pond.
All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size-roughly forty feet in diameter. I
Page 145
The Island of Meerkats
- The narrator discovers a vast, green plateau covered in algae and a forest that appears to follow a deliberate, uniform design.
- The landscape is inhabited by an immense population of meerkats, estimated to be in the hundreds of thousands or even millions.
- Despite being wild animals, the meerkats show absolutely no fear of the narrator, allowing him to walk among them and even nudge them aside.
- The meerkats exhibit unusual behaviors, such as standing in collective huddles and staring into ponds or nibbling on the island's algae.
- The sheer scale of the colony creates a unique auditory environment filled with a constant, swirling noise of chirps, barks, and squeaks.
The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up.
little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw
beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great
green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered,
identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement
giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would
conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats.
And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and
stood up.
We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the
literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous
burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a
pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,
non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands
on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile
and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range-the Kalahari Desert of
southern Africa-on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on
the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing
itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle
and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their
faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their
genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats-more, a million-turning to me and
standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at
most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood
rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable.
But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing
before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings
bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least
tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the
sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest,
most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping,
twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and
went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest
meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the
answer-that they were harmless-was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were
densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
They took to my barging
without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies against my
ankles as I looked into a pond.
All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size-roughly forty feet in diameter. I
Page 145
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Island of Meerkats
- The narrator discovers a vast green island covered in algae with a geometric layout of forests and ponds that suggests a deliberate design.
- The island is inhabited by an immense colony of hundreds of thousands of meerkats that show no fear of human presence.
- These meerkats exhibit unusual behaviors, such as standing in massive huddles like commuters and staring into deep, bottomless ponds.
- The narrator realizes these are a specialized subspecies of meerkat that, unlike their desert ancestors, have adapted to swim and dive into water.
The landscape was covered in meerkats. And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and stood up.
little awkward. Had my legs been weaker they would have given way beneath me when I saw what I saw
beyond the ridge.
To start with details, I saw that the whole island was covered with the algae, not just its edges. I saw a great
green plateau with a green forest in its centre. I saw all around this forest hundreds of evenly scattered,
identically sized ponds with trees sparsely distributed in a uniform way between them, the whole arramgement
giving the unmistakable impression of following a design.
But it was the meerkats that impressed themselves most indelibly on my mind. I saw in one look what I would
conservatively estimate to be hundreds of thousasands of meerkats. The landscape was covered in meerkats.
And when I appeared, it seamed that all of them turned to me, astonished, like chickens in a farmyard, and
stood up.
We didn't have any meerkats in our zoo. But I had read about them. They were in the books and in the
literature. A meerkat is a small South African mammal related to the mongoose; in other words, a carnivorous
burrower, a foot long and weighing two pounds when mature, slender andd weasel-like in build, with a
pointed snout, eyes sitting squarely at the front of its face, short legs, paws with four toes and long,
non-retractile claws, and an eight-inch tail. Its fur is light brown to grey in colour with black or brown bands
on its back, while the tip of its tail, its ears and the characteristic circles around its eyes are black. It is an agile
and keen-sighted creature, diurnal and social in habits, and feeding in its native range-the Kalahari Desert of
southern Africa-on, among other things, scorpions, to whose venom it is completely immune. When jt is on
the lookout, the meerkat has the peculiarity of standing perfectly upright on the tips of its back legs, balancing
itself tripod-like with its tail. Often a group of meerkats will take the stance collectively, standing in a huddle
and gazing in the same direction, looking like commuters waiting for a bus. The earnest expression on their
faces, and the way their front paws hang before them, make them look either like children self-consciously
posing for a photographer or patients in a doctor's office stripped naked and demurely trying to cover their
genitals.
That is what I beheld in one glance, hundreds of thousands of meerkats-more, a million-turning to me and
standing at attention, as if saying, "Yes, sir?" Mind you, a standing meerkat reaches up eighteen inches at
most, so it was not the height of these creatures that was so breathtaking as their unlimited multitude. I stood
rooted to the spot, speechless. If I set a million meerkats fleeing in terror the chaos would be indescribable.
But their interest in me was shortlived. After a few seconds, they went back to doing what they had been doing
before I appeared, which was either nibbling at the algae or staring into the ponds. To see so many beings
bending down at the same time reminded me of prayer time in a mosque.
The creatures seemed to feel no fear. As I moved down from the ridge, none shied away or showed the least
tension at my presence. If I had wanted to, I could have touched one, even picked one up. I did nothing of the
sort. I simply walked into what was surely the largest colony of meerkats in the world, one of the strangest,
most wonderful experiences of my life. There was a ceaseless noise in the air. It was their squeaking, chirping,
twittering and barking. Such were their numbers and the vagaries of their excitement that the noise came and
went like a flock of birds, at times very loud, swirling around me, then rapidly dying off as the closest
meerkats fell silent while others, further off, started up.
Were they not afraid of me because I should be afraid of them? The question crossed my mind. But the
answer-that they were harmless-was immediately apparent. To get close to a pond, around which they were
densely packed, I had to nudge them away with my feet so as not to step on one.
They took to my barging
without any offence, making room for me like a good-natured crowd. I felt warm, furry bodies against my
ankles as I looked into a pond.
All the ponds had the same round shape and were about the same size-roughly forty feet in diameter. I
Page 145
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
expected shallowness. I saw nothing but deep, clear water. The ponds seemed bottomless, in fact. And as far
down as I could see, their sides consisted of green algae. Evidently the layer atop the island was very
substantial.
I could see nothing that accounted for the meerkats' fixed curiosity, and I might have given up on solving the
mystery had squeaking and barking not erupted at a pond nearby. Meerkats were jumping up and down in a
state of great ferment. Suddenly, by the hundreds, they began diving into the pond. There was much pushing
and shoving as the meerkats behind vied to reach the pond's edge. The frenzy was collective; even tiny
meerkittens were making for the water, barely being held back by mothers and guardians. I stared in disbelief.
These were not standard Kalahari Desert meerkats. Standard Kalahari Desert meerkats do not behave like
frogs. These meerkats were most definitely a subspecies that had specialized in a fascinating and surprising
way.
I made for the pond, bringing my feet down gingerly, in time to see meerkats swimming-actually
The Freshwater Algae Island
- The narrator discovers that the island's ponds are surprisingly deep and filled with fresh water rather than salt water.
- A specialized subspecies of meerkats exhibits unusual behavior by diving into the ponds to retrieve large, freshly dead saltwater fish.
- The narrator concludes that the algae itself acts as a natural desalination system, oozing fresh water and killing seafaring fish that enter the ponds.
- The meerkats have lost all evolutionary fear of predators, allowing Richard Parker to kill them indiscriminately while they remain indifferent to the danger.
He was moving through them, blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, 'My turn! My turn! My turn!'
expected shallowness. I saw nothing but deep, clear water. The ponds seemed bottomless, in fact. And as far
down as I could see, their sides consisted of green algae. Evidently the layer atop the island was very
substantial.
I could see nothing that accounted for the meerkats' fixed curiosity, and I might have given up on solving the
mystery had squeaking and barking not erupted at a pond nearby. Meerkats were jumping up and down in a
state of great ferment. Suddenly, by the hundreds, they began diving into the pond. There was much pushing
and shoving as the meerkats behind vied to reach the pond's edge. The frenzy was collective; even tiny
meerkittens were making for the water, barely being held back by mothers and guardians. I stared in disbelief.
These were not standard Kalahari Desert meerkats. Standard Kalahari Desert meerkats do not behave like
frogs. These meerkats were most definitely a subspecies that had specialized in a fascinating and surprising
way.
I made for the pond, bringing my feet down gingerly, in time to see meerkats swimming-actually
swimming-and bringing to
shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were dorados that would have been unqualified feasts
on the lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It was incomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such
fish.
It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of the pond, displaying real feats of teamwork, that I noticed
something curious: every fish, without exception, was already dead. Freshly dead. The meerkats were bringing
ashore dead fish they had not killed.
I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wet meerkats. I touched the water. It was cooler than I'd
expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water from below. I cupped a little water in my hand
and brought it to my mouth. I took a sip.
It was fresh water. This explained how the fish had died-for, of course, place a saltwater fish in fresh water
and it will quickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fish doing in a freshwater pond? How had
they got there?
I went to another pond, making my way through the meerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the same. And
again with a fourth pond.
They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantities of fresh water come from, I asked myself. The
answer was obvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuously desalinated sea water, which was
why its core was salty while its outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was oozing the fresh water out. I did
not ask myself why the algae did this, or how, or where the salt went. My mind stopped asking such questions.
I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found it hard to stay at the surface of the water; I was still very
weak, and I had little fat on me to help me float. I held on to the edge of the pond. The effect of bathing in
pure, clean, salt-free water was more than I can put into words. After such a long time at sea, my skin was like
a hide and my hair was long, matted and as silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soul had been corroded
by salt. So, under the gaze of a thousand meerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every salt crystal
that had tainted me.
The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all of them turning in the same direction at exactly the
same time. I pulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed what I had suspected,
that these meerkats had gone for so many generations without predators that any notion of flight distance, of
flight, of plain fear, had been genetically weeded out of them. He was moving through them, blazing a trail of
murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to
jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, "My turn! My turn! My turn!" I would
see this scene time and again. Nothing distracted the meerkats from their little lives of pond staring and algae
The Freshwater Algae Island
- Pi discovers that the island's ponds are filled with fresh water, which kills the saltwater fish that enter them.
- The algae acts as a natural desalination system, oozing fresh water while maintaining a salty core.
- Bathing in the fresh water provides Pi with a profound sense of physical and spiritual purification after months at sea.
- The island's meerkats exhibit a total lack of fear toward Richard Parker, having lost their survival instincts through generations without predators.
- Richard Parker ruthlessly hunts the meerkats, who seem to offer themselves up to the tiger in a bizarre display of indifference.
He was moving through them, blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, 'My turn! My turn! My turn!'
shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were dorados that would have been unqualified feasts
on the lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It was incomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such
fish.
It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of the pond, displaying real feats of teamwork, that I noticed
something curious: every fish, without exception, was already dead. Freshly dead. The meerkats were bringing
ashore dead fish they had not killed.
I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wet meerkats. I touched the water. It was cooler than I'd
expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water from below. I cupped a little water in my hand
and brought it to my mouth. I took a sip.
It was fresh water. This explained how the fish had died-for, of course, place a saltwater fish in fresh water
and it will quickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fish doing in a freshwater pond? How had
they got there?
I went to another pond, making my way through the meerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the same. And
again with a fourth pond.
They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantities of fresh water come from, I asked myself. The
answer was obvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuously desalinated sea water, which was
why its core was salty while its outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was oozing the fresh water out. I did
not ask myself why the algae did this, or how, or where the salt went. My mind stopped asking such questions.
I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found it hard to stay at the surface of the water; I was still very
weak, and I had little fat on me to help me float. I held on to the edge of the pond. The effect of bathing in
pure, clean, salt-free water was more than I can put into words. After such a long time at sea, my skin was like
a hide and my hair was long, matted and as silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soul had been corroded
by salt. So, under the gaze of a thousand meerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every salt crystal
that had tainted me.
The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all of them turning in the same direction at exactly the
same time. I pulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed what I had suspected,
that these meerkats had gone for so many generations without predators that any notion of flight distance, of
flight, of plain fear, had been genetically weeded out of them. He was moving through them, blazing a trail of
murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to
jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, "My turn! My turn! My turn!" I would
see this scene time and again. Nothing distracted the meerkats from their little lives of pond staring and algae
Page 146
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Island of Algae
- Pi discovers that the island's algae naturally desalinates seawater, creating freshwater ponds that kill saltwater fish and provide him with a life-saving bath.
- The meerkats on the island have lost all evolutionary fear of predators, allowing Richard Parker to slaughter them with zero resistance or flight response.
- The island is a living organism that physically reacts to the environment, tightening its weave in the sun and loosening during storms to absorb the impact of giant waves.
- Pi experiences a physical and spiritual restoration as he cleans the lifeboat and regains his strength through the island's abundant resources.
- The island's unique 'Gandhian' defense mechanism allows it to survive massive storms by absorbing the energy of waves rather than clashing with them.
He was moving through them, blazing a trail of murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, 'My turn! My turn! My turn!'
shore fish by the dozens, and not small fish either. Some were dorados that would have been unqualified feasts
on the lifeboat. They dwarfed the meerkats. It was incomprehensible to me how meerkats could catch such
fish.
It was as the meerkats were hauling the fish out of the pond, displaying real feats of teamwork, that I noticed
something curious: every fish, without exception, was already dead. Freshly dead. The meerkats were bringing
ashore dead fish they had not killed.
I kneeled by the pond, pushing aside several excited, wet meerkats. I touched the water. It was cooler than I'd
expected. There was a current that was bringing colder water from below. I cupped a little water in my hand
and brought it to my mouth. I took a sip.
It was fresh water. This explained how the fish had died-for, of course, place a saltwater fish in fresh water
and it will quickly become bloated and die. But what were seafaring fish doing in a freshwater pond? How had
they got there?
I went to another pond, making my way through the meerkats. It too was fresh. Another pond; the same. And
again with a fourth pond.
They were all freshwater ponds. Where had such quantities of fresh water come from, I asked myself. The
answer was obvious: from the algae. The algae naturally and continuously desalinated sea water, which was
why its core was salty while its outer surface was wet with fresh water: it was oozing the fresh water out. I did
not ask myself why the algae did this, or how, or where the salt went. My mind stopped asking such questions.
I simply laughed and jumped into a pond. I found it hard to stay at the surface of the water; I was still very
weak, and I had little fat on me to help me float. I held on to the edge of the pond. The effect of bathing in
pure, clean, salt-free water was more than I can put into words. After such a long time at sea, my skin was like
a hide and my hair was long, matted and as silky as a fly-catching strip. I felt even my soul had been corroded
by salt. So, under the gaze of a thousand meerkats, I soaked, allowing fresh water to dissolve every salt crystal
that had tainted me.
The meerkats looked away. They did it like one man, all of them turning in the same direction at exactly the
same time. I pulled myself out to see what it was. It was Richard Parker. He confirmed what I had suspected,
that these meerkats had gone for so many generations without predators that any notion of flight distance, of
flight, of plain fear, had been genetically weeded out of them. He was moving through them, blazing a trail of
murder and mayhem, devouring one meerkat after another, blood dripping from his mouth, and they, cheek to
jowl with a tiger, were jumping up and down on the spot, as if crying, "My turn! My turn! My turn!" I would
see this scene time and again. Nothing distracted the meerkats from their little lives of pond staring and algae
Page 146
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
nibbling. Whether Richard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder
of roaring, or slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness
ruled.
He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from
the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many-his pent-up hunting instinct was
lashing out with a vengeance.
He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment.
The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the
accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle remains, looked like.
The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boat for fear of leaving
a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or
from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff-the smells and the
smears-I rinsed with buckets of water.
That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats,
which he ate during the night.
I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and walking and
running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and unselfconscious, a source of
euphoria. My skin healed. My pains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life.
I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in
diameter, which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What I saw seemed to indicate that the shore
was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the same ridge, the same incline from
ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring the shore revealed
one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island itself, varied in height and density depending on the
weather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the
climb to the ridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting
several days triggered it. But it was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with
exposing less of the algae's surface to the sun's rays.
The converse phenomenon-the loosening of the island-was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more
evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf, so to speak, stretched out, and the algae
along the shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This loosening was brought on by overcast
weather and, faster still, by heavy seas.
I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted staying on it
during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant waves charging the
island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos-only to see each one melt away
as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every
wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the
ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds were the only indications that some great force was
passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and
went on their way. It was the strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the
resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the
elements did not exist.
Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air
The Gandhian Island
- Richard Parker indulges his hunting instincts by killing meerkats far beyond his nutritional needs, driven by a pent-up predatory urge.
- The narrator meticulously cleans the lifeboat of animal and human remains to reclaim a sense of order while avoiding direct contact with the tiger's territory.
- The island's algae-based structure is dynamic, physically tightening for water conservation in the heat and loosening during heavy weather.
- During a massive storm, the island demonstrates a unique resilience by absorbing the energy of giant waves rather than clashing with them.
- The narrator experiences a physical and spiritual rebirth, finding euphoria in his returning strength and the island's strange, desolate ecology.
In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting.
nibbling. Whether Richard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder
of roaring, or slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness
ruled.
He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from
the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many-his pent-up hunting instinct was
lashing out with a vengeance.
He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment.
The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the
accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle remains, looked like.
The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boat for fear of leaving
a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or
from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff-the smells and the
smears-I rinsed with buckets of water.
That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats,
which he ate during the night.
I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and walking and
running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and unselfconscious, a source of
euphoria. My skin healed. My pains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life.
I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in
diameter, which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What I saw seemed to indicate that the shore
was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the same ridge, the same incline from
ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring the shore revealed
one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island itself, varied in height and density depending on the
weather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the
climb to the ridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting
several days triggered it. But it was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with
exposing less of the algae's surface to the sun's rays.
The converse phenomenon-the loosening of the island-was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more
evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf, so to speak, stretched out, and the algae
along the shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This loosening was brought on by overcast
weather and, faster still, by heavy seas.
I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted staying on it
during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant waves charging the
island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos-only to see each one melt away
as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every
wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the
ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds were the only indications that some great force was
passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and
went on their way. It was the strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the
resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the
elements did not exist.
Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air
Page 147
The Living Algae Island
- Richard Parker indulges his hunting instinct by killing meerkats far beyond his nutritional needs, leaving the narrator to clean the gore from the lifeboat.
- The narrator experiences a physical and mental recovery, regaining his strength and finding euphoria in simple movements like running.
- The island is revealed to be a biological entity that physically shifts, tightening its algae weave for water conservation in the heat and loosening in the rain.
- During a massive storm, the island displays a unique 'Gandhian' resistance, absorbing the impact of giant waves without a clash or destruction.
- Despite the abundance of meerkats and algae, the narrator notes a strange and complete desolation in the island's stripped-down ecology.
In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting.
nibbling. Whether Richard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder
of roaring, or slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness
ruled.
He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from
the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many-his pent-up hunting instinct was
lashing out with a vengeance.
He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment.
The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the
accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle remains, looked like.
The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boat for fear of leaving
a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or
from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff-the smells and the
smears-I rinsed with buckets of water.
That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats,
which he ate during the night.
I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and walking and
running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and unselfconscious, a source of
euphoria. My skin healed. My pains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life.
I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in
diameter, which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What I saw seemed to indicate that the shore
was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the same ridge, the same incline from
ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring the shore revealed
one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island itself, varied in height and density depending on the
weather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the
climb to the ridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting
several days triggered it. But it was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with
exposing less of the algae's surface to the sun's rays.
The converse phenomenon-the loosening of the island-was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more
evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf, so to speak, stretched out, and the algae
along the shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This loosening was brought on by overcast
weather and, faster still, by heavy seas.
I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted staying on it
during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant waves charging the
island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos-only to see each one melt away
as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every
wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the
ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds were the only indications that some great force was
passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and
went on their way. It was the strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the
resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the
elements did not exist.
Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air
Page 147
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Gandhian Island
- Richard Parker indulges his hunting instincts by killing meerkats far beyond his nutritional needs, driven by a long-repressed urge to hunt.
- Pi experiences a physical and spiritual rebirth on the island, finding euphoria in his returning strength and the healing of his body.
- The island exhibits a biological responsiveness to weather, tightening its algae weave to conserve water in the heat and loosening during storms.
- The island possesses a unique 'Gandhian' defense mechanism, absorbing the impact of massive storm waves by offering no resistance.
- Pi discovers a stripped-down, desolate ecology where the trees and algae appear to be a single, integrated organism devoid of any other life forms besides meerkats.
In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting.
nibbling. Whether Richard Parker skulked up in masterly tiger fashion before landing upon them in a thunder
of roaring, or slouched by indifferently, it was all the same to them. They were not to be ruffled. Meekness
ruled.
He killed beyond his need. He killed meerkats that he did not eat. In animals, the urge to kill is separate from
the urge to eat. To go for so long without prey and suddenly to have so many-his pent-up hunting instinct was
lashing out with a vengeance.
He was far away. There was no danger to me. At least for the moment.
The next morning, after he had gone, I cleaned the lifeboat. It needed it badly. I won't describe what the
accumulation of human and animal skeletons, mixed in with innumerable fish and turtle remains, looked like.
The whole foul, disgusting mess went overboard. I didn't dare step onto the floor of the boat for fear of leaving
a tangible trace of my presence to Richard Parker, so the job had to be done with the gaff from the tarpaulin or
from the side of the boat, standing in the water. What I could not clean up with the gaff-the smells and the
smears-I rinsed with buckets of water.
That night he entered his new, clean den without comment. In his jaws were a number of dead meerkats,
which he ate during the night.
I spent the following days eating and drinking and bathing and observing the meerkats and walking and
running and resting and growing stronger. My running became smooth and unselfconscious, a source of
euphoria. My skin healed. My pains and aches left me. Put simply, I returned to life.
I explored the island. I tried to walk around it but gave up. I estimate that it was about six or seven miles in
diameter, which means a circumference of about twenty miles. What I saw seemed to indicate that the shore
was unvarying in its features. The same blinding greenness throughout, the same ridge, the same incline from
ridge to water, the same break in the monotony: a scraggly tree here and there. Exploring the shore revealed
one extraordinary thing: the algae, and therefore the island itself, varied in height and density depending on the
weather. On very hot days, the algae's weave became tight and dense, and the island increased in height; the
climb to the ridge became steeper and the ridge higher. It was not a quick process. Only a hot spell lasting
several days triggered it. But it was unmistakable. I believe it had to do with water conservation, with
exposing less of the algae's surface to the sun's rays.
The converse phenomenon-the loosening of the island-was faster, more dramatic, and the reasons for it more
evident. At such times the ridge came down, and the continental shelf, so to speak, stretched out, and the algae
along the shore became so slack that I tended to catch my feet in it. This loosening was brought on by overcast
weather and, faster still, by heavy seas.
I lived through a major storm while on the island, and after the experience, I would have trusted staying on it
during the worst hurricane. It was an awe-inspiring spectacle to sit in a tree and see giant waves charging the
island, seemingly preparing to ride up the ridge and unleash bedlam and chaos-only to see each one melt away
as if it had come upon quicksand. In this respect, the island was Gandhian: it resisted by not resisting. Every
wave vanished into the island without a clash, with only a little frothing and foaming. A tremor shaking the
ground and ripples wrinkling the surface of the ponds were the only indications that some great force was
passing through. And pass through it did: in the lee of the island, considerably diminished, waves emerged and
went on their way. It was the strangest sight, that, to see waves leaving a shoreline. The storm, and the
resulting minor earthquakes, did not perturb the meerkats in the least. They went about their business as if the
elements did not exist.
Harder to understand was the island's complete desolation. I never saw such a stripped-down ecology. The air
Page 147
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
of the place carried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind. The trees sheltered no birds. The
plains hid no rodents, no grubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave rise to no other trees, no shrubs,
no grasses, no flowers. The ponds harboured no freshwater fish. The seashore teemed with no weeds, no crabs,
no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the single, notable exception of the meerkats, there was not
the least foreign matter on the island, organic or inorganic. It was nothing but shining green algae and shining
green trees.
The trees were not parasites. I discovered this one day when I ate so much algae at the base of a small tree that
I exposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the algae, but rather joined
it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbiotic relationship with the algae, in a
giving-and-taking that was to their mutual advantage, or, simpler still, were an integral part of the algae. I
would guess that the latter was the case because the trees did not seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that an
independent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it has entered upon, would give up on so essential a
The Monolithic Algae Island
- The island is characterized by a total absence of biodiversity, lacking insects, birds, rodents, and marine life.
- Meerkats are the only foreign organisms present on the island, which otherwise consists solely of green algae and trees.
- The trees appear to be an integral part of the algae itself rather than separate parasitic or symbiotic organisms.
- The lack of reproductive organs like flowers or fruit suggests the trees are part of a single, massive vegetative entity.
- The ecosystem is described as a closed system of shining green matter with no inorganic debris like rocks or pebbles.
I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the algae, but rather joined it, became it.
of the place carried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind. The trees sheltered no birds. The
plains hid no rodents, no grubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave rise to no other trees, no shrubs,
no grasses, no flowers. The ponds harboured no freshwater fish. The seashore teemed with no weeds, no crabs,
no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the single, notable exception of the meerkats, there was not
the least foreign matter on the island, organic or inorganic. It was nothing but shining green algae and shining
green trees.
The trees were not parasites. I discovered this one day when I ate so much algae at the base of a small tree that
I exposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the algae, but rather joined
it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbiotic relationship with the algae, in a
giving-and-taking that was to their mutual advantage, or, simpler still, were an integral part of the algae. I
would guess that the latter was the case because the trees did not seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that an
independent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it has entered upon, would give up on so essential a
part of life as reproduction. The leaves' appetite for the sun, as testified by their abundance, their breadth and
The Floating Algae Island
- The island is a biological anomaly, devoid of all common life forms like insects, birds, or reptiles, consisting solely of meerkats and green algae.
- The narrator observes that the trees are not independent organisms but are likely integral, energy-gathering parts of a massive, symbiotic algae structure.
- The island is revealed to be a free-floating leviathan organism rather than a landmass rooted to the ocean floor, explaining the presence of deep-sea fish in its ponds.
- As Richard Parker regains his strength and health, his increasing territorial aggression and mating calls force the narrator to reassert dominance through training.
- A tense face-to-face encounter in the forest leads the narrator to realize he must resume his role as the tiger's master to ensure his own survival.
And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees.
of the place carried no flies, no butterflies, no bees, no insects of any kind. The trees sheltered no birds. The
plains hid no rodents, no grubs, no worms, no snakes, no scorpions; they gave rise to no other trees, no shrubs,
no grasses, no flowers. The ponds harboured no freshwater fish. The seashore teemed with no weeds, no crabs,
no crayfish, no coral, no pebbles, no rocks. With the single, notable exception of the meerkats, there was not
the least foreign matter on the island, organic or inorganic. It was nothing but shining green algae and shining
green trees.
The trees were not parasites. I discovered this one day when I ate so much algae at the base of a small tree that
I exposed its roots. I saw that the roots did not go their own independent way into the algae, but rather joined
it, became it. Which meant that these trees either lived in a symbiotic relationship with the algae, in a
giving-and-taking that was to their mutual advantage, or, simpler still, were an integral part of the algae. I
would guess that the latter was the case because the trees did not seem to bear flowers or fruit. I doubt that an
independent organism, however intimate the symbiosis it has entered upon, would give up on so essential a
part of life as reproduction. The leaves' appetite for the sun, as testified by their abundance, their breadth and
their super-chlorophyll greenness, made me suspect that the trees had primarily an energy-gathering function.
But this is conjecture.
There is one last observation I would like to make. It is based on intuition rather than hard evidence. It is this:
that the island was not an island in the conventional sense of the term-that is, a small landmass rooted to the
floor of the ocean-but was rather a free-floating organism, a ball of algae of leviathan proportions. And it is
my hunch that the ponds reached down to the sides of this huge, buoyant mass and opened onto the ocean,
which explained the otherwise inexplicable presence in them of dorados and other fish of the open seas.
It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lost the algae that I took away.
Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint of stuffing himself with meerkats, his weight went up,
his fur began to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look of old. He kept up his habit of returning to
the lifeboat at the end of every day. I always made sure I was there before him, copiously marking my territory
with urine so that he didn't forget who was who and what was whose. But he left at first light and roamed
further afield than I did; the island being the same all over, I generally stayed within one area. I saw very little
of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw how he raked the trees with his forepaws-great deep gouges
in the trunks, they were. And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as
spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female
was not in itself what troubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enough on the island to be thinking
about producing young. I worried that in this new condition he might not tolerate another male in his territory,
his night territory in particular, especially if his insistent cries went unanswered, as surely they would.
One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walking vigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I passed a
tree-and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us were startled. He hissed and reared up on his hind legs,
towering over me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stood frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and
shock. He dropped back on all fours and moved away. When he had gone three, four paces, he turned and
reared up again, growling this time. I continued to stand like a statue. He went another few paces and repeated
the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not a menace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breath and
stopped trembling, I brought the whistle to my mouth and started running after him. He had already gone a
good distance, but he was still within sight. My running was powerful. He turned, saw me, crouched-and then
bolted. I blew into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its sound would travel as far and wide as the cry
of a lonely tiger.
That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I came to the conclusion that I had to step into the circus
ring again.
The Floating Algae Island
- The narrator theorizes that the island is actually a massive, free-floating organism of algae rather than a traditional landmass.
- Richard Parker recovers his health and strength by consuming meerkats, leading to a return of his predatory instincts and territorial behavior.
- The tiger begins to exhibit signs of sexual maturity and territorial aggression, causing the narrator to fear for his own safety on the island.
- A chance encounter in the forest leads to a tense standoff where the narrator must reassert his dominance over the tiger using his whistle.
- The narrator concludes that he must resume his role as a circus trainer to maintain control over Richard Parker in this new environment.
And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees.
their super-chlorophyll greenness, made me suspect that the trees had primarily an energy-gathering function.
But this is conjecture.
There is one last observation I would like to make. It is based on intuition rather than hard evidence. It is this:
that the island was not an island in the conventional sense of the term-that is, a small landmass rooted to the
floor of the ocean-but was rather a free-floating organism, a ball of algae of leviathan proportions. And it is
my hunch that the ponds reached down to the sides of this huge, buoyant mass and opened onto the ocean,
which explained the otherwise inexplicable presence in them of dorados and other fish of the open seas.
It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lost the algae that I took away.
Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint of stuffing himself with meerkats, his weight went up,
his fur began to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look of old. He kept up his habit of returning to
the lifeboat at the end of every day. I always made sure I was there before him, copiously marking my territory
with urine so that he didn't forget who was who and what was whose. But he left at first light and roamed
further afield than I did; the island being the same all over, I generally stayed within one area. I saw very little
of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw how he raked the trees with his forepaws-great deep gouges
in the trunks, they were. And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as
spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female
was not in itself what troubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enough on the island to be thinking
about producing young. I worried that in this new condition he might not tolerate another male in his territory,
his night territory in particular, especially if his insistent cries went unanswered, as surely they would.
One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walking vigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I passed a
tree-and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us were startled. He hissed and reared up on his hind legs,
towering over me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stood frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and
shock. He dropped back on all fours and moved away. When he had gone three, four paces, he turned and
reared up again, growling this time. I continued to stand like a statue. He went another few paces and repeated
the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not a menace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breath and
stopped trembling, I brought the whistle to my mouth and started running after him. He had already gone a
good distance, but he was still within sight. My running was powerful. He turned, saw me, crouched-and then
bolted. I blew into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its sound would travel as far and wide as the cry
of a lonely tiger.
That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I came to the conclusion that I had to step into the circus
ring again.
Page 148
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Training the Leviathan Organism
- The narrator theorizes that the island is actually a massive, free-floating organism made of algae rather than a traditional landmass.
- Richard Parker recovers his health and strength, leading to increased territorial tension and spine-chilling displays of dominance.
- To maintain his status as the alpha, the narrator resumes a rigorous and dangerous training regimen using a whistle and meerkat rewards.
- Despite the tiger's compliance with jumping through hoops, the narrator decides to sleep in the trees to avoid a nocturnal confrontation.
And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees.
their super-chlorophyll greenness, made me suspect that the trees had primarily an energy-gathering function.
But this is conjecture.
There is one last observation I would like to make. It is based on intuition rather than hard evidence. It is this:
that the island was not an island in the conventional sense of the term-that is, a small landmass rooted to the
floor of the ocean-but was rather a free-floating organism, a ball of algae of leviathan proportions. And it is
my hunch that the ponds reached down to the sides of this huge, buoyant mass and opened onto the ocean,
which explained the otherwise inexplicable presence in them of dorados and other fish of the open seas.
It would all bear much further study, but unfortunately I lost the algae that I took away.
Just as I returned to life, so did Richard Parker. By dint of stuffing himself with meerkats, his weight went up,
his fur began to glisten again, and he returned to his healthy look of old. He kept up his habit of returning to
the lifeboat at the end of every day. I always made sure I was there before him, copiously marking my territory
with urine so that he didn't forget who was who and what was whose. But he left at first light and roamed
further afield than I did; the island being the same all over, I generally stayed within one area. I saw very little
of him during the day. And I grew nervous. I saw how he raked the trees with his forepaws-great deep gouges
in the trunks, they were. And I began to hear his hoarse roaring, that aaonh cry as rich as gold or honey and as
spine-chilling as the depths of an unsafe mine or a thousand angry bees. That he was searching for a female
was not in itself what troubled me; it was that it meant he was comfortable enough on the island to be thinking
about producing young. I worried that in this new condition he might not tolerate another male in his territory,
his night territory in particular, especially if his insistent cries went unanswered, as surely they would.
One day I was on a walk in the forest. I was walking vigorously, caught up in my own thoughts. I passed a
tree-and practically ran into Richard Parker. Both of us were startled. He hissed and reared up on his hind legs,
towering over me, his great paws ready to swat me down. I stood frozen to the spot, paralyzed with fear and
shock. He dropped back on all fours and moved away. When he had gone three, four paces, he turned and
reared up again, growling this time. I continued to stand like a statue. He went another few paces and repeated
the threat a third time. Satisfied that I was not a menace, he ambled off. As soon as I had caught my breath and
stopped trembling, I brought the whistle to my mouth and started running after him. He had already gone a
good distance, but he was still within sight. My running was powerful. He turned, saw me, crouched-and then
bolted. I blew into the whistle as hard as I could, wishing that its sound would travel as far and wide as the cry
of a lonely tiger.
That night, as he was resting two feet beneath me, I came to the conclusion that I had to step into the circus
ring again.
Page 148
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The major difficulty in training animals is that they operate either by instinct or by rote. The shortcut of
intelligence to make new associations that are not instinctive is minimally available. Therefore, imprinting in
an animal's mind the artificial connection that if it does a certain action, say, roll over, it will get a treat can be
achieved only by mind-numbing repetition. It is a slow process that depends as much on luck as on hard work,
all the more so when the animal is an adult. I blew into the whistle till my lungs hurt. I pounded my chest till it
was covered with bruises. I shouted "Hep! Hep! Hep!"-my tiger-language command to say "Do!"-thousands of
times. I tossed hundreds of meerkat morsels at him that I would gladly have eaten myself. The training of
tigers is no easy feat. They are considerably less flexible in their mental make-up than other animals that are
commonly trained in circuses and zoos-sea lions and chimpanzees, for example. But I don't want to take too
much credit for what I managed to do with Richard Parker. My good fortune, the fortune that saved my life,
was that he was not only a young adult but a pliable young adult, an omega animal. I was afraid that
conditions on the island might play against me, that with such an abundance of food and water and so much
space he might become relaxed and confident, less open to my influence. But he remained tense. I knew him
well enough to sense it. At night in the lifeboat he was unsettled and noisy. I assigned this tension to the new
environment of the island; any change, even positive, will make an animal tense. Whatever the cause, the
strain he was under meant that he continued to show a readiness to oblige; more, that he felt a need to oblige.
I trained him to jump through a hoop I made with thin branches. It was a simple routine of four jumps. Each
one earned him part of a meerkat. As he lumbered towards me, I first held the hoop at the end of my left arm,
some three feet off the ground. When he had leapt through it, and as he finished his run, I took hold of the
hoop with my right hand and, my back to him, commanded him to return and leap through it again. For the
third jump I knelt on the ground and held the hoop over my head. It was a nerve-racking experience to see him
come my way. I never lost the fear that he would not jump but attack me. Thankfully, he jumped every time.
After which I got up and tossed the hoop so that it rolled like a wheel. Richard Parker was supposed to follow
it and go through it one last time before it fell over. He was never very good at this last part of the act, either
because I failed to throw the hoop properly or because he clumsily ran into it. But at least he followed it,
which meant he got away from me. He was always filled with amazement when the hoop fell over. He would
look at it intently, as if it were some great fellow animal he had been running with that had collapsed
unexpectedly. He would stay next to it, sniffing it. I would throw him his last treat and move away.
Eventually I quit the boat. It seemed absurd to spend my nights in such cramped quarters with an animal who
was becoming roomy in his needs, when I could have an entire island. I decided the safe thing to do would be
to sleep in a tree. Richard Parker's nocturnal practice of sleeping in the lifeboat was never a law in my mind. It
would not be a good idea for me to be outside my territory, sleeping and defenceless on the ground, the one
time he decided to go for a midnight stroll.
So one day I left the boat with the net, a rope and some blankets. I sought out a handsome tree on the edge of
the forest and threw the rope over the lowest branch. My fitness was such that I had no problem pulling myself
up by my arms and climbing the tree. I found two solid branches that were level and close together, and I tied
the net to them. I returned at the end of the day.
Training the Omega Tiger
- The narrator describes the grueling, repetitive process of training Richard Parker, noting that tigers lack the mental flexibility of more common circus animals.
- Richard Parker's status as a 'pliable young adult' and an 'omega animal' is credited as the primary reason the narrator has survived their proximity.
- Despite the abundance of resources on the island, the tiger remains tense and unsettled, a state the narrator exploits to maintain his influence and command.
- Seeking safety and space, the narrator moves his sleeping quarters from the lifeboat to a tree, only to witness a sudden, frantic migration of meerkats at nightfall.
- The narrator experiences a moment of terror as thousands of meerkats swarm his tree, leading him to fear he might be killed by the tiny creatures after surviving a tiger.
It was a nerve-racking experience to see him come my way. I never lost the fear that he would not jump but attack me.
The major difficulty in training animals is that they operate either by instinct or by rote. The shortcut of
intelligence to make new associations that are not instinctive is minimally available. Therefore, imprinting in
an animal's mind the artificial connection that if it does a certain action, say, roll over, it will get a treat can be
achieved only by mind-numbing repetition. It is a slow process that depends as much on luck as on hard work,
all the more so when the animal is an adult. I blew into the whistle till my lungs hurt. I pounded my chest till it
was covered with bruises. I shouted "Hep! Hep! Hep!"-my tiger-language command to say "Do!"-thousands of
times. I tossed hundreds of meerkat morsels at him that I would gladly have eaten myself. The training of
tigers is no easy feat. They are considerably less flexible in their mental make-up than other animals that are
commonly trained in circuses and zoos-sea lions and chimpanzees, for example. But I don't want to take too
much credit for what I managed to do with Richard Parker. My good fortune, the fortune that saved my life,
was that he was not only a young adult but a pliable young adult, an omega animal. I was afraid that
conditions on the island might play against me, that with such an abundance of food and water and so much
space he might become relaxed and confident, less open to my influence. But he remained tense. I knew him
well enough to sense it. At night in the lifeboat he was unsettled and noisy. I assigned this tension to the new
environment of the island; any change, even positive, will make an animal tense. Whatever the cause, the
strain he was under meant that he continued to show a readiness to oblige; more, that he felt a need to oblige.
I trained him to jump through a hoop I made with thin branches. It was a simple routine of four jumps. Each
one earned him part of a meerkat. As he lumbered towards me, I first held the hoop at the end of my left arm,
some three feet off the ground. When he had leapt through it, and as he finished his run, I took hold of the
hoop with my right hand and, my back to him, commanded him to return and leap through it again. For the
third jump I knelt on the ground and held the hoop over my head. It was a nerve-racking experience to see him
come my way. I never lost the fear that he would not jump but attack me. Thankfully, he jumped every time.
After which I got up and tossed the hoop so that it rolled like a wheel. Richard Parker was supposed to follow
it and go through it one last time before it fell over. He was never very good at this last part of the act, either
because I failed to throw the hoop properly or because he clumsily ran into it. But at least he followed it,
which meant he got away from me. He was always filled with amazement when the hoop fell over. He would
look at it intently, as if it were some great fellow animal he had been running with that had collapsed
unexpectedly. He would stay next to it, sniffing it. I would throw him his last treat and move away.
Eventually I quit the boat. It seemed absurd to spend my nights in such cramped quarters with an animal who
was becoming roomy in his needs, when I could have an entire island. I decided the safe thing to do would be
to sleep in a tree. Richard Parker's nocturnal practice of sleeping in the lifeboat was never a law in my mind. It
would not be a good idea for me to be outside my territory, sleeping and defenceless on the ground, the one
time he decided to go for a midnight stroll.
So one day I left the boat with the net, a rope and some blankets. I sought out a handsome tree on the edge of
the forest and threw the rope over the lowest branch. My fitness was such that I had no problem pulling myself
up by my arms and climbing the tree. I found two solid branches that were level and close together, and I tied
the net to them. I returned at the end of the day.
I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattress when I detected a commotion among the
meerkats. I looked. I pushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every direction and as far as the horizon.
It was unmistakable. The meerkats were abandoning the ponds-indeed, the whole plain-and rapidly making for
the forest. An entire nation of meerkats was on the move, their backs arched and their feet a blur. I was
wondering what further surprise these animals held in store for me when I noticed with consternation that the
ones from the pond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were climbing up the trunk. The trunk was
disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats. I thought they were coming to attack me, that here was the
reason why Richard Parker slept in the lifeboat: during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless, but at
night, under their collective weight, they crushed their enemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To
survive for so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound
The Meerkat Migration
- The narrator observes a sudden and frantic mass movement of meerkats abandoning the ponds and the open plain.
- The entire population of meerkats begins a rapid ascent into the trees, including the one where the narrator is sheltered.
- The narrator experiences a moment of intense fear, suspecting the meerkats might be predatory or lethal at night.
- This behavior offers a potential explanation for why Richard Parker chooses to sleep in the lifeboat rather than on the island.
- The narrator reflects on the irony of surviving a Bengal tiger only to potentially be killed by small, docile creatures.
The trunk was disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats.
I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattress when I detected a commotion among the
meerkats. I looked. I pushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every direction and as far as the horizon.
It was unmistakable. The meerkats were abandoning the ponds-indeed, the whole plain-and rapidly making for
the forest. An entire nation of meerkats was on the move, their backs arched and their feet a blur. I was
wondering what further surprise these animals held in store for me when I noticed with consternation that the
ones from the pond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were climbing up the trunk. The trunk was
disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats. I thought they were coming to attack me, that here was the
reason why Richard Parker slept in the lifeboat: during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless, but at
night, under their collective weight, they crushed their enemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To
survive for so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound
Page 149
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Night of the Meerkats
- Pi witnesses a massive migration of meerkats as they abandon the plain at night to seek safety in the trees.
- Initially fearing an attack, Pi discovers the meerkats are merely seeking refuge and ends up sleeping in a crowded 'living fur blanket' of animals.
- The narrator observes a disturbing phenomenon where the ponds fill with thousands of dead fish, including a shark, rising to the surface under the moonlight.
- Despite their apparent hunger and excitement, the meerkats refuse to descend from the trees to eat the dead fish, suggesting a hidden danger on the ground.
- Pi establishes a routine of sleeping in the trees, finding the experience both comforting and physically messy due to the proximity of the animals.
To survive for so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound meerkats struck me as a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear.
I had just finished folding the blankets to make my mattress when I detected a commotion among the
meerkats. I looked. I pushed aside branches to see better. I looked in every direction and as far as the horizon.
It was unmistakable. The meerkats were abandoning the ponds-indeed, the whole plain-and rapidly making for
the forest. An entire nation of meerkats was on the move, their backs arched and their feet a blur. I was
wondering what further surprise these animals held in store for me when I noticed with consternation that the
ones from the pond closest to me had surrounded my tree and were climbing up the trunk. The trunk was
disappearing under a wave of determined meerkats. I thought they were coming to attack me, that here was the
reason why Richard Parker slept in the lifeboat: during the day the meerkats were docile and harmless, but at
night, under their collective weight, they crushed their enemies ruthlessly. I was both afraid and indignant. To
survive for so long in a lifeboat with a 450-pound Bengal tiger only to die up a tree at the hands of two-pound
Page 149
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
meerkats struck me as a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear.
They meant me no harm. They climbed up to me, over me, about me-and past me. They settled upon every
branch in the tree. It became laden with them. They even took over my bed. And the same as far as the eye
could see. They were climbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turning brown, an autumn that came
in a few minutes. Collectively, as they scampered by in droves to claim empty trees deeper into the forest, they
made more noise than a stampeding herd of elephants.
The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated.
From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitory with meerkats-will I be believed when I say that
life can take the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so that I could have a place in my own bed.
They snuggled up to me. Not a square inch of space was left free.
They settled down and stopped squeaking and chirping. Silence came to the tree. We fell asleep.
I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the
warmer parts of my body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck-and it must have been their
mother who had settled herself so contentedly on the side of my head-while others had wedged themselves in
my groin area.
They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as they had invaded it. It was the same with every tree
around. The plain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their day started filling the air. The tree looked
empty. And I felt empty, a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with the meerkats.
I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied the lifeboat of useful items and made myself a nice treetop
bedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I received from meerkats climbing over me. My only
complaint would be that animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me.
One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chattering and shaking. I sat up and looked in the direction
they were looking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The land was robbed of its colour. Everything
glowed strangely iin shades of black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver shapes were moving in it,
emerging from below and breaking the black surface of the water.
Fish. Dead fish. They were floatimg up from deep down. The pond-remember, forty feet across-was filling up
with all kinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black but silver. And from the way the surface kept
on being disturbed, it was evident that more dead fish were coming up.
By the time a dead shark quietly appeared, the meerkats were in a fury of excitement, shrieking like tropical
birds. The hysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. I wondered whether I was about to see
the sight of fish being hauled up trees.
Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None even made the first motions of going down. They did no
more than loudly express their frustration.
I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbing about all those dead fish.
I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over the meerkats' racket. At first light I was stirred from my
slumber by the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawning and stretching, I looked down at the
pond that had been the source of such fire and fluster the previous night.
The Meerkat Invasion
- A massive colony of meerkats suddenly swarms the forest, overwhelming the trees and even the narrator's bed.
- The narrator adapts to the overcrowding, eventually finding comfort in sleeping under a living blanket of meerkats.
- During a moonlit night, the pond mysteriously fills with thousands of dead fish and a shark rising to the surface.
- Despite their clear excitement and hunger, the meerkats refuse to descend from the trees to claim the dead fish.
- The narrator finds the nocturnal phenomenon and the meerkats' fearful reaction to the pond deeply sinister.
I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the warmer parts of my body.
meerkats struck me as a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear.
They meant me no harm. They climbed up to me, over me, about me-and past me. They settled upon every
branch in the tree. It became laden with them. They even took over my bed. And the same as far as the eye
could see. They were climbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turning brown, an autumn that came
in a few minutes. Collectively, as they scampered by in droves to claim empty trees deeper into the forest, they
made more noise than a stampeding herd of elephants.
The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated.
From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitory with meerkats-will I be believed when I say that
life can take the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so that I could have a place in my own bed.
They snuggled up to me. Not a square inch of space was left free.
They settled down and stopped squeaking and chirping. Silence came to the tree. We fell asleep.
I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the
warmer parts of my body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck-and it must have been their
mother who had settled herself so contentedly on the side of my head-while others had wedged themselves in
my groin area.
They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as they had invaded it. It was the same with every tree
around. The plain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their day started filling the air. The tree looked
empty. And I felt empty, a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with the meerkats.
I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied the lifeboat of useful items and made myself a nice treetop
bedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I received from meerkats climbing over me. My only
complaint would be that animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me.
One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chattering and shaking. I sat up and looked in the direction
they were looking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The land was robbed of its colour. Everything
glowed strangely iin shades of black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver shapes were moving in it,
emerging from below and breaking the black surface of the water.
Fish. Dead fish. They were floatimg up from deep down. The pond-remember, forty feet across-was filling up
with all kinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black but silver. And from the way the surface kept
on being disturbed, it was evident that more dead fish were coming up.
By the time a dead shark quietly appeared, the meerkats were in a fury of excitement, shrieking like tropical
birds. The hysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. I wondered whether I was about to see
the sight of fish being hauled up trees.
Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None even made the first motions of going down. They did no
more than loudly express their frustration.
I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbing about all those dead fish.
I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over the meerkats' racket. At first light I was stirred from my
slumber by the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawning and stretching, I looked down at the
pond that had been the source of such fire and fluster the previous night.
Page 150
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Meerkat Forest Mystery
- The narrator experiences a surreal overnight invasion as thousands of meerkats swarm the trees to sleep, covering him like a living fur blanket.
- A nocturnal phenomenon occurs where the island's ponds fill with thousands of dead fish and even a shark, appearing from the depths for no apparent reason.
- Despite their obvious hunger and excitement, the meerkats refuse to descend from the trees to eat the dead fish during the night, suggesting a hidden danger.
- The narrator discovers a dense arboreal city in the center of the forest where the canopy is so thick the meerkats never have to touch the ground.
- The mysterious disappearance of the dead fish by morning leaves the narrator confounded and searching for the secret of the island's ecosystem.
I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket.
meerkats struck me as a tragedy too unfair and too ridiculous to bear.
They meant me no harm. They climbed up to me, over me, about me-and past me. They settled upon every
branch in the tree. It became laden with them. They even took over my bed. And the same as far as the eye
could see. They were climbing every tree in sight. The entire forest was turning brown, an autumn that came
in a few minutes. Collectively, as they scampered by in droves to claim empty trees deeper into the forest, they
made more noise than a stampeding herd of elephants.
The plain, meanwhile, was becoming bare and depopulated.
From a bunk bed with a tiger to an overcrowded dormitory with meerkats-will I be believed when I say that
life can take the most surprising turns? I jostled with meerkats so that I could have a place in my own bed.
They snuggled up to me. Not a square inch of space was left free.
They settled down and stopped squeaking and chirping. Silence came to the tree. We fell asleep.
I woke up at dawn covered from head to toe in a living fur blanket. Some meerkittens had discovered the
warmer parts of my body. I had a tight, sweaty collar of them around my neck-and it must have been their
mother who had settled herself so contentedly on the side of my head-while others had wedged themselves in
my groin area.
They left the tree as briskly and as unceremoniously as they had invaded it. It was the same with every tree
around. The plain grew thick with meerkats, and the noises of their day started filling the air. The tree looked
empty. And I felt empty, a little. I had liked the experience of sleeping with the meerkats.
I began to sleep in the tree every night. I emptied the lifeboat of useful items and made myself a nice treetop
bedroom. I got used to the unintentional scratches I received from meerkats climbing over me. My only
complaint would be that animals higher up occasionally relieved themselves on me.
One night the meerkats woke me up. They were chattering and shaking. I sat up and looked in the direction
they were looking. The sky was cloudless and the moon full. The land was robbed of its colour. Everything
glowed strangely iin shades of black, grey and white. It was the pond. Silver shapes were moving in it,
emerging from below and breaking the black surface of the water.
Fish. Dead fish. They were floatimg up from deep down. The pond-remember, forty feet across-was filling up
with all kinds of dead fish until its surface was no longer black but silver. And from the way the surface kept
on being disturbed, it was evident that more dead fish were coming up.
By the time a dead shark quietly appeared, the meerkats were in a fury of excitement, shrieking like tropical
birds. The hysteria spread to the neighbouring trees. It was deafening. I wondered whether I was about to see
the sight of fish being hauled up trees.
Not a single meerkat went down to the pond. None even made the first motions of going down. They did no
more than loudly express their frustration.
I found the sight sinister. There was something disturbing about all those dead fish.
I lay down again and fought to go back to sleep over the meerkats' racket. At first light I was stirred from my
slumber by the hullabaloo they made trooping down the tree. Yawning and stretching, I looked down at the
pond that had been the source of such fire and fluster the previous night.
Page 150
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
It was empty. Or nearly. But it wasn't the work of the meerkats. They were just now diving in to get what was
left.
The fish had disappeared. I was confounded. Was I looking at the wrong pond? No, for sure it was that one.
Was I certain it was not the meerkats that had emptied it? Absolutely. I could hardly see them heaving an
entire shark out of water, let alone carrying it on their backs and disappearing with it. Could it be Richard
Parker? Possibly in part, but not an entire pond in one night.
It was a complete mystery. No amount of staring into the pond and at its deep green walls could explain to me
what had happened to the fish. The next night I looked, but no new fish came into the pond.
The answer to the mystery came sometime later, from deep within the forest.
The trees were larger in the centre of the forest and closely set. It remained clear below, there being no
underbrush of any kind, but overhead the canopy was so dense that the sky was quite blocked off, or, another
way of putting it, the sky was solidly green. The trees were so near one another that their branches grew into
each other's spaces; they touched and twisted around each other so that it was hard to tell where one tree ended
and the next began. I noted that they had clean, smooth trunks, with none of the countless tiny marks on their
bark made by climbing meerkats. I easily guessed the reason why: the meerkats could travel from one tree to
another without the need to climb up and down. I found, as proof of this, many trees on the perimeter of the
heart of the forest whose bark had been practically shredded. These trees were without a doubt the gates into a
meerkat arboreal city with more bustle in it than Calcutta.
It was here that I found the tree. It wasn't the largest in the forest, or in its dead centre, or remarkable in any
other way. It had good level branches, that's all. It would have made an excellent spot from which to see the
sky or take in the meerkats' nightlife.
The Mystery of the Fruit
- Pi discovers that the pond's fish have mysteriously vanished overnight, leaving him confounded about the island's nature.
- He explores the dense heart of the forest where the canopy is so thick the sky appears solidly green.
- The meerkats have created an arboreal city, traveling between interlocking branches to avoid climbing the smooth trunks.
- Pi finds a single tree bearing strange, light-weight fruit that is supported by dozens of protective, curled twigs.
- Driven by hunger and curiosity, he climbs the tree to harvest what he believes is a precious botanical discovery.
An entire islaand covered in barren trees but for one.
It was empty. Or nearly. But it wasn't the work of the meerkats. They were just now diving in to get what was
left.
The fish had disappeared. I was confounded. Was I looking at the wrong pond? No, for sure it was that one.
Was I certain it was not the meerkats that had emptied it? Absolutely. I could hardly see them heaving an
entire shark out of water, let alone carrying it on their backs and disappearing with it. Could it be Richard
Parker? Possibly in part, but not an entire pond in one night.
It was a complete mystery. No amount of staring into the pond and at its deep green walls could explain to me
what had happened to the fish. The next night I looked, but no new fish came into the pond.
The answer to the mystery came sometime later, from deep within the forest.
The trees were larger in the centre of the forest and closely set. It remained clear below, there being no
underbrush of any kind, but overhead the canopy was so dense that the sky was quite blocked off, or, another
way of putting it, the sky was solidly green. The trees were so near one another that their branches grew into
each other's spaces; they touched and twisted around each other so that it was hard to tell where one tree ended
and the next began. I noted that they had clean, smooth trunks, with none of the countless tiny marks on their
bark made by climbing meerkats. I easily guessed the reason why: the meerkats could travel from one tree to
another without the need to climb up and down. I found, as proof of this, many trees on the perimeter of the
heart of the forest whose bark had been practically shredded. These trees were without a doubt the gates into a
meerkat arboreal city with more bustle in it than Calcutta.
It was here that I found the tree. It wasn't the largest in the forest, or in its dead centre, or remarkable in any
other way. It had good level branches, that's all. It would have made an excellent spot from which to see the
sky or take in the meerkats' nightlife.
I can tell you exacctly what day I came upon the tree: it was the day before I left the island.
I noticed the tree because it seemed to have fruit. Whereas elsewhere the forest canopy was uniformly green,
these fruit stood out black against green. The branches holding them were twisted in odd ways. I looked
intently. An entire islaand covered in barren trees but for one. And not even all of one. The fruit grew from
only one small part of the tree. I thought that perhaps I had come upon the forest equivalent of a queen bee,
and I wondered whether this algae would ever cease to amaze me with its botainical strangeness.
I wanted to try the fruit, but the tree was too high. So I returned with a rope. If the algae was delicious, what
would its fruit be like?
I looped the rope; around the lowest limb of the tree and, bough by bough, branch by branch, made my way to
the small, preciouis orchard.
Up, close the fruit were dull green. They were about the size and shape of oranges. Each was at the centre of a
number of twigs that were tightly curled around it-to protect it, I supposed. As I got closer, I could see another
purpose to these curled twigs: support. The fruit had not one stem, but dozens. Their surfaces were studded
with sterns that connected them to the surrounding twigs. These fruit must surely be heavy and juicy, I
thought. I got close.
I reached with a hand and took hold of one. I was disappointed at how light it felt. It weighed hardly anything.
I pulled at it, plucking it from all its stems.
I made myself comfortable on a sturdy branch, my back to the trunk of the tree. Above me stood a shifting
roof of green leaves that let in shafts of sunlight. All round, for as far as I could see, hanging in the air, were
Page 151
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Island's Dark Secret
- Pi discovers a unique tree bearing black fruit amidst the green canopy of the mysterious algae island.
- He climbs the tree with a rope, initially believing the island is a paradise that provides for all his physical needs.
- Upon peeling back the layers of the fruit, he finds it is actually a dense ball of leaves rather than a botanical food source.
- The discovery of human teeth at the center of the fruit reveals the island's true, predatory nature and forces Pi to reconsider his stay.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster. A human tooth.
I noticed the tree because it seemed to have fruit. Whereas elsewhere the forest canopy was uniformly green,
these fruit stood out black against green. The branches holding them were twisted in odd ways. I looked
intently. An entire islaand covered in barren trees but for one. And not even all of one. The fruit grew from
only one small part of the tree. I thought that perhaps I had come upon the forest equivalent of a queen bee,
and I wondered whether this algae would ever cease to amaze me with its botainical strangeness.
I wanted to try the fruit, but the tree was too high. So I returned with a rope. If the algae was delicious, what
would its fruit be like?
I looped the rope; around the lowest limb of the tree and, bough by bough, branch by branch, made my way to
the small, preciouis orchard.
Up, close the fruit were dull green. They were about the size and shape of oranges. Each was at the centre of a
number of twigs that were tightly curled around it-to protect it, I supposed. As I got closer, I could see another
purpose to these curled twigs: support. The fruit had not one stem, but dozens. Their surfaces were studded
with sterns that connected them to the surrounding twigs. These fruit must surely be heavy and juicy, I
thought. I got close.
I reached with a hand and took hold of one. I was disappointed at how light it felt. It weighed hardly anything.
I pulled at it, plucking it from all its stems.
I made myself comfortable on a sturdy branch, my back to the trunk of the tree. Above me stood a shifting
roof of green leaves that let in shafts of sunlight. All round, for as far as I could see, hanging in the air, were
Page 151
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
the twisting and turning roads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran through the trees. I was keenly
curious. I examined the fruit.
Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it I might haave lived for years-why, for the rest of my
life-on that island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to return to the lifeboat and to the suffering and
deprivation I had endured on it-nothing! What reaison could I have to leave the island? Were my physical
needs not met here? Was there not more fresh water than I could drink in all my lifetime? More algae than I
could eat? And when I yearned for variety, more meerkats and fish than I could ever desire? If the island
floated and moved, might it not move in the right direction? Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that
brought me to land? In the meantime, did I not have these delightful meerkats to keep me company? And
wastn't Richard Parker still in need of improving his fourth jump? The thought of leaving the island had not
crossed my mind once since I had arrived. It had been many weeks now-I couldn't say how many exactly-and
they would stretch on. I was certain about that.
How wrong I was.
If that fruit had a seed, it was the seed of my departure.
The fruit was not a fruit. It was a dense accumulation of leaves glued together in a ball. The dozens of stems
were dozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf to peel off.
After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stems and were flatly glued to the ball. I used my
fingernails to catch their edges and pull them off. Sheath after sheath of leaf lifted, like the skins off an onion.
I could simply have ripped the "fruit" apart-I still call it that for lack of a better word-but I chose to satisfy my
curiosity in a measured way.
It shrunk from the size of an orange to that of a mandarin. My lap and the branches below were covered with
thin, soft leaf peelings.
It was now the size of a rambutan.
I still get shivers in my spine when I think of it.
The size of a cherry.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster.
A human tooth.
A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finely pierced with holes.
The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at the other fruit.
Each contained a tooth.
One a canine.
Another a premolar.
Here an incisor.
The Island's Dark Secret
- The narrator reflects on his initial desire to stay on the island forever, believing all his physical and social needs were met.
- He describes the island as a potential 'vegetable ship' that might eventually drift toward land and safety.
- Driven by curiosity, he begins to peel back the layers of a strange, ball-like fruit found in the trees.
- The process of peeling the leaves reveals a horrifying discovery hidden at the center of the vegetation.
- He finds that every piece of fruit on the tree contains a different human tooth, including molars, canines, and incisors.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster.
the twisting and turning roads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran through the trees. I was keenly
curious. I examined the fruit.
Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it I might haave lived for years-why, for the rest of my
life-on that island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to return to the lifeboat and to the suffering and
deprivation I had endured on it-nothing! What reaison could I have to leave the island? Were my physical
needs not met here? Was there not more fresh water than I could drink in all my lifetime? More algae than I
could eat? And when I yearned for variety, more meerkats and fish than I could ever desire? If the island
floated and moved, might it not move in the right direction? Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that
brought me to land? In the meantime, did I not have these delightful meerkats to keep me company? And
wastn't Richard Parker still in need of improving his fourth jump? The thought of leaving the island had not
crossed my mind once since I had arrived. It had been many weeks now-I couldn't say how many exactly-and
they would stretch on. I was certain about that.
How wrong I was.
If that fruit had a seed, it was the seed of my departure.
The fruit was not a fruit. It was a dense accumulation of leaves glued together in a ball. The dozens of stems
were dozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf to peel off.
After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stems and were flatly glued to the ball. I used my
fingernails to catch their edges and pull them off. Sheath after sheath of leaf lifted, like the skins off an onion.
I could simply have ripped the "fruit" apart-I still call it that for lack of a better word-but I chose to satisfy my
curiosity in a measured way.
It shrunk from the size of an orange to that of a mandarin. My lap and the branches below were covered with
thin, soft leaf peelings.
It was now the size of a rambutan.
I still get shivers in my spine when I think of it.
The size of a cherry.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster.
A human tooth.
A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finely pierced with holes.
The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at the other fruit.
Each contained a tooth.
One a canine.
Another a premolar.
Here an incisor.
Page 152
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Carnivorous Island
- Pi discovers that the mysterious fruit on the island is actually a dense ball of leaves containing a human tooth at its center.
- The realization that the island is home to a full set of thirty-two human teeth reveals the tragic fate of a previous castaway.
- Pi tests the ground at night and discovers that the algae turns highly acidic after sunset, causing searing pain to his feet.
- The island is revealed to be a carnivorous organism that traps and digests fish in its ponds and eventually consumes any humans who die there.
- Horrified by the discovery that the island offers only a temporary and deadly sanctuary, Pi understands he must leave to survive.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster. A human tooth.
the twisting and turning roads of a great suspended city. A pleasant breeze ran through the trees. I was keenly
curious. I examined the fruit.
Ah, how I wish that moment had never been! But for it I might haave lived for years-why, for the rest of my
life-on that island. Nothing, I thought, could ever push me to return to the lifeboat and to the suffering and
deprivation I had endured on it-nothing! What reaison could I have to leave the island? Were my physical
needs not met here? Was there not more fresh water than I could drink in all my lifetime? More algae than I
could eat? And when I yearned for variety, more meerkats and fish than I could ever desire? If the island
floated and moved, might it not move in the right direction? Might it not turn out to be a vegetable ship that
brought me to land? In the meantime, did I not have these delightful meerkats to keep me company? And
wastn't Richard Parker still in need of improving his fourth jump? The thought of leaving the island had not
crossed my mind once since I had arrived. It had been many weeks now-I couldn't say how many exactly-and
they would stretch on. I was certain about that.
How wrong I was.
If that fruit had a seed, it was the seed of my departure.
The fruit was not a fruit. It was a dense accumulation of leaves glued together in a ball. The dozens of stems
were dozens of leaf stems. Each stem that I pulled caused a leaf to peel off.
After a few layers I came to leaves that had lost their stems and were flatly glued to the ball. I used my
fingernails to catch their edges and pull them off. Sheath after sheath of leaf lifted, like the skins off an onion.
I could simply have ripped the "fruit" apart-I still call it that for lack of a better word-but I chose to satisfy my
curiosity in a measured way.
It shrunk from the size of an orange to that of a mandarin. My lap and the branches below were covered with
thin, soft leaf peelings.
It was now the size of a rambutan.
I still get shivers in my spine when I think of it.
The size of a cherry.
And then it came to light, an unspeakable pearl at the heart of a green oyster.
A human tooth.
A molar, to be exact. The surface stained green and finely pierced with holes.
The feeling of horror came slowly. I had time to pick at the other fruit.
Each contained a tooth.
One a canine.
Another a premolar.
Here an incisor.
Page 152
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
There another molar.
Thirty-two teeth. A complete human set. Not one tooth missing.
Understanding dawned upon me.
I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. I simply shuddered and left the tree.
I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They were all bad.
That night, in bed in my usual tree, I tested my conclusion. I took hold of a meerkat and dropped it from the
branch.
It squeaked as it fell through the air. When it touched the ground, it instantly made for the tree.
With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next to me. There it began to lick its paws vigorously. It
seemed much discomforted. It panted heavily.
I could have left it at that. But I wanted to know for myself. I climbed down and took hold of the rope. I had
made knots in it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom of the tree, I brought my feet to within
an inch of the ground. I hesitated.
I let go.
At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot up through my feet. I shrieked. I thought I would fall over.
I managed to take hold of the rope and pull myself off the ground. I frantically rubbed the soles of my feet
against the tree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to my branch. I soaked my feet in the bucket
of water next to my bed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and killed two meerkats and tried to
soothe the pain with their blood and innards. Still my feet burned. They burned all night. I couldn't sleep for it,
and from the anxiety.
The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearance of the fish in the pond. The island attracted
saltwater fish into its subterranean tunnels-how, I don't know; perhaps fish ate the algae as gluttonously as I
did. They became trapped. Did they lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea close off? Did the water
change salinity so subtly that it was too late by the time the fish realized it? Whatever the case, they found
themselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up to the surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the
meerkats. At night, by some chemical process unknown to me but obviously inhibited by sunlight, the
predatory algae turned highly acidic and the ponds became vats of acid that digested the fish. This was why
Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. This was why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I
had never seen anything but algae on the island.
And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me. How much
time had he-or was it she?-spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city
with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed? How much hope come to
nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much loneliness endured? How much
hopelessness taken on? And after all that, what of it? What to show for it?
Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket. The person must have died in the tree. Was it illness?
Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has food, water and shelter?
The trees were carnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safe enough to stay in for the night while
the rest of the island seethed. But once the person had died and stopped moving, the tree must have slowly
wrapped itself around the body and digested it, the very bones leached of nutrients until they vanished. In
The Carnivorous Island
- The protagonist discovers a full set of human teeth within a tree, leading to the horrifying realization that the island is predatory.
- A nighttime experiment reveals that the island's ground becomes highly acidic after dark, causing searing pain to anything touching it.
- The island functions as a giant digestive system, using chemical processes to turn its freshwater ponds into vats of acid that dissolve trapped fish.
- The trees provide a safe haven from the ground's acidity, but they eventually consume the bodies of those who die within their branches.
- The discovery of the previous inhabitant's remains shatters the protagonist's hope, transforming the island from a sanctuary into a treacherous trap.
The radiant promise it offered during the day was replaced in my heart by all the treachery it delivered at night.
There another molar.
Thirty-two teeth. A complete human set. Not one tooth missing.
Understanding dawned upon me.
I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. I simply shuddered and left the tree.
I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They were all bad.
That night, in bed in my usual tree, I tested my conclusion. I took hold of a meerkat and dropped it from the
branch.
It squeaked as it fell through the air. When it touched the ground, it instantly made for the tree.
With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next to me. There it began to lick its paws vigorously. It
seemed much discomforted. It panted heavily.
I could have left it at that. But I wanted to know for myself. I climbed down and took hold of the rope. I had
made knots in it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom of the tree, I brought my feet to within
an inch of the ground. I hesitated.
I let go.
At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot up through my feet. I shrieked. I thought I would fall over.
I managed to take hold of the rope and pull myself off the ground. I frantically rubbed the soles of my feet
against the tree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to my branch. I soaked my feet in the bucket
of water next to my bed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and killed two meerkats and tried to
soothe the pain with their blood and innards. Still my feet burned. They burned all night. I couldn't sleep for it,
and from the anxiety.
The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearance of the fish in the pond. The island attracted
saltwater fish into its subterranean tunnels-how, I don't know; perhaps fish ate the algae as gluttonously as I
did. They became trapped. Did they lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea close off? Did the water
change salinity so subtly that it was too late by the time the fish realized it? Whatever the case, they found
themselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up to the surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the
meerkats. At night, by some chemical process unknown to me but obviously inhibited by sunlight, the
predatory algae turned highly acidic and the ponds became vats of acid that digested the fish. This was why
Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. This was why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I
had never seen anything but algae on the island.
And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me. How much
time had he-or was it she?-spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city
with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed? How much hope come to
nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much loneliness endured? How much
hopelessness taken on? And after all that, what of it? What to show for it?
Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket. The person must have died in the tree. Was it illness?
Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has food, water and shelter?
The trees were carnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safe enough to stay in for the night while
the rest of the island seethed. But once the person had died and stopped moving, the tree must have slowly
wrapped itself around the body and digested it, the very bones leached of nutrients until they vanished. In
Page 153
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
time, even the teeth would have disappeared.
I looked around at the algae. Bitterness welled up in me. The radiant promise it offered during the day was
replaced in my heart by all the treachery it delivered at night.
I muttered, "Nothing but teeth left! TEETH!"
The Carnivorous Island
- Pi discovers a full set of human teeth inside a tree, leading to the horrifying realization that the island is a predatory organism.
- A painful experiment confirms that the algae becomes highly acidic at night, explaining why the animals and the tiger seek refuge every evening.
- The narrator reflects on the tragic fate of a previous castaway who was slowly digested by the island after their spirit finally broke.
- Rejecting a life of physical comfort at the cost of spiritual death, Pi gathers supplies and chooses to return to the open sea with Richard Parker.
The radiant promise it offered during the day was replaced in my heart by all the treachery it delivered at night.
There another molar.
Thirty-two teeth. A complete human set. Not one tooth missing.
Understanding dawned upon me.
I did not scream. I think only in movies is horror vocal. I simply shuddered and left the tree.
I spent the day in turmoil, weighing my options. They were all bad.
That night, in bed in my usual tree, I tested my conclusion. I took hold of a meerkat and dropped it from the
branch.
It squeaked as it fell through the air. When it touched the ground, it instantly made for the tree.
With typical innocence it returned to the spot right next to me. There it began to lick its paws vigorously. It
seemed much discomforted. It panted heavily.
I could have left it at that. But I wanted to know for myself. I climbed down and took hold of the rope. I had
made knots in it to make my climbing easier. When I was at the bottom of the tree, I brought my feet to within
an inch of the ground. I hesitated.
I let go.
At first I felt nothing. Suddenly a searing pain shot up through my feet. I shrieked. I thought I would fall over.
I managed to take hold of the rope and pull myself off the ground. I frantically rubbed the soles of my feet
against the tree trunk. It helped, but not enough. I climbed back to my branch. I soaked my feet in the bucket
of water next to my bed. I wiped my feet with leaves. I took the knife and killed two meerkats and tried to
soothe the pain with their blood and innards. Still my feet burned. They burned all night. I couldn't sleep for it,
and from the anxiety.
The island was carnivorous. This explained the disappearance of the fish in the pond. The island attracted
saltwater fish into its subterranean tunnels-how, I don't know; perhaps fish ate the algae as gluttonously as I
did. They became trapped. Did they lose their way? Did the openings onto the sea close off? Did the water
change salinity so subtly that it was too late by the time the fish realized it? Whatever the case, they found
themselves trapped in fresh water and died. Some floated up to the surface of the ponds, the scraps that fed the
meerkats. At night, by some chemical process unknown to me but obviously inhibited by sunlight, the
predatory algae turned highly acidic and the ponds became vats of acid that digested the fish. This was why
Richard Parker returned to the boat every night. This was why the meerkats slept in the trees. This was why I
had never seen anything but algae on the island.
And this explained the teeth. Some poor lost soul had arrived on these terrible shores before me. How much
time had he-or was it she?-spent here? Weeks? Months? Years? How many forlorn hours in the arboreal city
with only meerkats for company? How many dreams of a happy life dashed? How much hope come to
nothing? How much stored-up conversation that died unsaid? How much loneliness endured? How much
hopelessness taken on? And after all that, what of it? What to show for it?
Nothing but some enamel, like small change in a pocket. The person must have died in the tree. Was it illness?
Injury? Depression? How long does it take for a broken spirit to kill a body that has food, water and shelter?
The trees were carnivorous too, but at a much lower level of acidity, safe enough to stay in for the night while
the rest of the island seethed. But once the person had died and stopped moving, the tree must have slowly
wrapped itself around the body and digested it, the very bones leached of nutrients until they vanished. In
Page 153
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
time, even the teeth would have disappeared.
I looked around at the algae. Bitterness welled up in me. The radiant promise it offered during the day was
replaced in my heart by all the treachery it delivered at night.
I muttered, "Nothing but teeth left! TEETH!"
By the time morning came, my grim decision was taken. I preferred to set off and perish in search of my own
kind than to live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual death on this murderous island. I filled my
stores with fresh water and I drank like a camel. I ate algae throughout the day until my stomach could take no
more. I killed and skinned as many meerkats as would fit in the locker and on the floor of the lifeboat. I reaped
dead fish from the ponds. With the hatchet I hacked off a large mass of algae and worked a rope through it,
which I tied to the boat.
I could not abandon Richard Parker. To leave him would mean to kill him. He would not survive the first
night. Alone in my lifeboat at sunset I would know that he was burning alive. Or that he had thrown himself in
the sea, where he would drown. I waited for his return. I knew he would not be late.
When he was aboard, I pushed us off. For a few hours the currents kept us near the island. The noises of the
sea bothered me. And I was no longer used to the rocking motions of the boat. The night went by slowly.
In the morning the island was gone, as was the mass of algae we had been towing. As soon as night had fallen,
the algae had dissolved the rope with its acid.
The sea was heavy, the sky grey.
Departure and Deliverance
- Pi decides to leave the carnivorous island, choosing the risk of death at sea over a 'spiritual death' in a place of deceptive comfort.
- Despite the danger he poses, Pi refuses to abandon Richard Parker, recognizing that the tiger would perish alone on the island.
- The protagonist reflects on how extreme suffering and desperation naturally drive the human mind to seek solace in spiritual elevation and God.
- After a grueling journey of endurance, the lifeboat finally reaches the coast of Mexico, surfing through dangerous waves to hit the sand.
I preferred to set off and perish in search of my own kind than to live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual death on this murderous island.
By the time morning came, my grim decision was taken. I preferred to set off and perish in search of my own
kind than to live a lonely half-life of physical comfort and spiritual death on this murderous island. I filled my
stores with fresh water and I drank like a camel. I ate algae throughout the day until my stomach could take no
more. I killed and skinned as many meerkats as would fit in the locker and on the floor of the lifeboat. I reaped
dead fish from the ponds. With the hatchet I hacked off a large mass of algae and worked a rope through it,
which I tied to the boat.
I could not abandon Richard Parker. To leave him would mean to kill him. He would not survive the first
night. Alone in my lifeboat at sunset I would know that he was burning alive. Or that he had thrown himself in
the sea, where he would drown. I waited for his return. I knew he would not be late.
When he was aboard, I pushed us off. For a few hours the currents kept us near the island. The noises of the
sea bothered me. And I was no longer used to the rocking motions of the boat. The night went by slowly.
In the morning the island was gone, as was the mass of algae we had been towing. As soon as night had fallen,
the algae had dissolved the rope with its acid.
The sea was heavy, the sky grey.
CHAPTER 93
I grew weary of my situation, as pointless as the weather. But life would not leave me. The rest of this story is
nothing but grief, ache and endurance.
High calls low and low calls high. I tell you, if you were in such dire straits as I was, you too would elevate
your thoughts. The lower you are, the higher your mind will want to soar. It was natural that, bereft and
desperate as I was, in the throes of unremitting suffering, I should turn to God.
CHAPTER 94
When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weak I barely had the strength to be happy about it. We
had great difficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. I streamed the sea anchors-what was left
of them-full open to keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them as soon as we began riding a crest.
In this way, streaming and tripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It was dangerous. But we caught one
wave at just the right point and it carried us a great distance, past the high, collapsing walls of water. I tripped
the anchors a last time and we were pushed in the rest of the way. The boat hissed to a halt against the sand.
I let myself down the side. I was afraid to let go, afraid that so close to deliverance, in two feet of water, I
would drown. I looked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave me one of my last images of Richard
Page 154
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Bungled Farewell
- Pi and Richard Parker finally reach the shores of Mexico after their long ordeal at sea.
- Upon landing, the tiger immediately leaps from the boat and disappears into the jungle without a single backward glance.
- Pi is rescued by a group of locals but finds himself devastated by the lack of closure with his feline companion.
- The narrative reflects on the human need for order and the emotional pain caused by unfinished endings and unsaid words.
- Pi expresses deep gratitude toward the tiger, acknowledging that the animal's presence was the primary reason for his survival.
I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow.
When we reached land, Mexico to be exact, I was so weak I barely had the strength to be happy about it. We
had great difficulty landing. The lifeboat nearly capsized in the surf. I streamed the sea anchors-what was left
of them-full open to keep us perpendicular to the waves, and I tripped them as soon as we began riding a crest.
In this way, streaming and tripping the anchors, we surfed in to shore. It was dangerous. But we caught one
wave at just the right point and it carried us a great distance, past the high, collapsing walls of water. I tripped
the anchors a last time and we were pushed in the rest of the way. The boat hissed to a halt against the sand.
I let myself down the side. I was afraid to let go, afraid that so close to deliverance, in two feet of water, I
would drown. I looked ahead to see how far I had to go. The glance gave me one of my last images of Richard
Page 154
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the
air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from
there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his
mind and spun around. He passed directly in front of me on his way to the right. He didn't look at me. He ran a
hundred yards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several
times. At the edge of the jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He
would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing
of the sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful,
fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life.
I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family,
but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn't. This beach, so soft, firm and
vast, was like the cheek of God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasure and a mouth was
smiling at having me there.
After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or
seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their noses and mouths. I wondered what was wrong
with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat onto the sand. They carried me
away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they wrenched from my hand and threw away.
I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it
the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard
Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who
believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. For
example-I wonder-could you tell my jumbled story in exactly one hundred chapters, not one more, not one
less? I'll tell you, that's one thing I hate about my nickname, the way that number runs on forever. It's
important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you
should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this
day. I wish so much that I'd had one last look at him in the lifeboat, that I'd provoked him a little, so that I was
on his mind. I wish I had said to him then-yes, I know, to a tiger, but still-I wish I had said, "Richard Parker,
it's over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn't have
done it without you. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life.
And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of your life; now you will
know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not your
friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always
be with me, in my heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker,
A Botched Farewell
- Richard Parker leaps from the lifeboat and enters the jungle without a single backward glance at the narrator.
- The narrator reaches the shore and experiences a profound sense of abandonment, feeling orphaned by both the tiger and God.
- Human rescuers find the narrator on the beach, but their arrival is overshadowed by the emotional pain of the tiger's departure.
- The narrator reflects on the necessity of order and form, expressing deep regret over the lack of a proper conclusion to their relationship.
- A hypothetical final speech reveals the narrator's immense gratitude toward the tiger for keeping him alive during the ordeal.
Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful, fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life.
Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the
air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from
there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his
mind and spun around. He passed directly in front of me on his way to the right. He didn't look at me. He ran a
hundred yards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several
times. At the edge of the jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He
would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing
of the sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful,
fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life.
I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family,
but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn't. This beach, so soft, firm and
vast, was like the cheek of God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasure and a mouth was
smiling at having me there.
After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or
seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their noses and mouths. I wondered what was wrong
with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat onto the sand. They carried me
away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they wrenched from my hand and threw away.
I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it
the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard
Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who
believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. For
example-I wonder-could you tell my jumbled story in exactly one hundred chapters, not one more, not one
less? I'll tell you, that's one thing I hate about my nickname, the way that number runs on forever. It's
important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you
should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this
day. I wish so much that I'd had one last look at him in the lifeboat, that I'd provoked him a little, so that I was
on his mind. I wish I had said to him then-yes, I know, to a tiger, but still-I wish I had said, "Richard Parker,
it's over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn't have
done it without you. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life.
And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of your life; now you will
know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not your
friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always
be with me, in my heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker,
farewell. God be with you."
The Bungled Farewell
- Richard Parker leaps from the lifeboat and disappears into the Mexican jungle without a single backward glance at Pi.
- Pi is rescued by local villagers who provide him with food and care, though he is initially overwhelmed by their presence.
- The narrator reflects on the deep emotional pain caused by the lack of a formal goodbye with the tiger who kept him alive.
- The ordeal concludes with Pi being transported through a series of official channels to a new life in Canada.
- Pi expresses profound gratitude to the many people who helped him transition from the beach to the University of Toronto.
I was weeping because Richard Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell.
Parker, for at that precise moment he jumped over me. I saw his body, so immeasurably vital, stretched in the
air above me, a fleeting, furred rainbow. He landed in the water, his back legs splayed, his tail high, and from
there, in a few hops, he reached the beach. He went to the left, his paws gouging the wet sand, but changed his
mind and spun around. He passed directly in front of me on his way to the right. He didn't look at me. He ran a
hundred yards or so along the shore before turning in. His gait was clumsy and uncoordinated. He fell several
times. At the edge of the jungle, he stopped. I was certain he would turn my way. He would look at me. He
would flatten his ears. He would growl. In some such way, he would conclude our relationship. He did nothing
of the sort. He only looked fixedly into the jungle. Then Richard Parker, companion of my torment, awful,
fierce thing that kept me alive, moved forward and disappeared forever from my life.
I struggled to shore and fell upon the sand. I looked about. I was truly alone, orphaned not only of my family,
but now of Richard Parker, and nearly, I thought, of God. Of course, I wasn't. This beach, so soft, firm and
vast, was like the cheek of God, and somewhere two eyes were glittering with pleasure and a mouth was
smiling at having me there.
After some hours a member of my own species found me. He left and returned with a group. They were six or
seven. They came up to me with their hands covering their noses and mouths. I wondered what was wrong
with them. They spoke to me in a strange tongue. They pulled the lifeboat onto the sand. They carried me
away. The one piece of turtle meat I had brought from the boat they wrenched from my hand and threw away.
I wept like a child. It was not because I was overcome at having survived my ordeal, though I was. Nor was it
the presence of my brothers and sisters, though that too was very moving. I was weeping because Richard
Parker had left me so unceremoniously. What a terrible thing it is to botch a farewell. I am a person who
believes in form, in the harmony of order. Where we can, we must give things a meaningful shape. For
example-I wonder-could you tell my jumbled story in exactly one hundred chapters, not one more, not one
less? I'll tell you, that's one thing I hate about my nickname, the way that number runs on forever. It's
important in life to conclude things properly. Only then can you let go. Otherwise you are left with words you
should have said but never did, and your heart is heavy with remorse. That bungled goodbye hurts me to this
day. I wish so much that I'd had one last look at him in the lifeboat, that I'd provoked him a little, so that I was
on his mind. I wish I had said to him then-yes, I know, to a tiger, but still-I wish I had said, "Richard Parker,
it's over. We have survived. Can you believe it? I owe you more gratitude than I can express. I couldn't have
done it without you. I would like to say it formally: Richard Parker, thank you. Thank you for saving my life.
And now go where you must. You have known the confined freedom of a zoo most of your life; now you will
know the free confinement of a jungle. I wish you all the best with it. Watch out for Man. He is not your
friend. But I hope you will remember me as a friend. I will never forget you, that is certain. You will always
be with me, in my heart. What is that hiss? Ah, our boat has touched sand. So farewell, Richard Parker,
farewell. God be with you."
The people who found me took me to their village, and there some women gave me a bath and scrubbed me so
hard that I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinned and not a very dirty white boy. I tried to
explain. They nodded and smiled and kept on scrubbing me as if I were the deck of a ship. I thought they were
going to skin me alive. But they gave me food. Delicious food. Once I started eating, I couldn't stop. I thought
I would never stop being hungry.
The next day a police car came and brought me to a hospital, and there my story ends.
I was overwhelmed by the generosity of those who rescued me. Poor people gave me clothes and food.
Doctors and nurses cared for me as if I were a premature baby. Mexican and Canadian officials opened all
doors for me so that from the beach in Mexico to the home of my foster mother to the classrooms of the
University of Toronto, there was only one long, easy corridor I had to walk down. To all these people I would
like to extend my heartfelt thanks.
Rescue and Investigation
- Piscine Molitor Patel is rescued by Mexican villagers who provide him with food and care after his ordeal at sea.
- The survivor expresses deep gratitude for the generosity of the poor villagers and the officials who facilitated his recovery.
- Two Japanese officials, Mr. Okamoto and Mr. Chiba, are dispatched from California to interview the lone survivor of the Tsimtsum.
- The investigators endure a grueling, error-prone journey across Mexico due to a map-reading mistake and mechanical failures.
- The chapter transitions into a verbatim transcript of the recorded interview between the Japanese officials and the survivor.
I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinned and not a very dirty white boy.
The people who found me took me to their village, and there some women gave me a bath and scrubbed me so
hard that I wondered if they realized I was naturally brown-skinned and not a very dirty white boy. I tried to
explain. They nodded and smiled and kept on scrubbing me as if I were the deck of a ship. I thought they were
going to skin me alive. But they gave me food. Delicious food. Once I started eating, I couldn't stop. I thought
I would never stop being hungry.
The next day a police car came and brought me to a hospital, and there my story ends.
I was overwhelmed by the generosity of those who rescued me. Poor people gave me clothes and food.
Doctors and nurses cared for me as if I were a premature baby. Mexican and Canadian officials opened all
doors for me so that from the beach in Mexico to the home of my foster mother to the classrooms of the
University of Toronto, there was only one long, easy corridor I had to walk down. To all these people I would
like to extend my heartfelt thanks.
Page 155
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
PART THREE
Benito Juarez Infirmary, Tomatlan, Mexico
CHAPTER 95
Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired, told
me that he and his junior colleague at the time, Mr. Atsuro Chiba, were in Long Beach, California-the
American western seaboard's main container port, near L.A.-on unrelated business when they were advised
that a lone survivor of the Japanese ship Tsimtsum, which had vanished without a trace in Pacific international
waters several months before, was reported to have landed near the small town of Tomatlan, on the coast of
Mexico. They were instructed by their department to go down to contact the survivor and see if any light could
be shed on the fate of the ship. They bought a map of Mexico and looked to see where Tomatlan was.
Unfortunately for them, a fold of the map crossed Baja California over a small coastal town named Tomatan,
printed in small letters. Mr. Okamoto was convinced he read Tomatlan. Since it was less than halfway down
Baja California, he decided the fastest way to get there would be to drive.
They set off in their rented car. When they got to Tomatan, eight hundred kilometres south of Long Beach,
and saw that it was not Tomatlan, Mr. Okamoto decided that they would continue to Santa Rosalia, two
hundred kilometres further south, and catch the ferry across the Gulf of California to Guaymas. The ferry was
late and slow. And from Guaymas it was another thirteen hundred kilometres to Tomatlan. The roads were
bad. They had a flat tire. Their car broke down and the mechanic who fixed it surreptitiously cannibalized the
motor of parts, putting in used parts instead, for the replacement of which they had to pay the rental company
and which resulted in the car breaking down a second time, on their way back. The second mechanic
overcharged them. Mr. Okamoto admitted to me that they were very tired when they arrived at the Benito
Juarez Infirmary in Tomatlan, which is not at all in Baja California but a hundred kilometres south of Puerto
Vallarta, in the state of Jalisco, nearly level with Mexico City. They had been travelling non-stop for forty-one
hours. "We work hard," Mr. Okamoto wrote.
He and Mr. Chiba spoke with Piscine Molitor Patel, in English, for close to three hours, taping the
conversation. What follows are excerpts from the verbatim transcript. I am grateful to Mr. Okamoto for having
made available to me a copy of the tape and of his final report. For the sake of clarity I have indicated who is
speaking when it is not immediately apparent. Portions printed in a different font were spoken in Japanese,
which I had translated.
Page 156
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 96
The Long Road to Tomatlan
- Japanese officials Tomohiro Okamoto and Atsuro Chiba are dispatched to Mexico to interview the lone survivor of the sunken ship Tsimtsum.
- A map-reading error leads the pair on an arduous forty-one-hour journey through Baja California and mainland Mexico involving car breakdowns and ferry delays.
- Despite their exhaustion and numerous travel mishaps, the officials politely tell the survivor, Piscine Molitor Patel, that they had a 'wonderful trip.'
- The formal interview begins at the Benito Juarez Infirmary, where Pi Patel agrees to recount his ordeal in exchange for a cookie.
- The encounter marks the official investigation into the mysterious disappearance of the cargo ship and its passengers.
The ferry was late and slow. And from Guaymas it was another thirteen hundred kilometres to Tomatlan.
Mr. Tomohiro Okamoto, of the Maritime Department in the Japanese Ministry of Transport, now retired, told
me that he and his junior colleague at the time, Mr. Atsuro Chiba, were in Long Beach, California-the
American western seaboard's main container port, near L.A.-on unrelated business when they were advised
that a lone survivor of the Japanese ship Tsimtsum, which had vanished without a trace in Pacific international
waters several months before, was reported to have landed near the small town of Tomatlan, on the coast of
Mexico. They were instructed by their department to go down to contact the survivor and see if any light could
be shed on the fate of the ship. They bought a map of Mexico and looked to see where Tomatlan was.
Unfortunately for them, a fold of the map crossed Baja California over a small coastal town named Tomatan,
printed in small letters. Mr. Okamoto was convinced he read Tomatlan. Since it was less than halfway down
Baja California, he decided the fastest way to get there would be to drive.
They set off in their rented car. When they got to Tomatan, eight hundred kilometres south of Long Beach,
and saw that it was not Tomatlan, Mr. Okamoto decided that they would continue to Santa Rosalia, two
hundred kilometres further south, and catch the ferry across the Gulf of California to Guaymas. The ferry was
late and slow. And from Guaymas it was another thirteen hundred kilometres to Tomatlan. The roads were
bad. They had a flat tire. Their car broke down and the mechanic who fixed it surreptitiously cannibalized the
motor of parts, putting in used parts instead, for the replacement of which they had to pay the rental company
and which resulted in the car breaking down a second time, on their way back. The second mechanic
overcharged them. Mr. Okamoto admitted to me that they were very tired when they arrived at the Benito
Juarez Infirmary in Tomatlan, which is not at all in Baja California but a hundred kilometres south of Puerto
Vallarta, in the state of Jalisco, nearly level with Mexico City. They had been travelling non-stop for forty-one
hours. "We work hard," Mr. Okamoto wrote.
He and Mr. Chiba spoke with Piscine Molitor Patel, in English, for close to three hours, taping the
conversation. What follows are excerpts from the verbatim transcript. I am grateful to Mr. Okamoto for having
made available to me a copy of the tape and of his final report. For the sake of clarity I have indicated who is
speaking when it is not immediately apparent. Portions printed in a different font were spoken in Japanese,
which I had translated.
Page 156
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
CHAPTER 96
"Hello, Mr. Patel. My name is Tomohiro Okamoto. I am from the Maritime Department in the Japanese
Ministry of Transport. This is my assistant, Atsuro Chiba. We have come to see you about the sinking of the
ship Tsimtsum, of which you were a passenger. Would it be possible to talk to you now?"
"Yes, of course."
"Thank you. It is very kind of you. <translation>Now, Atsuro-kun, you're new at this, so pay attention and see
to learn."
"Yes, Okamoto-san."
"Is the tape recorder on?"
"Yes it is."
"Good. Oh I'm so tired! For the record, today is February 19th, 1978. Case file number 250663, concerning the
disappearance of the cargo ship Tsimtsum.</translation> Are you comfortable, Mr. Patel?"
"Yes, I am. Thank you. And you?"
"We are very comfortable."
"You've come all the way from Tokyo?"
"We were in Long Beach, California. We drove down."
"Did you have a good trip?"
"We had a wonderful trip. It was a beautiful drive."
"I had a terrible trip."
"Yes, we spoke to the police before coming here and we saw the lifeboat."
"I'm a little hungry."
"Would you like a cookie?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Here you go."
"Thank you!"
"You're welcome. It's only a cookie. Now, Mr. Patel, we were wondering if you could tell us what happened to
Page 157
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
you, with as much detail as possible."
"Yes. I'd be happy to."
CHAPTER 97
The Floating Banana Test
- Mr. Okamoto and Mr. Chiba interview Pi Patel about his survival story, expressing deep skepticism regarding the more fantastical elements of his journey.
- Pi demonstrates a strange habit of hoarding food, hiding cookies and bananas under his bedsheets while being questioned by the investigators.
- A point of contention arises over whether bananas float, leading to a physical experiment in a sink that proves Pi's claim correct.
- The investigators challenge the existence of a carnivorous algae island, dismissing it as botanically impossible and contrary to the laws of nature.
- Pi defends his account by arguing that scientific ignorance of a phenomenon does not equate to its non-existence, citing historical dismissals of Copernicus and Darwin.
I insist. Fill that sink with water, drop these bananas in, and we'll see who's right.
"We were in Long Beach, California. We drove down."
"Did you have a good trip?"
"We had a wonderful trip. It was a beautiful drive."
"I had a terrible trip."
"Yes, we spoke to the police before coming here and we saw the lifeboat."
"I'm a little hungry."
"Would you like a cookie?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Here you go."
"Thank you!"
"You're welcome. It's only a cookie. Now, Mr. Patel, we were wondering if you could tell us what happened to
Page 157
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
you, with as much detail as possible."
"Yes. I'd be happy to."
CHAPTER 97
The story.
CHAPTER 98
Mr. Okamoto: "Very interesting."
Mr. Chiba: "What a story."
<translation>"He thinks we're fools.</translation> Mr. Patel, we'll take a little break and then we'll come back,
yes?"
"That's fine. I'd like another cookie."
"Yes, of course."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"He's already had plenty and most he hasn't even eaten. They're right there beneath
his bedsheet."
"Just give him another one. We kave to humour him.</translation> We'll be back in a few minutes."
CHAPTER 99
Mr. Okamoto: "Mr. Patel, we don't believe your story."
"Sorry-these cookies are good but they tend to crumble. I'm amazed. Why not?"
"It doesn't hold up."
"What do you mean?"
"Bananas don't float."
"I'm sorry?"
"You said the orang-utan came floating on an island of bananas."
Page 158
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"That's right."
"Bananas don't float."
"Yes, they do."
"They're too heavy."
"No, they're not. Here, try for yourself. I have two bananas right here."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Where did those come from? What else does he have under his bedsheet?"
Mr. Okamoto: "Damn it.</translation> No, that's all right."
"There's a sink over there."
"That's fine."
"I insist. Fill that sink with water, drop these bananas in, and we'll see who's right."
"We'd like to move on."
"I absolutely insist."
[Silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What do we do?"
Mr. Okamoto: "I feel this is going to be another very long day."</translation>
[Sound of a chair being pushed back. Distant sound of water gushing out of a tap]
Pi Patel: "What's happening? I can't see from here."
Mr. Okamoto [distantly]: "I'm filling the sink."
"Have you put the bananas in yet?"
[Distantly] "No."
"And now?"
[Distantly] "They're in."
"And?"
[Silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Are they floating?"
[Distantly] "Tkey're floating."</translation>
Page 159
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"So, are they floating?"
[Distantly] "They're floating."
"What did I tell you?"
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, yes. But it would take a lot of bananas to hold up an orang-utan."
"It did. There was close to a ton. It still makes me sick when I think of all those bananas floating away and
going to waste when they were mine for the picking."
"It's a pity. Now, about-"
"Could I have my bananas back, please?"
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"I'll get them."
[Sound of a chair being pushed back]
[Distantly] "Look at that. They really do float."</translation>
Mr. Okamoto: "What about this algae island you say you came upon?"
Mr. Chiba: "Here are your bananas."
Pi Patel: "Thank you. Yes?"
"I'm sorry to say it so bluntly, we don't mean to hurt your feelings, but you don't really expect us to believe
you, do you? Carnivorous trees? A fish-eating algae that produces fresh water? Tree-dwelling aquatic rodents?
These things don't exist."
"Only because you've never seen them."
"That's right. We believe what we see."
"So did Columbus. What do you do when you're in the dark?"
"Your island is botanically impossible."
"Said the fly just before landing in the Venus flytrap."
"Why has no one else come upon it?"
"It's a big ocean crossed by busy ships. I went slowly, observing much."
"No scientist would believe you."
"These would be the same who dismissed Copernicus and Darwin. Have scientists finished coming upon new
plants? In the Amazon basin, for example?"
Page 160
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Not plants that contradict the laws of nature."
The Impossible and the Incredible
- Pi Patel defends the existence of a carnivorous island by comparing it to historical scientific discoveries that were initially dismissed.
- Mr. Chiba attempts to bridge the gap of disbelief by describing ancient bonsai trees, which Pi ironically dismisses as botanically impossible.
- The investigators express deep skepticism regarding the presence of a tiger on the lifeboat, citing the lack of physical evidence or sightings.
- Pi explains that humans are a forbidding species to wild animals, suggesting that fear and mutual avoidance allowed for his survival.
- The tension between the survivors' fantastic account and the officials' demand for 'possible' facts leads to a strained, performative moment of laughter.
Said the fly just before landing in the Venus flytrap.
"So did Columbus. What do you do when you're in the dark?"
"Your island is botanically impossible."
"Said the fly just before landing in the Venus flytrap."
"Why has no one else come upon it?"
"It's a big ocean crossed by busy ships. I went slowly, observing much."
"No scientist would believe you."
"These would be the same who dismissed Copernicus and Darwin. Have scientists finished coming upon new
plants? In the Amazon basin, for example?"
Page 160
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Not plants that contradict the laws of nature."
"Which you know through and through?"
"Well enough to know the possible from the impossible."
Mr. Chiba: "I have an uncle who knows a lot about botany. He lives in the country near Hita-Gun. He's a
bonsai master."
Pi Patel: "A what?"
"A bonsai master. You know, bonsai are little trees."
"You mean shrubs."
"No, I mean trees. Bonsai are little trees. They are less than two feet tall. You can carry them in your arms.
They can be very old. My uncle has one that is over three hundred years old."
"Three-hundred-year-old trees that are two feet tall that you can carry in your arms?"
"Yes. They're very delicate. They need a lot of attention."
"Whoever heard of such trees? They're botanically impossible."
"But I assure you they exist, Mr. Patel. My uncle-"
"I believe what I see."
Mr. Okamoto: "Just a moment, please. <translation>Atsuro, with all due respect for your uncle who lives in
the country near Hita-Gun, we're not here to talk idly about botany."
"I'm just trying to help."
"Do your uncle's bonsai eat meat?"
"I don't think so."
"Have you ever been bitten by one of his bonsai?"
"No."
"In that case, your uncle's bonsai are not helping us.</translation> Where were we?"
Pi Patel: "With the tall, full-sized trees firmly rooted to the ground I was telling you about."
"Let us put them aside for now."
"It might be hard. I never tried pulling them out and carrying them."
"You're a funny man, Mr. Patel. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Page 161
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Pi Patel: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha! <translation>It wasn't that funny."
Mr. Okamoto: "Just keep laughing.</translation> Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Mr. Chiba: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"
Mr. Okamoto: "Now about the tiger, we're not sure about it either."
"What do you mean?"
"We have difficulty believing it."
"It's an incredible story."
"Precisely."
"I don't know how I survived."
"Clearly it was a strain."
"I'll have another cookie."
"There are none left."
"What's in that bag?"
"Nothing."
"Can I see?"
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"There goes our lunch."</translation>
Mr. Okamoto: "Getting back to the tiger..."
Pi Patel: "Terrible business. Delicious sandwiches."
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, they look good."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"I'm hungry."</translation>
"Not a trace of it has been found. That's a bit hard to believe, isn't it? There are no tigers in the Americas. If
there were a wild tiger out there, don't you think the police would have heard about it by now?"
"I should tell you about the black panther that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the middle of winter."
"Mr. Patel, a tiger is an incredibly dangerous wild animal. How could you survive in a lifeboat with one? It's-"
"What you don't realize is that we are a strange and forbidding species to wild animals. We fill them with fear.
They avoid us as much as possible. It took centuries to still the fear in some pliable animals-domestication it's
Page 162
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Limits of Reason
- Investigators challenge Pi's story, arguing that a tiger could not have survived in a lifeboat or disappeared into the Mexican jungle without a trace.
- Pi defends his account by explaining that humans are terrifying to wild animals, who only fight out of sheer desperation.
- He argues that urban environments are secretly teeming with escaped exotic animals that go unnoticed by the public for generations.
- Pi criticizes the investigators for their excessive reliance on reason, suggesting that it blinds them to the complexities of love, life, and God.
- The tension between the skeptics and the storyteller culminates in Pi's emotional outburst regarding the terrifying reality of Richard Parker.
Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater.
"Not a trace of it has been found. That's a bit hard to believe, isn't it? There are no tigers in the Americas. If
there were a wild tiger out there, don't you think the police would have heard about it by now?"
"I should tell you about the black panther that escaped from the Zurich Zoo in the middle of winter."
"Mr. Patel, a tiger is an incredibly dangerous wild animal. How could you survive in a lifeboat with one? It's-"
"What you don't realize is that we are a strange and forbidding species to wild animals. We fill them with fear.
They avoid us as much as possible. It took centuries to still the fear in some pliable animals-domestication it's
Page 162
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
called-but most cannot get over their fear, and I doubt they ever will. When wild animals fight us, it is out of
sheer desperation. They fight when they feel they have no other way out. It's a very last resort."
"In a lifeboat? Come on, Mr. Patel, it's just too hard to believe!"
"Hard to believe? What do you know about hard to believe? You want hard to believe? I'll give you hard to
believe. It's a closely held secret among Indian zookeepers that in 1971 Bara the polar bear escaped from the
Calcutta Zoo. She was never heard from again, not by police or hunters or poachers or anyone else. We
suspect she's living freely on the banks of the Hugli River. Beware if you go to Calcutta, my good sirs: if you
have sushi on the breath you may pay a high price! If you took the city of Tokyo and turned it upside down
and shook it, you'd be amazed at all the animals that would fall out: badgers, wolves, boa constrictors,
Komodo dragons, crocodiles, ostriches, baboons, capybaras, wild boars, leopards, manatees, ruminants in
untold numbers. There is no doubt in my mind that feral giraffes and feral hippos have been living in Tokyo
for generations without being seen by a soul. You should compare one day the things that stick to the soles of
your shoes as you walk down the street with what you see lying at the bottom of the cages in the Tokyo
Zoo-then look up! And you expect to find a tiger in a Mexican jungle! It's laughable, just plain laughable. Ha!
Ha! Ha!"
"There may very well be feral giraffes and feral hippos living in Tokyo and a polar bear living freely in
Calcutta. We just don't believe there was a tiger living in your lifeboat."
"The arrogance of big-city folk! You grant your metropolises all the animals of Eden, but you deny my hamlet
the merest Bengal tiger!"
"Mr. Patel, please calm down."
"If you stumble at mere believability, what are you living for? Isn't love hard to believe?"
"Mr. Patel-"
"Don't you bully me with your politeness! Love is hard to believe, ask any lover. Life is hard to believe, ask
any scientist. God is hard to believe, ask any believer. What is your problem with hard to believe?"
"We're just being reasonable."
"So am I! I applied my reason at every moment. Reason is excellent for getting food, clothing and shelter.
Reason is the very best tool kit. Nothing beats reason for keeping tigers away. But be excessively reasonable
and you risk throwing out the universe with the bathwater."
"Calm down, Mr. Patel, calm down."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"The bathwater? Why is he talking about bathwater?"</translation>
"How can I be calm? You should have seen Richard Parker!"
"Yes, yes."
"Huge. Teeth like this! Claws like scimitars!"
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What are scimitars?"
Page 163
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mr. Okamoto: "Chiba-san,, instead of asking stupid vocabulary questions, why don't you make yourself
useful? This boy is a tough nut to crack. Do something!"</translation>
Mr. Chiba: "Look! A chocolate bar!"
Pi Patel: "Wonderful!"
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"Like he hasn't already stolen our whole lunch. Soon he'll be demanding
tempura."</translation>
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "We are losing sight of the point of this investigation. We are here because of the sinking of a
The Investigation of the Tsimtsum
- Japanese investigators Mr. Okamoto and Mr. Chiba struggle to reconcile Pi Patel's fantastical survival story with their need for a logical explanation of the ship's sinking.
- Pi challenges the investigators' skepticism, arguing that their limited experience prevents them from accepting improbable but factual events.
- The dialogue reveals a clash between Pi's traumatic reality and the officials' focus on forensic evidence, such as the presence of unidentified small animal bones.
- The investigators attempt to dismiss Pi's claims about meerkats and a blind Frenchman as far-fetched coincidences or misidentifications of common pests.
- Despite the tension, the conversation underscores the profound personal loss Pi suffered, contrasting his grief with the bureaucratic nature of the inquiry.
Tigers exist, lifeboats exist, oceans exist. Because the three have never come together in your narrow, limited experience, you refuse to believe that they might.
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mr. Okamoto: "Chiba-san,, instead of asking stupid vocabulary questions, why don't you make yourself
useful? This boy is a tough nut to crack. Do something!"</translation>
Mr. Chiba: "Look! A chocolate bar!"
Pi Patel: "Wonderful!"
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"Like he hasn't already stolen our whole lunch. Soon he'll be demanding
tempura."</translation>
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "We are losing sight of the point of this investigation. We are here because of the sinking of a
cargo ship. You are the sole survivor. And you were only a passenger. You bear no responsibility for what
happened. We-"
"Chocolate is so good!"
"We are not seeking to lay criminal charges. You are an innocent victim of a tragedy at sea. We are only
trying to determine why and how the Tsimtsum sank. We thought you might help us, Mr. Patel."
[Silence]
"Mr. Patel?"
[Silence]
Pi Patel: "Tigers exist, lifeboats exist, oceans exist. Because the three have never come together in your
narrow, limited experience, you refuse to believe that they might. Yet the plain fact is that the Tsimtsum
brought them together and then sank."
[Silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "What about this Frenchman?"
"What about him?"
"Two blind people in two separate lifeboats meeting up in the Pacific-the coincidence seems a little
far-fetched, no?"
"It certainly does."
"We find it very unlikely."
"So is winning the lottery, yet someone always wins."
"We find it extremely hard to believe."
"So did I."
Page 164
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
<translation>"I knew we should have taken the day off.</translation> You talked about food?"
"We did."
"He knew a lot about food."
"If you can call it food."
"The cook on the Tsimtsum was a Frenchman."
"There are Frenchmen all over the world."
"Maybe the Frenchman you met was the cook."
"Maybe. How should I know? I never saw him. I was blind. Then Richard Parker ate him alive."
"How convenient."
"Not at all. It was horrific and it stank. By the way, how do you explain the meerkat bones in the lifeboat?"
"Yes, the bones of a small animal were-"
"More than one!"
"-of some small animals were found in the lifeboat. They must have come from the ship."
"We had no meerkats at the zoo."
"We have no proof they were meerkat bones."
Mr. Chiba: "Maybe they were banana bones! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!"
<translation>"Atsuro, shut up!"
"I'm very sorry, Okamoto-san. It's the fatigue."
"You're bringing our service into disrepute!"
"Very sorry, Okamoto-san."</translation>
Mr. Okamoto: "They could be bones from another small animal."
"They were meerkats."
"They could be mongooses."
"The mongooses at the zoo didn't sell. They stayed in India."
"They could be shipboard pests, like rats. Mongooses are common in India."
Page 165
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Mongooses as shipboard pests?"
"Why not?"
"Who swam in the stormy Pacific, several of them, to the lifeboat? That's a little hard to believe, wouldn't you
say?"
"Less hard to believe than some of the things we've heard in the last two hours. Perhaps the mongooses were
already aboard the lifeboat, like the rat you mentioned."
"Simply amazing the number of animals in that lifeboat."
"Simply amazing."
"A real jungle."
"Yes."
"Those bones are meerkat bones. Have them checked by an expert."
"There weren't that many left. And there were no heads."
"I used them as bait."
"It's doubtful an expert could tell whether they were meerkat bones or mongoose bones."
"Find yourself a forensic zoologist."
"All right, Mr. Patel! You win. We cannot explain the presence of meerkat bones, if that is what they are, in
the lifeboat. But that is not our concern here. We are here because a Japanese cargo ship owned by Oika
Shipping Company, flying the Panamanian flag, sank in the Pacific."
"Something I never forget, not for a minute. I lost my whole family."
"We're sorry aboutt that."
"Not as much as I am."
[Long silence]
Dry Yeastless Factuality
- The Japanese investigators struggle to reconcile the physical evidence of meerkat bones with Pi's fantastical survival story.
- Pi challenges the investigators' demand for 'straight facts' by arguing that all human perception and language are forms of invention.
- The officials express frustration with Pi's philosophical diversions, seeking a logical explanation for the sinking of the Tsimtsum.
- Pi accuses the men of wanting a 'flat story' that confirms their existing worldview rather than one that inspires or surprises.
- The tension culminates in Pi agreeing to provide a second version of his survival story, one entirely devoid of animals.
You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won't make you see higher or further or differently.
"It's doubtful an expert could tell whether they were meerkat bones or mongoose bones."
"Find yourself a forensic zoologist."
"All right, Mr. Patel! You win. We cannot explain the presence of meerkat bones, if that is what they are, in
the lifeboat. But that is not our concern here. We are here because a Japanese cargo ship owned by Oika
Shipping Company, flying the Panamanian flag, sank in the Pacific."
"Something I never forget, not for a minute. I lost my whole family."
"We're sorry aboutt that."
"Not as much as I am."
[Long silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What do we do now?"
Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know."</translation>
[Long silence]
Pi Patel: "Would you like a cookie?"
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that would be nice. Thank you."
Mr. Chiba: "Thank you."
Page 166
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "It's a nice day."
Pi Patel: "Yes. Smnny."
[Long silence]
Pi Patel: "Is this your first visit to Mexico?"
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, it is."
"Mine too."
[Long silence]
Pi Patel: "So, you didn't like my story?"
Mr. Okamoto: "No, we liked it very much. Didn't we, Atsuro? We will remember it for a long, long time."
Mr. Chiba: "We will."
[Silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "But for the purposes of our investigation, we would like to know what really happened."
"What really happened?"
"Yes."
"So you want another story?"
"Uhh...no. We would like to know what really happened."
"Doesn't the telling of something always become a story?"
"Uhh...perhaps in English. In Japanese a story would have an element of invention in it. We don't want any
invention. We want the 'straight facts', as you say in English."
"Isn't telling about something-using words, English or Japanese-already something of an invention? Isn't just
looking upon this world already something of an invention?"
"Uhh..."
"The world isn't just the way it is. It is how we understand it, no? And in understanding something, we bring
something to it, no? Doesn't that make life a story?"
"Ha! Ha! Ha! You are very intelligent, Mr. Patel."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What is he talking about?"
Page 167
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"I have no idea."</translation>
Pi Patel: "You want words that reflect reality?"
"Yes."
"Words that do not contradict reality?"
"Exactly."
"But tigers don't contradict reality."
"Oh please, no more tigers."
"I know what you want. You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know.
That won't make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want
dry, yeastless factuality."
"Uhh..."
"You want a story without animals."
"Yes!"
"Without tigers or orang-utans."
"That's right."
"Without hyenas or zebras."
"Without them."
"Without meerkats or mongooses."
"We don't want them."
"Without giraffes or hippopotamuses."
"We will plug our ears with our fingers!"
"So I'm right. You want a story without animals."
"We want a story without animals that will explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum."
"Give me a minute, please."
"Of course. <translation>I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's hope he speaks some
sense."</translation>
[Long silence]
Page 168
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Here's another story."
"Good."
The Human Story
- Pi begins a second version of his survival story at the request of officials who want a narrative without animals.
- The survivors on the lifeboat are revealed to be Pi, his mother, a young sailor with a broken leg, and a brutal cook.
- The cook displays animalistic behavior immediately, eating flies and a rat while showing a 'holy terror of hunger.'
- The sailor's leg becomes severely infected, leading the cook to convince the others that a crude amputation is necessary.
- The group forcibly restrains the sailor while the cook performs the butchery, leaving the victim in a state of unintelligible agony.
There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat.
"Without hyenas or zebras."
"Without them."
"Without meerkats or mongooses."
"We don't want them."
"Without giraffes or hippopotamuses."
"We will plug our ears with our fingers!"
"So I'm right. You want a story without animals."
"We want a story without animals that will explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum."
"Give me a minute, please."
"Of course. <translation>I think we're finally getting somewhere. Let's hope he speaks some
sense."</translation>
[Long silence]
Page 168
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Here's another story."
"Good."
"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim
of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength.
I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and
collapsed.
"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already
aboard, as was the sailor.
"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us
for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon.
Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy
terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and
disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother
smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the
discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I-I'll be honest-I had a
small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered
and hypocritical.
"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg
jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a
clear, shining complexion. His features-the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes-looked so
elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a
single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said.
He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very,
very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.
"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set
his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though
we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.
"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and
that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve
no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the
job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic.
We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and
screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother
and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought
he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He
screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the
frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at
the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the
bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it
was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
Butchery on the Lifeboat
- Four survivorsโthe narrator, his mother, a brutal cook, and a young sailorโfind themselves stranded on a lifeboat after their ship sinks.
- The cook immediately displays animalistic behavior, greedily eating flies and a rat despite having adequate emergency rations.
- A young Chinese sailor suffers immensely from a compound leg fracture that becomes severely infected and gangrenous.
- Driven by the cook's dominance, the survivors perform a horrific, un-anesthetized amputation of the sailor's leg in a desperate attempt to save him.
- The narrator reflects on the shocking contrast between the sailor's agony and the detached stillness of his severed limb.
Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat.
"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim
of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength.
I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and
collapsed.
"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already
aboard, as was the sailor.
"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us
for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon.
Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy
terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and
disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother
smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the
discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I-I'll be honest-I had a
small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered
and hypocritical.
"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg
jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a
clear, shining complexion. His features-the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes-looked so
elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a
single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said.
He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very,
very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.
"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set
his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though
we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.
"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and
that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve
no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the
job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic.
We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and
screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother
and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought
he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He
screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the
frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at
the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the
bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it
was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and uneven. He had fits of agitated
Butchery on the Lifeboat
- Four survivorsโthe narrator, his mother, a cook, and a young sailorโfind themselves on a lifeboat after their ship sinks in the Pacific.
- The cook immediately exhibits animalistic behavior, greedily eating flies and a rat despite having adequate food supplies.
- A young Chinese sailor suffers from a horrific compound fracture in his thigh that quickly becomes infected and turns black.
- The cook convinces the others that an amateur amputation is necessary to save the sailor's life, leading to a brutal and bloody procedure.
- The narrator reflects on the sheer butchery of the act and the contrast between the sailor's agony and his severed limb lying in the boat.
Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat.
"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim
of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength.
I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and
collapsed.
"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already
aboard, as was the sailor.
"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us
for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon.
Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy
terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and
disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother
smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the
discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I-I'll be honest-I had a
small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered
and hypocritical.
"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg
jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a
clear, shining complexion. His features-the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes-looked so
elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a
single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said.
He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very,
very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.
"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set
his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though
we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.
"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and
that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve
no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the
job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic.
We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and
screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother
and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought
he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He
screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the
frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at
the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the
bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it
was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and uneven. He had fits of agitated
Page 169
Survival and Butchery
- Following the sinking of their ship, four survivorsโthe narrator, his mother, a cook, and a young sailorโfind themselves adrift in a lifeboat.
- The cook immediately displays animalistic behavior, greedily eating flies and a rat despite having ample food supplies.
- A young Chinese sailor suffers a horrific compound fracture in his leg, leaving him in agony and unable to communicate with the others.
- Driven by the cook's dominance and insistence, the group performs a brutal, unanesthetized amputation of the sailor's infected leg.
- The narrator reflects on the shocking contrast between the sailor's frantic screams and the 'gentle repose' of his severed limb.
I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim
of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength.
I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and
collapsed.
"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already
aboard, as was the sailor.
"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us
for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon.
Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy
terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and
disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother
smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the
discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I-I'll be honest-I had a
small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered
and hypocritical.
"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg
jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a
clear, shining complexion. His features-the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes-looked so
elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a
single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said.
He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very,
very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.
"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set
his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though
we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.
"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and
that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve
no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the
job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic.
We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and
screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother
and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought
he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He
screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the
frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at
the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the
bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it
was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and uneven. He had fits of agitated
Page 169
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Butchery on the Lifeboat
- Following the sinking of their ship, four survivorsโthe narrator, his mother, a cook, and a young sailorโfind themselves adrift in a lifeboat.
- The cook immediately displays animalistic and repulsive behavior, eating flies and a rat despite having adequate food supplies.
- A young Chinese sailor suffers from a horrific compound fracture in his leg, which eventually becomes infected and turns black.
- The cook convinces the others to help him amputate the sailor's leg without anesthesia, claiming it is necessary to save the boy's life.
- The narrator discovers the cook's true, macabre motive for the amputation when the cook insists on keeping the severed limb to use as fishing bait.
Worse, there was the contrast between the frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat.
"The ship sank. It made a sound like a monstrous metallic burp. Things bubbled at the surface and then
vanished. I found myself kicking water in the Pacific Ocean. I swam for the lifeboat. It was the hardest swim
of my life. I didn't seem to be moving. I kept swallowing water. I was very cold. I was rapidly losing strength.
I wouldn't have made it if the cook hadn't thrown me a lifebuoy and pulled me in. I climbed aboard and
collapsed.
"Four of us survived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it to the lifeboat. The cook was already
aboard, as was the sailor.
"He ate the flies. The cook, that is. We hadn't been in the lifeboat a full day; we had food and water to last us
for weeks; we had fishing gear and solar stills; we had no reason to believe that we wouldn't be rescued soon.
Yet there he was, swinging his arms and catching flies and eating them greedily. Right away he was in a holy
terror of hunger. He was calling us idiots and fools for not joining him in the feast. We were offended and
disgusted, but we didn't show it. We were very polite about it. He was a stranger and a foreigner. Mother
smiled and shook her head and raised her hand in refusal. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the
discrimination of a garbage heap. He also ate the rat. He cut it up and dried it in the sun. I-I'll be honest-I had a
small piece, very small, behind Mother's back. I was so hungry. He was such a brute, that cook, ill-tempered
and hypocritical.
"The sailor was young. Actually, he was older than me, probably in his early twenties, but he broke his leg
jumping from the ship and his suffering made him a child. He was beautiful. He had no facial hair at all and a
clear, shining complexion. His features-the broad face, the flattened nose, the narrow, pleated eyes-looked so
elegant. I thought he looked like a Chinese emperor. His suffering was terrible. He spoke no English, not a
single word, not yes or no, hello or thank you. He spoke only Chinese. We couldn't understand a word he said.
He must have felt very lonely. When he wept, Mother held his head in her lap and I held his hand. It was very,
very sad. He suffered and we couldn't do anything about it.
"His right leg was badly broken at the thigh. The bone stuck out of his flesh. He screamed with pain. We set
his leg as best we could and we made sure he was eating and drinking. But his leg became infected. Though
we drained it of pus every day, it got worse. His foot became black and bloated.
"It was the cook's idea. He was a brute. He dominated us. He whispered that the blackness would spread and
that he would survive only if his leg were amputated. Since the bone was broken at the thigh, it would involve
no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet. I can still hear his evil whisper. He would do the
job to save the sailor's life, he said, but we would have to hold him. Surprise would be the only anaesthetic.
We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms while the cook sat on his good leg. The sailor writhed and
screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked the knife quickly. The leg fell off. Immediately Mother
and I let go and moved away. We thought that if the restraint was ended, so would his struggling. We thought
he would lie calmly. He didn't. He sat up instantly. His screams were all the worse for being unintelligible. He
screamed and we stared, transfixed. There was blood everywhere. Worse, there was the contrast between the
frantic activity of the poor sailor and the gentle repose of his leg at the bottom of the boat. He kept looking at
the limb, as if imploring it to return. At last he fell back. We hurried into action. The cook folded some skin
over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a piece of cloth and we tied a rope above the wound to stop the
bleeding. We laid him as comfortably as we could on a mattress of life jackets and kept him warm. I thought it
was all for nothing. I couldn't believe a human being could survive so much pain, so much butchery.
Throughout the evening and night he moaned, and his breathing was harsh and uneven. He had fits of agitated
Page 169
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
delirium. I expected him to die during the night.
"He clung to life. At dawn he was still alive. He went in and out of consciousness. Mother gave him water. I
caught sight of the amputated leg. It cut my breath short. In the commotion it had been shoved aside and
forgotten in the dark. It had seeped a liquid and looked thinner. I took a life jacket and used it as a glove. I
picked the leg up.
"'What are you doing?' asked the cook.
"'I'm going to throw it overboard,' I replied.
"'Don't be an idiot. We'll use it as bait. That was the whole point.'
"He seemed to regret his last words even as they were coming out, for his voice faded quickly. He turned
away.
The Brutality of Survival
- The cook reveals that the primary motivation for amputating the young sailor's leg was to use it as fishing bait rather than to save his life.
- Mother discovers that the lifeboat's biscuit rations have been depleted overnight due to the cook's gluttony.
- The cook deflects blame for the missing food by implicating Pi, revealing that Pi also ate a biscuit in the dark.
- The revelation of the cook's selfishness and the horrific use of the limb causes a profound shift in the group's moral dynamic.
- Mother's initial righteous anger collapses into a silent, defeated despair as she realizes the depth of their desperation.
Like a cornered beast he lifted his eyes and glared at her.
delirium. I expected him to die during the night.
"He clung to life. At dawn he was still alive. He went in and out of consciousness. Mother gave him water. I
caught sight of the amputated leg. It cut my breath short. In the commotion it had been shoved aside and
forgotten in the dark. It had seeped a liquid and looked thinner. I took a life jacket and used it as a glove. I
picked the leg up.
"'What are you doing?' asked the cook.
"'I'm going to throw it overboard,' I replied.
"'Don't be an idiot. We'll use it as bait. That was the whole point.'
"He seemed to regret his last words even as they were coming out, for his voice faded quickly. He turned
away.
"'The whole point?' Mother asked. 'What do you mean by that?'
"He pretended to be busy.
"Mother's voice rose. 'Are you telling us that we cut this poor boy's leg off not to save his life but to get fishing
bait?'
"Silence from the brute.
"'Answer me!' shouted Mother.
"Like a cornered beast he lifted his eyes and glared at her. 'Our supplies are running out,' he snarled. 'We need
more food or we'll die.'
"Mother returned his glare. 'Our supplies are not running out! We have plenty of food and water. We have
package upon package of biscuits to tide us over till our rescue.' She took hold of the plastic container in
which we put the open rations of biscuits. It was unexpectedly light in her hands. The few crumbs in it rattled.
'What!' She opened it. 'Where are the biscuits? The container was full last night!'
"The cook looked away. As did I.
"'You selfish monster!' screamed Mother. 'The only reason we're running out of food is because you're gorging
yourself on it!'
"'He had some too,' he said, nodding my way.
"Mother's eyes turned to me. My heart sank.
"'Piscine, is that true?'
"'It was night, Mother. I was half asleep and I was so hungry. He gave me a biscuit. I ate it without thinking...'
"'Only one, was it?' sneered the cook.
"It was Mother's turn to look away. The anger seemed to go out of her. Without saying another word she went
Page 170
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Descent into Savagery
- The discovery of empty biscuit containers reveals the cook's greed and Pi's own desperate hunger, leading to a breakdown of trust.
- Following the sailor's death, the cook systematically butchers the body for bait, showing a total lack of human decency.
- Pi's mother confronts the cook's inhumanity with a heroic slap, attempting to salvage the dignity of the deceased sailor.
- The cook crosses the ultimate moral threshold by consuming human flesh, justifying his actions by claiming it provides strength.
- The survivors retreat to separate ends of the lifeboat, using sheer willpower to ignore the presence of the monster among them.
He kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth. 'Tastes like pork,' he muttered.
"Mother returned his glare. 'Our supplies are not running out! We have plenty of food and water. We have
package upon package of biscuits to tide us over till our rescue.' She took hold of the plastic container in
which we put the open rations of biscuits. It was unexpectedly light in her hands. The few crumbs in it rattled.
'What!' She opened it. 'Where are the biscuits? The container was full last night!'
"The cook looked away. As did I.
"'You selfish monster!' screamed Mother. 'The only reason we're running out of food is because you're gorging
yourself on it!'
"'He had some too,' he said, nodding my way.
"Mother's eyes turned to me. My heart sank.
"'Piscine, is that true?'
"'It was night, Mother. I was half asleep and I was so hungry. He gave me a biscuit. I ate it without thinking...'
"'Only one, was it?' sneered the cook.
"It was Mother's turn to look away. The anger seemed to go out of her. Without saying another word she went
Page 170
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
back to nursing the sailor.
"I wished for her anger. I wished for her to punish me. Only not this silence. I made to arrange some life
jackets for the sailor's comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered, 'I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry.' My
eyes were brimming with tears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were too. But she didn't look at me.
Her eyes were gazing upon some memory in mid-air.
"'We're all alone, Piscine, all alone,' she said, in a tone that broke every hope in my body. I never felt so lonely
in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat two weeks already and it was taking its toll
on us. It was getting harder to believe that Father and Ravi had survived.
"When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg by the ankle over the water to drain it. Mother brought
her hand over the sailor's eyes.
"He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquid from his leg. The cook promptly butchered him.
The leg had made for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to hold on to the fishing hook; it simply
dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster. He cut up everything, including the sailor's
skin and every inch of his intestines. He even prepared his genitals. When he had finished with his torso, he
moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother
shrieked at the cook, 'How can you do this, you monster? Where is your humanity? Have you no decency?
What did the poor boy do to you? You monster! You monster!' The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity.
"'At least cover his face, for God's sake!' cried my mother. It was unbearable to have that beautiful face, so
noble and serene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threw himself upon the sailor's head and before
our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited.
"When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcass overboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh and pieces of
organs were lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled in horror. We tried not to look at them. The
smell would not go away.
"The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped him in the face, a full hard slap that punctuated the air
with a sharp crack. It was something shocking coming from my mother. And it was heroic. It was an act of
outrage and pity and grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poor sailor. It was to salvage his dignity.
"I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without moving or saying a word as Mother looked him straight in
the face. I noticed how he did not meet her eyes.
"We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. I was filled with a mix of rapt admiration and abject
fear.
"Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw him do it. He tried to be discreet, but she saw him bring
his hand to his mouth. She shouted, 'I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait! I knew it. You
monster! You animal! How could you? He's human! He's your own kind!' If she had expected him to be
mortified, to spit it out and break down and apologize, she was wrong. He kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his
head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth. 'Tastes like pork,' he muttered. Mother
expressed her indignation and disgust by violently turning away. He ate another strip. 'I feel stronger already,'
he muttered. He concentrated on his fishing.
"We each had our end of the lifeboat. It's amazing how willpower can build walls. Whole days went by as if
he weren't there.
The Cook's Brutal Descent
- The young sailor dies from his injuries, leading the cook to immediately and systematically butcher the body for bait and food.
- Pi's mother confronts the cook's inhumanity, eventually slapping him in a heroic act of outrage to defend the dead sailor's dignity.
- The cook's depravity reaches a new low when he stops pretending the meat is for bait and begins openly consuming human flesh.
- The survivors retreat into a tense, psychological standoff, using sheer willpower to ignore the presence of the monster among them.
The cook threw himself upon the sailor's head and before our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face.
back to nursing the sailor.
"I wished for her anger. I wished for her to punish me. Only not this silence. I made to arrange some life
jackets for the sailor's comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered, 'I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry.' My
eyes were brimming with tears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were too. But she didn't look at me.
Her eyes were gazing upon some memory in mid-air.
"'We're all alone, Piscine, all alone,' she said, in a tone that broke every hope in my body. I never felt so lonely
in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat two weeks already and it was taking its toll
on us. It was getting harder to believe that Father and Ravi had survived.
"When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg by the ankle over the water to drain it. Mother brought
her hand over the sailor's eyes.
"He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquid from his leg. The cook promptly butchered him.
The leg had made for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to hold on to the fishing hook; it simply
dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster. He cut up everything, including the sailor's
skin and every inch of his intestines. He even prepared his genitals. When he had finished with his torso, he
moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother
shrieked at the cook, 'How can you do this, you monster? Where is your humanity? Have you no decency?
What did the poor boy do to you? You monster! You monster!' The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity.
"'At least cover his face, for God's sake!' cried my mother. It was unbearable to have that beautiful face, so
noble and serene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threw himself upon the sailor's head and before
our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited.
"When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcass overboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh and pieces of
organs were lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled in horror. We tried not to look at them. The
smell would not go away.
"The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped him in the face, a full hard slap that punctuated the air
with a sharp crack. It was something shocking coming from my mother. And it was heroic. It was an act of
outrage and pity and grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poor sailor. It was to salvage his dignity.
"I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without moving or saying a word as Mother looked him straight in
the face. I noticed how he did not meet her eyes.
"We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. I was filled with a mix of rapt admiration and abject
fear.
"Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw him do it. He tried to be discreet, but she saw him bring
his hand to his mouth. She shouted, 'I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait! I knew it. You
monster! You animal! How could you? He's human! He's your own kind!' If she had expected him to be
mortified, to spit it out and break down and apologize, she was wrong. He kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his
head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth. 'Tastes like pork,' he muttered. Mother
expressed her indignation and disgust by violently turning away. He ate another strip. 'I feel stronger already,'
he muttered. He concentrated on his fishing.
"We each had our end of the lifeboat. It's amazing how willpower can build walls. Whole days went by as if
he weren't there.
Page 171
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Brutal Reality of Survival
- Following the death of the injured sailor, the cook's descent into depravity begins with the systematic butchering and eventual consumption of the human remains.
- Pi's mother attempts to maintain a sense of humanity and dignity, openly defying the cook's monstrous behavior through verbal outrage and a physical strike.
- A complex and fragile dynamic develops where the survivors oscillate between mutual dependence for survival and deep-seated revulsion for one another.
- The tension culminates in a violent confrontation where the cook murders Pi's mother, leading Pi to eventually kill the cook in an act of retribution and survival.
- The cook's final moments are marked by a strange passivity, suggesting he had reached a limit of his own bestial behavior and no longer wished to live.
He raised his head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash.
back to nursing the sailor.
"I wished for her anger. I wished for her to punish me. Only not this silence. I made to arrange some life
jackets for the sailor's comfort so that I could be next to her. I whispered, 'I'm sorry, Mother, I'm sorry.' My
eyes were brimming with tears. When I brought them up, I saw that hers were too. But she didn't look at me.
Her eyes were gazing upon some memory in mid-air.
"'We're all alone, Piscine, all alone,' she said, in a tone that broke every hope in my body. I never felt so lonely
in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been in the lifeboat two weeks already and it was taking its toll
on us. It was getting harder to believe that Father and Ravi had survived.
"When we turned around, the cook was holding the leg by the ankle over the water to drain it. Mother brought
her hand over the sailor's eyes.
"He died quietly, the life drained out of him like the liquid from his leg. The cook promptly butchered him.
The leg had made for poor bait. The dead flesh was too decayed to hold on to the fishing hook; it simply
dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster. He cut up everything, including the sailor's
skin and every inch of his intestines. He even prepared his genitals. When he had finished with his torso, he
moved on to his arms and shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain and horror. Mother
shrieked at the cook, 'How can you do this, you monster? Where is your humanity? Have you no decency?
What did the poor boy do to you? You monster! You monster!' The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity.
"'At least cover his face, for God's sake!' cried my mother. It was unbearable to have that beautiful face, so
noble and serene, connected to such a sight below. The cook threw himself upon the sailor's head and before
our very eyes scalped him and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited.
"When he had finished, he threw the butchered carcass overboard. Shortly after, strips of flesh and pieces of
organs were lying to dry in the sun all over the boat. We recoiled in horror. We tried not to look at them. The
smell would not go away.
"The next time the cook was close by, Mother slapped him in the face, a full hard slap that punctuated the air
with a sharp crack. It was something shocking coming from my mother. And it was heroic. It was an act of
outrage and pity and grief and bravery. It was done in memory of that poor sailor. It was to salvage his dignity.
"I was stunned. So was the cook. He stood without moving or saying a word as Mother looked him straight in
the face. I noticed how he did not meet her eyes.
"We retreated to our private spaces. I stayed close to her. I was filled with a mix of rapt admiration and abject
fear.
"Mother kept an eye on him. Two days later she saw him do it. He tried to be discreet, but she saw him bring
his hand to his mouth. She shouted, 'I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait! I knew it. You
monster! You animal! How could you? He's human! He's your own kind!' If she had expected him to be
mortified, to spit it out and break down and apologize, she was wrong. He kept chewing. In fact, he lifted his
head up and quite openly put the rest of the strip in his mouth. 'Tastes like pork,' he muttered. Mother
expressed her indignation and disgust by violently turning away. He ate another strip. 'I feel stronger already,'
he muttered. He concentrated on his fishing.
"We each had our end of the lifeboat. It's amazing how willpower can build walls. Whole days went by as if
he weren't there.
Page 171
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he
knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the
fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very
short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
"Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us,
but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to
eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to
me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
"When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you
owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It
made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in
a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I
looked at him with-yes-with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man
even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would
come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that
never came. That's when he stole food and water.
"The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it.
"He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle.
Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing
me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled
aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was
mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The
knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up-it was red. It went up and down
repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his
head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip
could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of
blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its
path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared
when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.
"I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have
cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience.
"In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said
nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for
me on the middle bench. I ate.
"Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of
fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too
far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he
never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways?
"The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from
the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach.
The Cook and the Knife
- The narrator describes a complex survival dynamic with a brutal but resourceful cook who provided food and built a raft.
- Despite their revulsion, the narrator and their mother eventually began eating raw sea life to survive the starvation at sea.
- The fragile peace shattered when the cook murdered the narrator's mother during a violent confrontation over lost food.
- After the murder, the cook appeared to lose his will to live, offering the narrator food before allowing himself to be killed.
- The narrator ultimately stabs the cook to death in an act of retribution, noting the man's strange lack of resistance.
A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash.
"But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he
knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the
fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very
short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
"Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us,
but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to
eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to
me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
"When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you
owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It
made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in
a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I
looked at him with-yes-with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man
even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would
come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that
never came. That's when he stole food and water.
"The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it.
"He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle.
Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing
me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled
aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was
mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The
knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up-it was red. It went up and down
repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his
head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip
could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of
blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its
path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared
when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.
"I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have
cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience.
"In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said
nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for
me on the middle bench. I ate.
"Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of
fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too
far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he
never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways?
"The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from
the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach.
He grimaced but
remained standing. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Blood was pouring out. Still he didn't fall
over. Looking me in the eyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he mean something by this? I took it that
he did. I stabbed him in the throat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say
The Cook and the Sea
- The narrator describes a complex dependency on a brutal cook whose survival skills and resourcefulness kept them alive despite his abusive nature.
- Extreme hunger forces the narrator's vegetarian mother to consume raw fish and turtle, highlighting the erosion of moral and personal boundaries in survival situations.
- A violent confrontation erupts after a lost turtle, leading to the cook murdering the narrator's mother in a brutal, visceral display of savagery.
- The narrator eventually kills the cook, who seemingly accepts his fate as a consequence of his own bestial actions and the weight of his conscience.
A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash.
"But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he
knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the
fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very
short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
"Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us,
but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to
eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to
me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
"When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you
owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It
made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in
a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I
looked at him with-yes-with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man
even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would
come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that
never came. That's when he stole food and water.
"The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it.
"He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle.
Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing
me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled
aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was
mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The
knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up-it was red. It went up and down
repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his
head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip
could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of
blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its
path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared
when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.
"I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have
cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience.
"In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said
nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for
me on the middle bench. I ate.
"Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of
fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too
far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he
never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways?
"The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from
the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach.
He grimaced but
remained standing. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Blood was pouring out. Still he didn't fall
over. Looking me in the eyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he mean something by this? I took it that
he did. I stabbed him in the throat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say
Page 172
The Cook and the Knife
- The narrator and his mother survive on a lifeboat thanks to the practical survival skills of a brutal, short-tempered cook.
- Despite their revulsion, the survivors are forced to abandon their vegetarianism and eat raw sea life to stay alive.
- A violent confrontation erupts after a lost turtle, resulting in the cook murdering the narrator's mother in a brutal knife attack.
- The cook eventually surrenders to his own guilt, allowing the narrator to kill him without offering a true defense.
- The narrator reflects on the duality of the cook, who provided the means for survival while simultaneously acting as a bestial murderer.
A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash.
"But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he
knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the
fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very
short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
"Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us,
but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to
eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to
me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
"When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you
owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It
made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in
a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I
looked at him with-yes-with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man
even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would
come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that
never came. That's when he stole food and water.
"The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it.
"He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle.
Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing
me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled
aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was
mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The
knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up-it was red. It went up and down
repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his
head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip
could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of
blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its
path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared
when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.
"I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have
cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience.
"In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said
nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for
me on the middle bench. I ate.
"Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of
fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too
far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he
never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways?
"The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from
the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach.
He grimaced but
remained standing. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Blood was pouring out. Still he didn't fall
over. Looking me in the eyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he mean something by this? I took it that
he did. I stabbed him in the throat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say
Page 172
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
The Brutality of Survival
- The narrator describes a complex, survival-based dependency on a violent cook who provided food and technical skills despite his cruelty.
- Tensions on the lifeboat peak when the cook murders the narrator's mother during a struggle over lost food.
- Following the murder, the cook descends into a state of guilt-ridden resignation, eventually allowing the narrator to kill him without significant resistance.
- The narrator reflects on the horrific act of cannibalizing the cook and the realization of their own capacity for evil and ruthlessness.
A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip could have inflicted a more painful lash.
"But we couldn't ignore him entirely. He was a brute, but a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he
knew the sea. He was full of good ideas. He was the one who thought of building a raft to help with the
fishing. If we survived any time at all, it was thanks to him. I helped him as best I could. He was very
short-tempered, always shouting at me and insulting me.
"Mother and I didn't eat any of the sailor's body, not the smallest morsel, despite the cost in weakness to us,
but we did start to eat what the cook caught from the sea. My mother, a lifelong vegetarian, brought herself to
eat raw fish and raw turtle. She had a very hard time of it. She never got over her revulsion. It came easier to
me. I found hunger improved the taste of everything.
"When your life has been given a reprieve, it's impossible not to feel some warmth for the one to whom you
owe that reprieve. It was very exciting when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big dorado. It
made us smile broadly and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours. Mother and the cook talked in
a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, life on the boat was nearly good. At such times I
looked at him with-yes-with tenderness. With love. I imagined that we were fast friends. He was a coarse man
even when he was in a good mood, but we pretended not to notice it, even to ourselves. He said that we would
come upon an island. That was our main hope. We exhausted our eyes scanning the horizon for an island that
never came. That's when he stole food and water.
"The flat and endless Pacific rose like a great wall around us. I never thought we would get around it.
"He killed her. The cook killed my mother. We were starving. I was weak. I couldn't hold on to a turtle.
Because of me we lost it. He hit me. Mother hit him. He hit her back. She turned to me and said, 'Go!' pushing
me towards the raft. I jumped for it. I thought she was coming with me. I landed in the water. I scrambled
aboard the raft. They were fighting. I did nothing but watch. My mother was fighting an adult man. He was
mean and muscular. He caught her by the wrist and twisted it. She shrieked and fell. He moved over her. The
knife appeared. He raised it in the air. It came down. Next it was up-it was red. It went up and down
repeatedly. I couldn't see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. He stopped. He raised his
head and looked at me. He hurled something my way. A line of blood struck me across the face. No whip
could have inflicted a more painful lash. I held my mother's head in my hands. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of
blood, her tress trailing like a tail. Fish spiralled down towards it until a shark's long grey shadow cut across its
path and it vanished. I looked up. I couldn't see him. He was hiding at the bottom of the boat. He appeared
when he threw my mother's body overboard. His mouth was red. The water boiled with fish.
"I spent the rest of that day and the night on the raft, looking at him. We didn't speak a word. He could have
cut the raft loose. But he didn't. He kept me around, like a bad conscience.
"In the morning, in plain sight of him, I pulled on the rope and boarded the lifeboat. I was very weak. He said
nothing. I kept my peace. He caught a turtle. He gave me its blood. He butchered it and laid its best parts for
me on the middle bench. I ate.
"Then we fought and I killed him. He had no expression on his face, neither of despair nor of anger, neither of
fear nor of pain. He gave up. He let himself be killed, though it was still a struggle. He knew he had gone too
far, even by his bestial standards. He had gone too far and now he didn't want to go on living any more. But he
never said 'I'm sorry.' Why do we cling to our evil ways?
"The knife was all along in plain view on the bench. We both knew it. He could have had it in his hands from
the start. He was the one who put it there. I picked it up. I stabbed him in the stomach.
He grimaced but
remained standing. I pulled the knife out and stabbed him again. Blood was pouring out. Still he didn't fall
over. Looking me in the eyes, he lifted his head ever so slightly. Did he mean something by this? I took it that
he did. I stabbed him in the throat, next to the Adam's apple. He dropped like a stone. And died. He didn't say
Page 172
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
anything. He had no last words. He only coughed up blood. A knife has a horrible dynamic power; once in
motion, it's hard to stop. I stabbed him repeatedly. His blood soothed my chapped hands. His heart was a
struggle-all those tubes that connected it. I managed to get it out. It tasted delicious, far better than turtle. I ate
his liver. I cut off great pieces of his flesh.
"He was such an evil man. Worse still, he met evil in me-selfishness, anger, ruthlessness. I must live with that.
The Brutal Second Story
- Pi reveals a second, darker version of his survival story where the animals are replaced by human counterparts.
- The investigators realize the zebra, orangutan, hyena, and tiger correspond to a sailor, Pi's mother, the cook, and Pi himself.
- Pi confesses to the violent killing and consumption of the cook, admitting that he met the cook's evil with his own ruthlessness.
- The investigators question Pi about the sinking of the Tsimtsum, but he offers no technical explanation beyond the crew's incompetence.
- Pi suggests that drunken crew members might have released the animals using crowbars, though he cannot provide a definitive reason why.
He was such an evil man. Worse still, he met evil in me-selfishness, anger, ruthlessness. I must live with that.
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
anything. He had no last words. He only coughed up blood. A knife has a horrible dynamic power; once in
motion, it's hard to stop. I stabbed him repeatedly. His blood soothed my chapped hands. His heart was a
struggle-all those tubes that connected it. I managed to get it out. It tasted delicious, far better than turtle. I ate
his liver. I cut off great pieces of his flesh.
"He was such an evil man. Worse still, he met evil in me-selfishness, anger, ruthlessness. I must live with that.
"Solitude began. I turned to God. I survived."
[Long silence]
"Is that better? Are there any parts you find hard to believe? Anything you'd like me to change?"
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What a korrible story."
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "Both the zebra and the Taiwanese sailor broke a leg, did you notice that?"
"No, I didn't."
"And the hyena bit off the zebra's leg just as the cook cut off the sailor's."
"Ohhh, Okamoto-san, you see a lot."
"Tke blind Frenchman they met in the other lifeboat-didn't he admit to killing a man and a woman?"
"Yes, he did."
"The cook killed the sailor and his mother"
"Very impressive."
"His stories match."
"So the Taiwanese sailor is the zebra, his mother is the orang-utan, the cook is ... the hyena - which means he
is the tiger!"
"Yes. The tiger killed the hyena-and the blind Frenchman-just as he killed the cook."</translation>
Pi Patel: "Do you have another chocolate bar?"
Mr. Chiba: "Right away!"
"Thank you."
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"But what does it mean, Okamoto-san?"
"I have no idea."
"And what about those teeth? Whose teeth were those in the tree?"
Page 173
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"I don't know. I'm not inside this boy's head."</translation>
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "Please excuse me for asking, but did the cook say anything about the sinking of the
Tsimtsum?"
"In this other story?"
"Yes."
"He didn't."
"He made no mention of anything leading up to the early morning of July 2nd that might explain what
happened?"
"No."
"Nothing of a nature mechanical or structural?"
"No."
"Nothing about other ships or objects at sea?"
"No."
"He could not explain the sinking of the Tsimtsum at all?"
"No"
"Could he say why it didn't send out a distress signal?"
"And if it had? In my experience, when a dingy, third-rate rust-bucket sinks, unless it has the luck of carrying
oil, lots of it, enough to kill entire ecosystems, no one cares and no one hears about it. You're on your own."
"When Oika realized that something was wrong, it was too late. You were too far out for air rescue. Ships in
the area were told to be on the lookout. They reported seeing nothing."
"And while we're on the subject, the ship wasn't the only thing that was third-rate. The crew were a sullen,
unfriendly lot, hard at work when officers were around but doing nothing when they weren't. They didn't
speak a word of English and they were of no help to us. Some of them stank of alcohol by mid-afternoon.
Who's to say what those idiots did? The officers-"
"What do you mean by that?"
"By what?"
"'Who's to say what those idiots did?'"
"I mean that maybe in a fit of drunken insanity some of them released the animals."
Page 174
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Mr. Chiba: "Who had the keys to the cages?"
"Father did."
Mr. Chiba: "So how could the crew open the cages if they didn't have the keys?"
"I don't know. They probably used crowbars."
Mr. Chiba: "Why would they do that? Why would anyone want to release a dangerous wild animal from its
cage?"
"I don't know. Can anyone fathom the workings of a drunken man's mind? All I can tell you is what happened.
The animals were out of their cages."
Mr. Okamoto: "Excuse me. You have doubts about the fitness of the crew?"
"Grave doubts."
"Did you witness any of the officers being under the influence of alcohol?"
"No."
"But you saw some of the crew being under the influence of alcohol?"
"Yes."
The Sinking of Normal
- Pi Patel undergoes a rigorous interrogation by investigators Mr. Okamoto and Mr. Chiba regarding the sinking of the Tsimtsum.
- The investigators express skepticism about Pi's account, questioning the severity of the storm and the competence of the ship's crew.
- Pi describes a hostile environment on the ship where the Japanese officers and crew treated his family with cold indifference.
- Despite the technical questioning about the ship's list and mechanical failures, Pi maintains that the cause of the tragedy remains a mystery.
- The investigators ultimately concede that the true reason for the ship's disappearance is lost at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean.
Everything was normal and then... Then normal sank.
"I don't know. They probably used crowbars."
Mr. Chiba: "Why would they do that? Why would anyone want to release a dangerous wild animal from its
cage?"
"I don't know. Can anyone fathom the workings of a drunken man's mind? All I can tell you is what happened.
The animals were out of their cages."
Mr. Okamoto: "Excuse me. You have doubts about the fitness of the crew?"
"Grave doubts."
"Did you witness any of the officers being under the influence of alcohol?"
"No."
"But you saw some of the crew being under the influence of alcohol?"
"Yes."
"Did the officers act in what seemed to you a competent and professional manner?"
"They had little to do with us. They never came close to the animals."
"I mean in terms of running the ship."
"How should I know? Do you think we had tea with them every day? They spoke English, but they were no
better than the crew. They made us feel unwelcome in the common room and hardly said a word to us during
meals. They went on in Japanese, as if we weren't there. We were just a lowly Indian family with a
bothersome cargo. We ended up eating on our own in Father and Mother's cabin. 'Adventure beckons!' said
Ravi. That's what made it tolerable, our sense of adventure. We spent most of our time shovelling excrement
and rinsing cages and giving feed while Father played the vet. So long as the animals were all right, we were
all right. I don't know if the officers were competent."
"You said the ship was listing to port?"
"Yes."
"And that there was an incline from bow to stern?"
"Yes."
"So the ship sank stern first?"
Page 175
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Yes."
"Not bow first?"
"No."
"You are sure? There was a slope from the front of the ship to the back?"
"Yes."
"Did the ship hit another ship?"
"I didn't see another ship."
"Did it hit any other object?"
"Not that I saw."
"Did it run aground?"
"No, it sank out of sight."
"You were not aware of mechanical problems after leaving Manila?"
"No."
"Did it appear to you that the ship was properly loaded?"
"It was my first time on a ship. I don't know what a properly loaded ship should look like."
"You believe you heard an explosion?"
"Yes."
"Any other noises?"
"A thousand."
"I mean that might explain the sinking."
"No."
"You said the ship sank quickly."
"Yes."
"Can you estimate how long it took?"
"It's hard to say. Very quickly. I would think less than twenty minutes."
"And there was a lot of debris?"
Page 176
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Yes."
"Was the ship struck by a freak wave?"
"I don't think so."
"But there was a storm?"
"The sea looked rough to me. There was wind and rain."
"How high were the waves?"
"High. Twenty-five, thirty feet."
"That's quite modest, actually."
"Not when you're in a lifeboat."
"Yes, of course. But for a cargo ship."
"Maybe they were higher. I don't know. The weather was bad enough to scare me witless, that's all I know for
sure."
"You said the weather improved quickly. The ship sank and right after it was a beautiful day, isn't that what
you said?"
"Yes."
"Sounds like no more than a passing squall."
"It sank the ship."
"That's what we're wondering."
"My whole family died."
"We're sorry about that."
"Not as much as I am."
"So what happened, Mr. Patel? We're puzzled.. Everything was normal and then...?"
"Then normal sank."
"Why?"
"I don't know. You should be telling me. You're the experts. Apply your science."
"We don't understand."
Page 177
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
[Long silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Now what?"
Mr. Okamoto: "We give up. The explanation for the sinking of the Tsimtsum is at the bottom of the Pacific."
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that's it. Let's go.</translation> Well, Mr. Patel, I think we have all we need. We thank
you very much for your cooperaticon. You've been very, very helpful."
"You're welcome. But before you go, I'd like to ask you something."
"Yes?"
"The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977."
"Yes."
The Better Story
- The Japanese investigators admit they cannot determine the factual cause of the ship's sinking and decide to conclude their inquiry.
- Pi Patel challenges the investigators to choose between his two versions of the survival story: one involving animals and one involving human brutality.
- The investigators agree that the story with animals is the 'better story,' despite neither version changing the factual outcome of the tragedy.
- Pi equates the preference for the more beautiful story with the nature of religious faith and the existence of God.
- The interrogation ends with a polite exchange of cookies and well-wishes as Pi prepares to start a new life in Canada.
- Mr. Okamoto later reflects on Pi as a remarkably thin, tough, and bright individual in his official report.
So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which story do you prefer?
"We don't understand."
Page 177
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
[Long silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"Now what?"
Mr. Okamoto: "We give up. The explanation for the sinking of the Tsimtsum is at the bottom of the Pacific."
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "Yes, that's it. Let's go.</translation> Well, Mr. Patel, I think we have all we need. We thank
you very much for your cooperaticon. You've been very, very helpful."
"You're welcome. But before you go, I'd like to ask you something."
"Yes?"
"The Tsimtsum sank on July 2nd, 1977."
"Yes."
"And I arrived on the coast of Mexico, the sole human surviwor of the Tsimtsum, on February 14th, 1978."
"That's right."
"I told you two stories that account for the 227 days in between."
"Yes, you did."
"Neither explains the sinking of the Tsimtsum."
"That's right."
"Neither makes a factual difference to you."
"That's true."
"You can't prove which story is true and which is not. You must take my word for it."
"I guess so."
"In both stories the ship sinks, my entire family dies, and I suffer."
"Yes, that's true."
"So tell me, since it makes no factual difference to you and you can't prove the question either way, which
story do you prefer? Which is the better story, the story with animals or the story without animals?"
Mr. Okamoto: "That's an interesting question..."
Mr. Chiba: "The story with animals."
Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"Yes.</translation> The story with animals is the better story."
Page 178
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
Pi Patel: "Thank you. And so it goes with God."
[Silence]
Mr. Chiba: <translation>"What did he just say?"
Mr. Okamoto: "I don't know."
Mr. Chiba: "Oh look-he's crying."</translation>
[Long silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "We'll be careful when we drive away. We don't want to run into Richard Parker."
Pi Patel: "Don't worry, you won't. He's hiding somewhere you'll never find him."
Mr. Okamoto: "Thank you for taking the time to talk to us, Mr. Patel. We're grateful. And we're really very
sorry about what happened to you."
"Thank you."
"What will you be doing now?"
"I guess I'll go to Canada."
"Not back to India?"
"No. There's nothing there for me now. Only sad memories."
"Of course, you know you will be getting insurance money."
"Oh."
"Yes. Oika will be in touch with you."
[Silence]
Mr. Okamoto: "We should be going. We wish you all the best, Mr. Patel."
Mr. Chiba: "Yes, all the best."
"Thank you."
Mr. Okamoto: "Goodbye."
Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye."
Pi Patel: "Would you like some cookies for the road?"
Mr. Okamoto: "That would be nice."
Page 179
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
"Here, have three each."
"Thank you."
Mr. Chiba: "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Goodbye. God be with you, my brothers."
"Thank you. And with you too, Mr. Patel."
Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye."
Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"I'm starving. Let's go eat. You can turn that off."</translation>
CHAPTER IOO
Mr. Okamoto, in his letter to me, recalled the interrogation as having been "difficult and memorable." He
remembered Piscine Molitor Patel as being "very thin, very tough, very bright."
His report, in its essential part, ran as follows:
The Final Report
- The interrogation of Pi Patel concludes with a polite exchange of food and well-wishes between the survivor and the investigators.
- Mr. Okamoto's official report states that the cause of the Tsimtsum's sinking remains impossible to determine due to lack of evidence.
- The report dismisses various theories including weather, collisions, and mines, ultimately recommending that the insurance case be closed.
- Despite the technical ambiguity of the shipwreck, the investigator privately acknowledges Pi's story as an unparalleled feat of endurance.
- The document concludes by highlighting the extraordinary nature of Pi surviving at sea for so long in the company of an adult Bengal tiger.
Very few castaways can claim to have survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger.
"Here, have three each."
"Thank you."
Mr. Chiba: "Thank you."
"You're welcome. Goodbye. God be with you, my brothers."
"Thank you. And with you too, Mr. Patel."
Mr. Chiba: "Goodbye."
Mr. Okamoto: <translation>"I'm starving. Let's go eat. You can turn that off."</translation>
CHAPTER IOO
Mr. Okamoto, in his letter to me, recalled the interrogation as having been "difficult and memorable." He
remembered Piscine Molitor Patel as being "very thin, very tough, very bright."
His report, in its essential part, ran as follows:
Sole survivor could shed no light on reasons for sinking of Tsimtsum. Ship appears to have sunk very quickly,
which would indicate a major hull breach. Important quantity of debris would support this theory. But precise
reason of breach impossible to determine. No major weather disturbance reported that day in quadrant.
Survivor's assessment of weather impressionistic and unreliable. At most, weather a contributing factor. Cause
was perhaps internal to ship. Survivor believes he heard an explosion, hinting at a major engine problem,
possibly the explosion of a boiler, but this is speculation. Ship twenty-nine years old (Erlandson and Skank
Shipyards, Malmo, 1948), refitted in 1970. Stress of weather combined with structural fatigue a possibility,
but conjecture. No other ship mishap reported in area on that day, so ship-ship collision unlikely. Collision
with debris a possibility, but unverifiable. Collision with a floating mine might explain explosion, but seems
fanciful, besides highly unlikely as sinking started at stern, which in all likelihood would mean that hull
breach was at stern too. Survivor cast doubts on fitness of crew but had nothing to say about officers. Oika
Shipping Company claims all cargo absolutely licit and not aware of any officer or crew problems.
Cause of sinking impossible to determine from available evidence. Standard insurance claim procedure for
Oika. No further action required. Recommend that case be closed.
As an aside, story of sole survivor, Mr. Piscine Molitor Patel, Indian citizen, is an astounding story of courage
and endurance in the face of extraordinarily difficult and tragic circumstances. In the experience of this
investigator, his story is unparalleled in the history of shipwrecks. Very few castaways can claim to have
survived so long at sea as Mr. Patel, and none in the company of an adult Bengal tiger.
Page 180
Yann Martel: Life of Pi
YANN MARTEL was born in Spain in 1963. After studying philosophy at Trent University and doing various
odd jobs, he began to write. He is the prize-winning author of The Facts behind the Helsinki Roccamatios, a
collection of short stories, and of Self, a novel, both of them published internationally. He lives in Montreal.
Page 181