THE ALTERNATE STORY: SCRIPT

By using the Novel Life of Pi, we came up with a radio play based off of the alternate story presented to the reader at the end of the novel. With this script we tried to capture the animalistic characteristics of the four human survivors. We were also able to develop a great understanding of the concepts of zoomorphism and anthropomorphism.

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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.



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. It 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 arrived. Mother held on to some bananas and made it onto the lifeboat. The cook was already aboard, as was the sailor. He was such a brute that cook, ill-tempered and hypocritical. He was a disgusting man. His mouth had the discrimination of a garbage heap. Right away he was engulfed by the terror of hunger. He ate flies, greedily and even a rat. The sailor was young. Actually he was older than me, somewhere in his early twenties but he broke his leg jumping from the ship. His suffering made him a child. He was beautiful, with a clear, shining complexion and exotic facial features. He spoke no English, only Chinese. Not a yes or a no, nor a please or a thank you.  We did not understand a word he said. He suffered not only from the pain in his leg but of loneliness and solitude. He suffered, but there was nothing we could do. His leg was badly broken. The bone stuck out of the flesh. He screamed with pain. We helped him as best as we could but the leg got worse. It eventually became infected. His foot became black and bloated.



Cook: The blackness will spread. We can save his life only by removing the leg. It will be easy. It will involve no more than cutting through flesh and setting a tourniquet.



Pi: It took a while but we listened. He dominated us.



Mother: We are left with no other choice. We must do this. For him.



Pi: The butcher would do the job. But we would hold him down.



Cook: The only anaesthetic would be surprise.



Pi: We fell upon him. Mother and I held his arms as the butcher sat on his good leg. He writhed and screamed. His chest rose and fell. The cook worked fast, as only a cook could do. The leg fell off. Immediately, Mother and I released the sailor to die with fear as his only companion. He screamed and we stared, transfixed. Blood was everywhere, spread across the deck in puddles. The sailor kept looking at his limb, torn away from his body. There was longing in his eyes as if he were imploring it to return. Finally, he fell back, his eyelids fluttering shut.



Mother: We must work quickly, Piscine! 



Pi: The cook folded some skin over the bone. We wrapped the stump in a torn piece of cloth and tied a rope above the wound to stop the bleeding. I did not believe he would survive. It was unimaginable. Subjected to that pain, I believed no one could survive. He moaned. Evening and night. He clung to life. He went in and out of consciousness. It was dawn and he was still alive.



Mother: We must give him water.



Pi: I caught sight of the amputated leg. It cut my breath short. It had been forgotten and was shoved to the side of the boat, hidden in the dark. I took a jacket, using it as a glove to pick up the limb when I heard.



Cook: What are you doing? 



Pi: I’m going to throw it overboard.



Cook: Don’t be an idiot. We’ll use it as bait. That was the whole point.



Pi: He seemed to regret his words as they left his mouth for his voice quickly faded and he turned away. His comment did not go unnoticed. At those words, my mother turned.



Mother: The whole point? She asked. What do you mean by that?



Pi: He ignored her and pretended to be preoccupied. But my mother’s voice rose.



Mother: Are you telling us that we cut this poor boy’s leg off not to save his life but to get fishing bait? 



Pi: Silence from the brute.



Mother: Answer me!



Pi: Like a cornered beast he lifted his eyes and glared in her direction.



Cook: Our supplies are running out, he snarled. We need more food or we’ll die.

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Pi: Mother returned his glare.



Mother: Our supplies are not running out! There is plenty of food and water. Package upon package of biscuits are available 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 empty save or the few crumbs that flew to the deck. What! Where are the biscuits? This container was full last night. The cook looked away. As did I. You selfish monster, she screamed. The only reason we are running out of food is because you are gorging yourself on it.



Cook: He had some too!



Pi: She turned to me. My heart sank.



Mother: Is what he says true, Piscine? 



Pi: I begin to babble. It was night, Mother. I was half asleep and I was so hungry. He gave me a biscuit. I ate it without thinking...



Cook: Only one was it? 



Pi: It was Mother’s turn to look away. The anger seemed to go out of her as fast as it had come. I wished for her to punish me with her words. I dreaded 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 so sorry. My eyes were brimming with tears, as were hers. But she didn’t look at me. Her eyes were fixed on the horizon, on a distant memory.



Mother: We’re all alone, Piscine, all alone.



Pi: I had never felt as lonely in all my life as I did at that moment. We had been stranded on this lifeboat for two weeks and it was already taking its toll on us. It was getting harder to believe that the rest of my family had survived. As we turned around, the cook was holding the amputated leg over the water to drain it. Mother brought her hand gently over the sailor’s eyes. His death was quiet and peaceful. The life drained out of him like the blood from his leg. The cook hastily butchered him. The leg had been intended as bait but the dead flesh simply dissolved in the water. Nothing went to waste with this monster though. He cut up everything, including the sailor’s skin, every inch of his intestines and even his genitals. He began with his torso, and then he moved on to his arms, shoulders and to his legs. Mother and I rocked with pain, horror, and disgust. Mother shrieked at the brute.



Mother: 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!



Pi: The cook replied with unbelievable vulgarity.



Mother: At least cover his face, for God’s sake! 



Pi: It was unbearable to have that beautiful face connected to such a sight below. The cook, without hesitation, and before our very eyes, scalped the dead sailor and pulled off his face. Mother and I vomited. When he had finished, he threw the mutilated carcass overboard. The cook placed strips of flesh and pieces of organs to dry in the sun all over the boat. The sight of this caused us to recoil. Mother and I tried not to look at them but the smell would not go away. The next time the cook was near; Mother slapped him in the face, a hard slap that punctuated the air with a sharp crack. It was a shocking sight 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, out of shame or fear. We retreated to our private spaces but I remained 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 cried.

Mother: I saw you! You just ate a piece! You said it was for bait. I knew it. You monster! You animal! How could you? Can you not see that he is human? Can you not see that he is your own kind? You beast!



Pi: If she expected some sort of remorse or for him to spit the piece out of his mouth and break down in apology, she was horribly wrong. In fact he did the opposite. He kept chewing. He lifted his head and put the rest of the piece in his mouth. With that he simply muttered.



Cook: Tastes like pork.



Pi: Mother expressed her indignation and disgust the only way she could. She turned away. But this made no impression on him. He ate another strip.



Cook: I feel stronger already, he muttered with some humour hidden in his voice.



Pi:  We each had our own end of the lifeboat. It amazed me how willpower can build walls. Whole days went by and it felt as if he weren't there. But we couldn’t ignore him entirely. Yes, he was a brute, but he was a practical brute. He was good with his hands and he knew the sea well. I helped him as best I could. He was very short-tempered, the chef, 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 begin to eat what the cook fished 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 and she never got over her revulsion. It came easier to me. I think 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. Mother and I anticipated the moment when the cook hauled aboard a turtle or caught a great big Dorado. It made us smile and there was a glow in our chests that lasted for hours.



They, mother and the cook that is, talked in a civil way, even joked. During some spectacular sunsets, I pondered that life on the boat was nearly good. I began to look at the chef with -yes- with tenderness. With love. I dreamt that we were friends. He was a coarse man even 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 listlessly scanning the horizon for an island that never came. That’s when he stole food and water.

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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. My dear, loving 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.



Mother: Go, Piscine, go! 



Pi: 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. No, an animal, he had left his humanity with the Tsimtsum. 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 but it was red. I watch as the knife rose and fell each time redder than before. I couldn’t see her. She was at the bottom of the boat. I saw only him. I saw the movements of his arms, each stab bringing Mother closer to death. He stopped. He raised his head and looked directly at me. He hurled something my way. I couldn't see what it was. 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. Her once beautiful eyes glazed over and her hair dripping with blood. I let it go. It sank in a cloud of blood, her tress trailing like a tail. 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 re-entered 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 “I’m sorry” was never uttered. Why do we cling to our evil ways?

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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 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.