Chapter One
My suffering left me sad and gloomy.
Academic study and the steady, mindful practice of religion slowly brought me
back to life. I have remained a faithful Hindu, Christian and Muslim. I decided
to stay in Toronto. 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 a 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 sloth’s 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 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, 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.
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.
Continues…
Excerpted from Life of Pi
by Yann Martel
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Houghton Mifflin Harcourt (HMH)
ISBN: 9780151008117
