Sunderban Diaries : The Bemused Beast of Kultuli

Keshab Giri is a pious man. Every evening, the bearded priest of Kultuli village would go to a banyan tree by the river and pray at its feet, light a little clay lamp, then walk back to his hut by the paddy fields.

This evening wasn’t supposed to be any different. But as Giri walked, the village seemed unusually quiet. Even the village curs had fallen silent.

All Giri could hear tonight was the sound of his bare feet rustling the dry grass. At the foot of the great banyan, Giri began his prayers. The air around the tree was heavywith a pungent, unfamiliar odour. Maybe it’s from the bank, he thought. Dead cattle, rotting flowers and once even a dead man, swollen and yellow had drifted past these shores.

But this smell was different – overpowering, but alive. Giri tried to return to his prayers. He couldn’t. He opened his eyes to light the lamp…

there, inches away from his forehead, hanging from the branches was a striped tail, its tip

flicking. “I fell over backward, chanting Maa’s name. My eyes met the tiger’s. It

glowered and snarled, but didn’t attack”, Giri said. “Quivering with fear, I screamed

‘bagh ayese… tiger’s here!’ Within minutes, the whole village had gathered, flaming

torches in hand. We surrounded the tree and started chanting Maa’s name… the tiger

seeing the crowd, climbed higher up, and then jumped off the tree, past the crowd and

into the village.” Giri pointed at a hut behind a duck pond, “…ran straight into it, past an

old woman lying by the courtyard, tore through the wall and into the paddy fields.

Astonishingly, no one was hurt. Maayer kripa… grace of the mother.”

As we spoke, a sea eagle called and a streak of bright orange lit up the horizon. Dawn

was breaking in the Sunderbans. Word had spread that a tiger had swum across the river

from an island forest and entered the village, and we’d given chase. But we’d reached a

little too late. The tiger had been captured by the forest officials and taken away before

we could reach. But the journey hadn’t been in vain, because I got to meet ‘Maa’.

In most parts of the country, ‘Maa’ would mean any of the many forms of Durga, but in

Sunderban, it does not refer to a Hindu deity but a Muslim one –and one both pious

hindus and devoted muslims pray to together– ‘Maa Bonbibi’. Legend has it that

Bonbibi, born to poor Muslim parents, was abandoned, and then brought up by a deer in

these forests. Blessed by Nature, she became the protector of these forests and all who all

who enter it in good faith. Bonobibi shrines, with the idol of a goddess sitting on a tiger,

dot the Sunderbans (see slipstream). And today Kultuli was going to thank Maa for

keeping them safe.

The villagers had organized a jatra – a musical play celebrating Bonobibi. As the gaudily

painted actors got into the act on a makeshift stage, Giri Baba’s friend, a dark eyed man

with a shock of white hair and a wispy beard, Muttalib Mollah, whispered, “Sunderban’s

villages have both Hindus and Muslims but in truth they are just children of the forest.

The Musholmans pray five times in a mosque and the Hindus do their temple aarothi but

when it is time to go to the forest, we are together in our prayers to Maa Bonbibi. The

muslims tuck their beards and sit arm in arm in front of an idol with the Hindus who have

no qualms about praying to a Muslim deity. Even when riots have spread across the

Bengals, the Hindus and Muslims of Sunderbans have lived as brothers… because the

forest forces us to remain human, remain humane and stay in touch with what religion

was meant to be… a source of strength, a divine bond, with our Khuda, our soul and our

neighbour. A night in the forest is enough to teach you that. Theek bolchhi dada?”

Muttalib turned to Giri. Though engrossed in the jatra, Giri turned, put an arm around

Muttalib, nodded and smiled “theek… aekdom theek”. The play was long, the actors

terrible and the music off key, but the Kultuli crowd cheered, enraptured and entranced.

The stage was empty now. The crowd was dispersing. Giri asked Muttalib to sing.

“Aekhon kayno… why now?”. He was reluctant. “Gao na, aamra nachbo…sing, we’ll

dance” Some people around him also insisted and a reluctant Muttalib went up on stage.

Giri told me that Muttalib sang Hari kirtans really well. Muttalib started, tentatively first,

and then with gusto… The musicians returned, the dhols erupted, and the crowd stopped

and turned. Muttalib was singing and ‘shaking’, and Kultuli, hindus, muslims alike, was

‘shaking with him…

This was my last day in these magical forests. It had been a good day….

Sunderban diaries 1

The prow of the boat was drifting aimlessly as it lay

anchored in the retreating waters. Many metres of waist-

high water and unseen dangers lay between the boat and the

mud banks of Pather Para. The shimmering light of the

moon seemed to make the waters more opaque, the night

more sinister. I looked over my shoulder to the right, on the

opposite bank, not too far away, in a huddle that spanned

the horizon, loomed the treacherous sundari trees – the

dreaded forests of Sunderban, where many might enter but

few return. I turned to the mud bank in front, and with a

sense of resignation, folded my trouser legs up as high as I

could, looked up to the heavens with a silent prayer, dipped

my right leg into the warm waters of the Matla river. In this

river swam some of the most poisonous water snakes in the

world, but they were they least of my worries. My legs

disappeared into the blue black waters, followed by my

torso, and then I felt the soft sticky river bed, sucking me in

with every step. In these very waters, little boys often

disappear while bathing only to resurface days later- just a

head, some limbs, and some skin and bone from which the

flesh seemed to have been hacked away – hangor/kamoth!

sharks! Strictly statistically speaking though, sharks aren’t

half as likely to take a bite or two out of you as is the salt

water crocodile. And since, the crocs had claimed a victim

here just days ago, statistically speaking, I could be tickling

them with my toes this very moment but was unlikely to

get bitten until about next week. Now statistics plays an

important role in my life. It was while a classmate of mine

was teaching me statistics (psst.. Business statistics) that

she realised that I was so pathologically inept at most

things, including statistics, that it would be cruel and

dangerous to leave me to my own devices and decided to

marry me and save the world, and for which I’m eternally

grateful to her and the subject. But at that moment, as I

squelched my way to the bank, I couldn’t care less for

statistics even if I tried.

Squelch! Squelch! Squelch! Finally, the banks of Pather

Para. “Only two things can save you in Sunderban. Maaer

mantro aar guniner jantro (yantra).You’ll find one of them

in Pather Para”, Satyo Sardar, a man who survived a tiger

attack had said. This’d better be worth it. I met a man

holing crabs on the bank. I asked for directions. On

learning about my destination, he reverentially volunteered

to guide me there. It was the third hut, as small as the

others, but perhaps a little neater. A clutch of chickens

cackled, perhaps alarmed by our approach while a mallard

waddled past in a hurry. “Jagatbandhu! O Jagatbandhu! Ke

ayese daykho!” Jagatbandhu must not have been asleep, for

almost immediately, a large hand parted the coarse cloth

that doubled as both curtain and door in this weather,

followed by the rest of him. He wasn’t a large man; about

5’9”, long moustache, calm eyes, slim, but sinewy with

unusually broad shoulders. Perhaps they’re broad for a

reason. No troop of hunters, honey gatheres or fishermen

from this village enters the forest without Jagatbandhu’s

protection – the protection of a gunin. A gunin is perhaps

the most powerful human figure in Sunderban – a man

believed to be so blessed that he could tie a tiger in knots

by the power of his utterances.

Forests officials and most outsiders scoff at the idea. One

senior officer I met at Sajnekhali said that usually, it is the

gunnin who gets picked up first. Jagatbandhu smiled when

I voiced their doubts. “I can only tell you what I know”, he

motioned for me to follow, “come with me…” A few huts

away, on a string cot lay a man. Jagatbandhu called softly.

The man rose and asked “You want to know his story… let

me tell you mine. Jagat was no gunin those days. 10 of us

had gone crab hunting. Jagat too. I had bent over to hook a

crab when a large male tiger attacked. I fell face down in

the mud, the tiger on top clawing, biting, eating… I knew I

would die… everybody was rooted to the ground

motionless when suddenly the tiger stopped. I saw a foot,

Jagat’s. I couldn’t feel the tiger on my back but I could hear

it roar. I turned… Jagat was standing over me, holding the

tiger by its armpits as it towered many feet above him. It

was roaring, gnashing its jaws, swiping with his paws but

nothing touched Jagat. Weighed down by the tiger’s

weight, Jagat had sunk to his knees in the mud but he held

on, eyes closed, chanting. Thick flecks of saliva from the

tiger’s jaws ran down Jagat’s face and neck but he stood

there resolute. We watched in horror and awe for god

knows how long until the tiger, bewildered and frustrated,

turned and disappeared into a thicket. Jagat collapsed, but

later, it was he who carried me back to the village. I don’t

know how he did it. Eight others who were there with us

don’t know how he did it. No one knew he was a gunnin

then but today he protects us all. The man turned and went

back to his cot. As he turned, I saw the back of his head, a

hairless misshapen lump merging into a terribly scars that

ran the length of his back.

“I had an uncle who was a gunnin. He had taught me a few

things as a child but I never thought it to be more than a

game. That day, it all came back to me… I don’t know if I

could do it again.”, said Jagatbandhu, almost bashfully.

“Maybe I won’t need to. I’m learning how to tie a tiger

with blades of grass. I’ve found a new teacher…” he added.

“For now, I can at least sense when the tiger’s coming and

warn my brothers in the forest. You’ve been looking for the

tiger, now I know the tiger will come looking for you.”

What was Jagatbandhu trying. Was he trying to intimidate

me. I stared into the man’s eyes. They still exuded a calm

benevolence….

“ Dada! Dada!!” It was Nikhilda, our portly boatman.

Huffing, puffing, he rolled into view. “Tadatadi asho..

baagh ayese… come, hurry, the tiger’s here”. Adrenalin

kicked in, and as I rushed toward the bank, I turned toward

Jagatbandhu. He smiled, gently and said “Shamle babu, be

Keshab Giri is a pious man. Every evening, the bearded priest of Kultuli village would

go to a banyan tree by the river and pray at its feet, light a little clay lamp, then walk back

to his hut by the paddy fields. This evening wasn’t supposed to be any different.

But as Giri walked, the village seemed unusually quiet. Even the village curs had fallen

silent. All Giri could hear tonight was the sound of his bare feet rustling the dry grass. At

the foot of the great banyan, Giri began his prayers. The air around the tree was heavy

with a pungent, unfamiliar odour. Maybe it’s from the bank, he thought. Dead cattle,

rotting flowers and once even a dead man, swollen and yellow had drifted past these

shores. But this smell was different – overpowering, but alive.

Giri tried to return to his prayers. He couldn’t. He opened his eyes to light the lamp…