Life of Pi

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 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!”

C H A P T E R 5 2

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, headless 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

• 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.

C H A P T E R 5 3

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.