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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?"
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