The Sunderbans: Entering forbidden land

What happens when a tourist woman on a small boat with four strange men crosses into forbidden territory?

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A magazine feature read: A magical, mystical forest of mangroves— home to the Royal Bengal Tiger—the Sundarbans is part land, part water. Amongst the many wonders in this forest of high and low tides, the one that stands out— especially in today's day and age— is that Hindus and Muslims worship the same deity: Bon Bibi, lady of the forest, the beloved guardian who protects locals from wildlife attacks."

The article went on to recount unusual aspects of life in the Sunderbans, including livelihood practices such as honey-gathering and prawn seed collection, the absence of medical infrastructure, lack of potable water, electricity being a rare commodity and many such facts that were mind-boggling to my city-bred sensibilities.

So much so that in the next few days, I devoured any literature I could on the subject. The more I read, the more I wanted to visit the group of islands in the middle of the Bay of Bengal.

By all accounts, it was one of the remotest parts of the country, right in the middle of nowhere! Food was a rare commodity there, and most locals— men and women alike— spent a considerable part of the day sourcing food for the family, whether cultivating fields where only paddy could be grown, or going to the rivers to fish, or going to the forests to gather produce.

My birthday was approaching. It was only a month away. Should I treat myself to an adventure in atharo bhatir desh, the land of eighteen tides? That is the number of rivers that empty themselves into the expanse of the ocean.

A quick recce of my finances, a juggling exercise in time management, some research on travel and accommodation on the various islands of the Sundarbans, and I was all set.

I flew to Kolkata, took a taxi to Godkhali, the place from where I was to board a boat and sail to Bali Island, which would be 'home' for the next couple of days. Bali is the second largest among the 108 islands on the Indian side of the Sundarbans, the largest being Gosaba. I had found a pretty little cottage in a resort on Bali, and as my boat reached the jetty closest to the resort, after being on the waters for an hour or so, the staff was waiting to escort me to my room.

To say that people live a primitive life in the Sunderbans is an understatement. The day was coming to an end, and the Sun was about to set. The resort staff suggested that I quickly freshen up and come to the riverfront where I could enjoy the view as the Sun retired for the day. They would serve me tea, and I could enjoy the sunset while sipping on it.

The following day, I was taken on a tour of the mangrove forest. The only way to travel in the Sunderbans was on a boat, whether to go to a different island or to visit the forest.

Of course, within an island, one could either walk, ride a cycle or hire a local rickshaw van. In the forest, the possibility of a wildlife attack was quite real, and something that everyone I met warned me about.

Thus, I was on the boat at all times, and getting off the big vessel was not possible because of the dangers involved. Unless one was deboarding a forest post jetty to visit a watch tower.

Which I did, and from there I could observe wild animals crossing the observation lines created by the forest authorities. Further on into the forest, from the boat itself, I saw alligators sunning themselves on the water banks, a family of deer swimming across the river, several tortoises going in and out of the water, exotic species of birds… All in all, it was a day well spent.

While all of this was overwhelmingly surreal and immensely beautiful— Mother Nature in her splendour— I was missing some real action.

Yes, I was only a tourist, and after my brief stint in the forest of tides, I would return to the city, leaving behind this other-worldly existence. And yet, while I was here, I wanted to get a taste of how people in the Sunderbans actually lived— their daily trials and tribulations, their challenges, their way of life… I begged the resort people to let me experience 'real' life on the island, the way it was for those living here permanently.

At first, they scoffed at my idea, chided me and even ignored me for a few minutes. It was not for the faint-hearted, they said, and certainly not for a young woman from the city.

When I refused to budge, they decided to indulge me. If I wanted to experience reality, I was told I could go on a boat trip into the forest, quite unlike the one I had experienced the previous day. I was all ears. They said they would take me fishing deeper into the forest. I was excited and agreed immediately. Without giving me any further information, they asked me to come to the jetty at sharp 2 p.m.

I was dressed in a salwar-kameez, with a dupatta covering my head, in an effort to protect myself from sunburn. When I reached the jetty, the first shock of this adventure was waiting for me. A tiny little boat, called khiyya.

It was at least 20 times smaller in size than the motor-powered launch in which I had arrived in the Sunderbans two days ago, and the same kind that had taken me for a jungle safari, with a meal being cooked onboard while I spotted wildlife and looked in awe at tiger paw prints.

There were two men in the khiyya, each with a pair of oars. Two more were waiting at the jetty to help me climb into the khiyya. As soon as I did, the hands holding oars began to row the boat towards the mangrove forest in the far distance. The little boat rocked with every wave of the river, unsettling at first, but then soothing my nerves and calming me down.

For a few minutes, nobody spoke. After a little while, when everything and everyone had settled into the rhythm of the waves, the four men began speaking in Bangla. I was intrigued. Even though they did not address me, it was obvious they were speaking about me. Although I did not comprehend fully, it was more or less clear that something that should not happen was about to happen.

We had travelled for about 15–20 minutes and all seemed well, except the eerie mystery hanging in the air— what exactly were we venturing into! And then, we saw a speed boat in the distance, speeding towards us. I was made to understand that it was a patrol boat of the forest department.

As it came closer to us, the boat's engine was switched off, and it almost rammed into us, except that at the last moment, the driver of the boat swerved to our right, making it clear that he had not intended to crash into the khiyya.

There were three men on the speedboat, including the driver. They wore khaki uniforms, and looked very serious, with binoculars hanging around their necks and sunglasses perched on their heads. They asked the four men in the khiyya why we were out on the waters in this scorching heat, and who I was.

To the best of my understanding, they were told that I was a tourist and I had insisted on travelling like a local, so the four men were taking me across the river to the other island to give me a glimpse of life there.

Satisfied with this explanation, the driver turned on the speed boat's engine, and it sped into the distance. The four men on my little boat seemed somewhat relieved, or was I imagining it…

For the next few minutes, it seemed we were simply sailing on the waters, with no particular agenda in mind. I realised I did not know what this trip was all about. Where were we headed? What were we going to do? I asked the same, and what I understood was this. We were going to go deep into the forest, to catch fish and prawns.

Apparently, fishing by the jetty was not enough, and the catch was never sufficient for either consumption by the family or for selling in the bigger markets outside of Sunderbans. Being a remote place, where the closest town was at least an hour's distance by boat, where livelihood options were catching fish and selling it, where growing paddy and potatoes for their meals was all that most families did, life in the Sunderbans for the locals was tougher than I had imagined. Hence this expedition to go into uncharted territories for a better and plentiful catch that would bring in a little more money.

But why were we simply drifting on the waters just now, and not going full speed, like when we first started from the jetty? We were waiting for the patrol boat to lose sight of us. Why? Were we in trouble? Were we doing something illegal? Silence.

What happened next blew me away. After a few minutes, our little khiyya boat changed course, and rowing furiously, we sped towards the dense mangroves. I could see us approaching a netting— a wide, sturdy netting that went along the waters as far and wide as my eyes could see. To me, it seemed like we were going to crash into it. Clutching the sides of the khiyya, I sat with bated breath, questioning every decision I had made in the last two days.

As we approached the netting, I pointed it out to the four men. Were they oblivious to the fact that we were going to crash? What were they doing? Had they lost it? My words were met with a few jumbled words which were meant to calm my nerves.

Just as we were going to crash, two hands made sure I ducked my head and the remaining hands lifted the netting with such precision at the exact nano-second before we jutted into the netting. And in an instant, our little boat, with us in it, was on the other side.

Why? What was going on? Was I being abducted? Would they hold me to ransom?      

***

We had crossed into the restricted area of the forest. Illegally. We were where we were not supposed to be. The preserved part of the mangrove forest was meant only and only for wildlife— flora and fauna. The netting was a protective cover, meant to prevent humans from entering the forest area so that the wildlife was not disturbed, and could thrive in its natural habitat. It was also to restrict animals, especially the man-eating Royal Bengal Tiger, an excellent swimmer, from venturing into villages and hunting humans to eat.

We ventured towards a little creek, deep in the forest, and got what we had come in search of. By sneaking into forbidden territory, we had not just broken the law, we had also violated the sanctity of Mother Nature. We had tricked the forest patrol unit into believing that I was an innocent tourist who was on a jungle trip. Whereas the fact was that I was a tourist— not quite innocent— and I had insisted I be shown the way of life in the Sunderbans, as the locals lived it.

Now that my wish had been granted, what was I to do? Should I have reported my 'crime' to the concerned authorities? What would that mean for the four men who had taken me to the restricted area? Would that impact many more locals, as the patrolling units might become more vigilant? These are the thoughts that clouded my mind on our way back to Bali Island.

The following day, I left the Sunderbans to return to my city home. The pleasure of having spent time in the surreal surroundings of the mangrove forest had completely overtaken the guilt of venturing illegally into protected land.

I thanked Bon Bibi for protecting me during my stay in the forest of tides, sought her forgiveness for going into the reserved parts of the mangroves, and promised myself I would return to the land of tides soon.