the next morning i was not too wet and i was feelingstrong. i thought this was remarkable considering the strain iwas under and how little i had eaten in the last several days.

it was a fine day. i decided to try my hand at fishing, forthe first time in my life. after a breakfast of three biscuits andone can of water, i read what the survival manual had to sayon the subject. the first problem arose: bait. i thought aboutit. there were the dead animals, but stealing food from undera tiger's nose was a proposition i was not up to. he wouldnot realize that it was an investment that would bring him anexcellent return. i decided to use my leather shoe. i had onlyone left. the other i had lost when the ship sank.

i crept up to the lifeboat and i gathered from the lockerone of the fishing kits, the knife and a bucket for my catch.

richard parker was lying on his side. his tail jumped to lifewhen i was at the bow but his head did not lift. i let the raftout.

i attached a hook to a wire leader, which i tied to a line. iadded some lead weights. i picked three that had an intriguingtorpedo shape. i removed my shoe and cut it into pieces. itwas hard work; the leather was tough. i carefully worked thehook into a flat piece of hide, not through it but into it, sothat the point of the hook was hidden. i let the line downdeep. there had been so many fish the previous evening that iexpected easy success.

i had none. the whole shoe disappeared bit by bit, slighttug on the line by slight tug on the line, happy freeloading fishby happy freeloading fish, bare hook by bare hook, until i wasleft with only the rubber sole and the shoelace. when theshoelace proved an unconvincing earthworm, out of sheerexasperation i tried the sole, all of it. it was not a good idea. ifelt a slight, promising tug and then the line was unexpectedlylight. all i pulled in was line. i had lost the whole tackle.

this loss did not strike me as a terrible blow. there wereother hooks, leader wires and weights in the kit, besides awhole other kit. and i wasn't even fishing for myself. i hadplenty of food in store.

still, a part of my mind – the one that says what we don'twant to hear – rebuked me. "stupidity has a price. you shouldshow more care and wisdom next time."later that morning a second turtle appeared. it came rightup to the raft. it could have reached up and bit my bottom ifit had wanted to. when it turned i reached for its hind flipper,but as soon as i touched it i recoiled in horror. the turtleswam away.

the same part of my mind that had rebuked me over myfishing fiasco scolded me again. "what exactly do you intend tofeed that tiger of yours? how much longer do you think he'lllast on three dead animals? do i need to remind you thattigers are not carrion eaters? granted, when he's on his lastlegs he probably won't lift his nose at much. but don't youthink that before he submits to eating puffy, putrefied zebrahe'll try the fresh, juicy indian boy just a short dip away? andhow are we doing with the water situation? you know howtigers get impatient with thirst. have you smelled his breathrecently? it's pretty awful. that's a bad sign. perhaps you'rehoping that he'll lap up the pacific and in quenching his thirstallow you to walk to america? quite amazing, this limitedcapacity to excrete salt that sundarbans tigers have developed.

comes from living in a tidal mangrove forest, i suppose. but itis a limited capacity. don't they say that drinking too muchsaline water makes a man-eater of a tiger? oh, look. speak ofthe devil. there he is. he's yawning. my, my, what anenormous pink cave. look at those long yellow stalactites andstalagmites. maybe today you'll get a chance to visit."richard parker's tongue, the size and colour of a rubberhot-water bottle, retreated and his mouth closed. he swallowed.

i spent the rest of the day worrying myself sick. i stayedaway from the lifeboat. despite my own dire predictions,richard parker passed the time calmly enough. he still hadwater from the rainfall and he didn't seem too concerned withhunger. but he did make various tiger noises – growls andmoans and the like – that did nothing to put me at ease. theriddle seemed irresolvable: to fish i needed bait, but i wouldhave 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 mostunexpected way. i had pulled myself up to the lifeboat. morethan that: i had climbed aboard and was rummaging throughthe locker, feverishly looking for an idea that would save mylife. i had tied the raft so that it was about six feet from theboat. i fancied that with a jump and a pull at a loose knot icould save myself from richard parker. desperation hadpushed me to take such a risk.

finding nothing, no bait and no new idea, i sat up – onlyto discover that i was dead centre in the focus of his stare.

he was at the other end of the lifeboat, where the zebra usedto be, turned my way and sitting up, looking as if he'd beenpatiently waiting for me to notice him. how was it that i hadn'theard him stir? what delusion was i under that i thought icould outwit him? suddenly i was hit hard across the face. icried out and closed my eyes. with feline speed he had leaptacross the lifeboat and struck me. i was to have my faceclawed off – this was the gruesome way i was to die. thepain was so severe i felt nothing. blessed be shock. blessed bethat part of us that protects us from too much pain andsorrow. at the heart of life is a fuse box. i whimpered, "goahead, richard parker, finish me off. but please, what youmust 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. ifearfully opened an eye.

it was a fish. there was a fish in the locker. it was floppingabout like a fish out of water. it was about fifteen inches longand it had wings. a flying fish. slim and dark grey-blue, withdry, featherless wings and round, unblinking, yellowish eyes. itwas this flying fish that had struck me across the face, notrichard parker. he was still fifteen feet away, no doubtwondering what i was going on about. but he had seen thefish. i could read a keen curiosity on his face. he seemedabout 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 flyingfish would follow. unfortunately, the flying fish flew. in mid-air,just ahead of richard parker's open mouth, the fish swervedand dropped into the water. it happened with lightning speed.

richard parker turned his head and snapped his mouth, jowlsflapping, but the fish was too quick for him. he lookedastonished and displeased. he turned to me again. "where'smy treat?" his face seemed to inquire. fear and sadnessgripped me. i turned with the half-hearted, half-abandonedhope that i could jump onto the raft before he could jumponto me.

at that precise instant there was a vibration in the air andwe were struck by a school of flying fish. they came like aswarm of locusts. it was not only their numbers; there wasalso something insect-like about the clicking, whirring sound oftheir wings. they burst out of the water, dozens of them at atime, some of them flick-flacking over a hundred yards throughthe air. many dived into the water just before the boat. anumber sailed clear over it. some crashed into its side,sounding like firecrackers going off. several lucky ones returnedto the water after a bounce on the tarpaulin. others, lessfortunate, fell directly into the boat, where they started a racketof flapping and flailing and splashing. and still others flew rightinto us. standing unprotected as i was, i felt i was living themartyrdom of saint sebastian. every fish that hit me was likean arrow entering my flesh. i clutched at a blanket to protectmyself while also trying to catch some of the fish. i receivedcuts 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 theywere faster swimmers and their short lunges were verypowerful. they could overtake flying fish if they were justbehind them and lunging from the water at the same time andin the same direction. there were sharks too; they also leaptout of the water, not so cleanly but with devastatingconsequence for some dorados. this aquatic mayhem didn't lastlong, but while it did, the sea bubbled and boiled, fish jumpedand jaws worked hard.

richard parker was tougher than i was in the face of thesefish, and far more efficient. he raised himself and went aboutblocking, swiping and biting all the fish he could. many wereeaten live and whole, struggling wings beating in his mouth. itwas a dazzling display of might and speed. actually, it was notso much the speed that was impressive as the pure animalconfidence, the total absorption in the moment. such a mix ofease and concentration, such a being-in-the-present, would bethe envy of the highest yogis.

when it was over, the result, besides a very sore body forme, was six flying fish in the locker and a much greaternumber 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 tacklethat morning had had a sobering effect on me. i couldn't allowmyself another mistake. i unwrapped the fish carefully, keepinga hand pressed down on it, fully aware that it would try tojump away to save itself. the closer the fish was to appearing,the more afraid and disgusted i became. its head came intosight. the way i was holding it, it looked like a scoop ofloathsome fish ice cream sticking out of a wool blanket cone.

the thing was gasping for water, its mouth and gills openingand closing slowly. i could feel it pushing with its wings againstmy hand. i turned the bucket over and brought its headagainst the bottom. i took hold of the hatchet. i raised it in theair.

several times i started bringing the hatchet down, but icouldn't complete the action. such sentimen-talism may seemridiculous considering what i had witnessed in the last days,but those were the deeds of others, of predatory animals. isuppose i was partly responsible for the rat's death, but i'donly thrown it; it was richard parker who had killed it. alifetime of peaceful vegetarianism stood between me and thewillful beheading of a fish.

i covered the fish's head with the blanket and turned thehatchet around. again my hand wavered in the air. the ideaof beating a soft, living head with a hammer was simply toomuch.

i put the hatchet down. i would break its neck, sightunseen, i decided. i wrapped the fish tightly in the blanket.

with both hands i started bending it. the more i pressed, themore the fish struggled. i imagined what it would feel like if iwere wrapped in a blanket and someone were trying to breakmy neck. i was appalled. i gave up a number of times. yet iknew it had to be done, and the longer i waited, the longerthe fish's suffering would go on.

tears flowing down my cheeks, i egged myself on until iheard a cracking sound and i no longer felt any life fighting inmy hands. i pulled back the folds of the blanket. the flyingfish was dead. it was split open and bloody on one side of itshead, at the level of the gills.

i wept heartily over this poor little deceased soul. it was thefirst sentient being i had ever killed. i was now a killer. i wasnow as guilty as cain. i was sixteen years old, a harmless boy,bookish and religious, and now i had blood on my hands. it'sa terrible burden to carry. all sentient life is sacred. i neverforget to include this fish in my prayers.

after that it was easier. now that it was dead, the flying fishlooked like fish i had seen in the markets of pondicherry. itwas something else, something outside the essential scheme ofcreation. i chopped it up into pieces with the hatchet and putit in the bucket.

in the dying hours of the day i tried fishing again. at first ihad no better luck than i'd had in the morning. but successseemed 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 itsink deeper, beyond the reach of the small fish thatconcentrated around the raft and lifeboat.

it was when i used the flying fish's head as bait, and withonly one sinker, casting my line out and pulling it in quickly,making the head skim over the surface of the water, that ifinally had my first strike. a dorado surged forth and lungedfor the fish head. i let out a little slack, to make sure it hadproperly swallowed the bait, before giving the line a good yank.

the dorado exploded out of the water, tugging on the line sohard i thought it was going to pull me off the raft. i bracedmyself. the line became very taut. it was good line; it wouldnot break. i started bringing the dorado in. it struggled with allits might, jumping and diving and splashing. the line cut intomy hands. i wrapped my hands in the blanket. my heart waspounding. the fish was as strong as an ox. i was not sure iwould be able to pull it in.

i noticed all the other fish had vanished from around theraft and boat. no doubt they had sensed the dorado's distress.

i hurried. its struggling would attract sharks. but it fought likea devil. my arms were aching. every time i got it close to theraft, it beat about with such frenzy that i was cowed intoletting out some line.

at last i managed to haul it aboard. it was over three feetlong. the bucket was useless. it would fit the dorado like ahat. i held the fish down by kneeling on it and using myhands. it was a writhing mass of pure muscle, so big its tailstuck out from beneath me, pounding hard against the raft. itwas giving me a ride like i imagine a bucking bronco wouldgive a cowboy. i was in a wild and triumphant mood. adorado is a magnificent-looking fish, large, fleshy and sleek, witha bulging forehead that speaks of a forceful personality, a verylong dorsal fin as proud as a cock's comb, and a coat ofscales that is smooth and bright. i felt i was dealing fate aserious blow by engaging such a handsome adversary. withthis fish i was retaliating against the sea, against the wind,against the sinking of ships, against all circumstances that wereworking against me. "thank you, lord vishnu, thank you!" ishouted. "once you saved the world by taking the form of afish. 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 thetrouble – after all, it was for richard parker and he wouldhave dispatched it with expert ease – but for the hook thatwas embedded in its mouth. i exulted at having a dorado atthe end of my line – i would be less keen if it were a tiger. iwent about the job in a direct way. i took the hatchet in bothmy hands and vigorously beat the fish on the head with thehammerhead (i still didn't have the stomach to use the sharpedge). the dorado did a most extraordinary thing as it died: itbegan to flash all kinds of colours in rapid succession. blue,green, red, gold and violet flickered and shimmered neon-likeon its surface as it struggled. i felt i was beating a rainbow todeath. (i found out later that the dorado is famed for itsdeath-knell iridescence.) at last it lay still and dull-coloured, andi could remove the hook. i even managed to retrieve a part ofmy bait.

you may be astonished that in such a short period of time icould go from weeping over the muffled killing of a flying fishto gleefully bludgeoning to death a dorado. i could explain it byarguing that profiting from a pitiful flying fish's navigationalmistake made me shy and sorrowful, while the excitement ofactively capturing a great dorado made me sanguinary andself-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 thelifeboat. i brought it along the side, keeping very low. i swungmy arm and dropped the dorado into the boat. it landed witha heavy thud and provoked a gruff expression of surprise fromrichard parker. after a sniff or two, i heard the wet mashingsound of a mouth at work. i pushed myself off, not forgettingto blow the whistle hard several times, to remind richardparker of who had so graciously provided him with fresh food.

i stopped to pick up some biscuits and a can of water. thefive remaining flying fish in the locker were dead. i pulled theirwings off, throwing them away, and wrapped the fish in thenow-consecrated fish blanket.

by the time i had rinsed myself of blood, cleaned up myfishing gear, put things away and had my supper, night hadcome on. a thin layer of clouds masked the stars and themoon, and it was very dark. i was tired, but still excited bythe events of the last hours. the feeling of busyness wasprofoundly satisfying; i hadn't thought at all about my plight ormyself. fishing was surely a better way of passing the timethan yarn-spinning or playing i spy. i determined to start againthe next day as soon as there was light.

i fell asleep, my mind lit up by the chameleon-like flickeringof the dying dorado.