Where Humans Dare

By Teesta Lahiry

The striped form stretched itself in a grassy knoll. The great banyan tree under which she lay panting spread a soothing blanket of shadow in the summer heat. Towards the right, the grassy knoll disappeared into the thicket of Hental, Baain and Goran trees. The mangroves shot out their roots into the air in the desperate ooid to breathe through the mud and saline water. The mud-covered bank disappearing into the Chora Ghazi creek, resembled a deadly pin cushion. A crocodile surfaced briefly from the muddy waters, felt the heat and dived back into its domain. The breeze had stopped. The jungle was quiet. Only a Greater Flameback Woodpecker kept up its drumming on a nearby tree trunk accentuating the stillness. The creeks meandering into the heart of the forest showed the steep mud banks since the water had receded with the low tide. The fronds of the mangrove covered the creeks like a mother cradling her baby.

She lolled her tongue and panted. Her last hunt had ended in failure. Prey was getting scarce. She had not eaten for a few days and was hungry. Moreover, the midday sun shone mercilessly. The wind blowing in from the Bay of Bengal has stopped. Perhaps a storm was brewing. The place was surrounded by water on all sides but the water was saline. There was no drinking water except for a few sweet water ponds dug into the forest. Her throat felt parched. All her prey were probably miles away and she will have to ford quite a few rivers and creeks to have her next meal. She felt dizzy.

Earlier she could have crossed a few rivers and picked up a nice plump cow from one of the fields but the two-legged animals had put up a fence and her route was hampered. Only a drink of cold water could alleviate her pain and distress before she could start out on her quest for prey. The nearest sweet water was about a few miles upstream along the Chora Gazi creek. She would have to cross a few mud flats and channels but that was the only option. She left the shade of the banyan tree and swung towards the Chora Gazi water hole.

***

Young Animul Haq was at his wits end. His young wife had given birth to a bonny lass. However, as the young one grew, she showed signs of epilepsy and the nearest doctor of Goshaba town had promised to heal her. The medicines were costly. His small patch of land hardly bore any crops. The super typhoon Aayla has breached the mud embankment and salt water had entered his paddy field. The land now lay fallow and barren like a widow. A small pond had enough fish just to sustain him, his wife and his widow mother. They were honey collectors for generations. His father had once entered the forest to collect honey when he was a kid and never came back. His mother never let him venture into the forest since then. However, these were desperate times.

The village of Jamespur had a few huts of honey collectors. Animul knew that they were going into the forest for the last honey collection drive of the season.

He went to Jibon Haldar, the head of the honey collection team and asked his permission to join the group. The old stringy man with a flowing white beard wearing a loincloth knew Aniumul’s father well. He was apprehensive about taking the young man back into the place from which his father had never returned. However, Animul’s daughter’s plight moved the old man and finally he relented and gave his approval.

Animul bade farewell to his small family. Apprehension jostled with expectancy and fear. His father had not returned before from a honey collection trip. One good haul for honey and he could find medicines for his daughter. The dark alleyways made by the creeks and the overhanging mangrove always fascinated and frightened him at the same time.

They started early in the morning. The fronds of the coconut trees and the arms of the small families swayed and bid adieu to the small expedition team. Three small wooden boats were pulled by paddles. The boats were vintage and so were most of the men. Animul looked around in wonder.

He was following the footsteps of his forefathers…

The rickety looking but amazingly sturdy boats were self-contained. Cans of water were stored in the stern. A small kerosene stove stood in all its ancient glory and cans of kerosene both for smoking out the bees and cooking the next meal were lashed to one side empty cans were ready to be filled up with the golden liquid.

The temple of Bonobibi, the goddess of the forest and Dakshin Ray, the one who represented the terror of the stripes, lay on a high embankment on the way. It was fenced off by nylon ropes from the forest.

The group sat in silent prayer in front of the thatched, broken down makeshift temple and lighted their perfume sticks. Everyone was deep in meditation and sat in trance. The Hindus and Muslims prayed together, united by a common prayer; a prayer to spare their lives.

The boats set out once again. Their bows pointed towards the creek adjacent to Chora Gazi where honey bees were spotted.

***

She crossed the creeks and climbed up and down the mud banks. The pin sharp aerial shoots made her progress difficult. So, she left the bank and climbed into the relatively drier part of the forest. By the time Ghora Gazi pond came into view, her throat felt like bursting. Hunger and fatigue made her sleepy. She managed to reach the pond. A familiar net of ropes met her on the bank of the pond. She could see the cool sweet water shaded by the trees. She could almost smell the fresh water. Her body yearned for the life-giving fluid but those infernal ropes would not let her near the water. She started circling the net looking for a chink, but in vain. She tried to bite through, but those massive canines were against man’s invention.

Fatigue overcame her. She plodded towards the narrow creek and flopped down on the mud in the shade of some Gewa trees. She closed her eyes and started dreaming about clouds and rain when the drops from heaven would crash down on the forest and she would just stick out her tongue and all her troubles would be over.

Dakshin Ray probably heard her dreams. The southern corner of the sky became slightly darker.

Animul and his team reached Chora Gazi creek in the afternoon. The three boats turned into the narrow creek and made a landing in the slimy mud. The boats were tied to the bank. The men disembarked with their implements for collecting honey. Only Animul was asked to stay back to watch over the boat and cook a meal. The boat would be much safer for him for his inexperience.

Animul sat back. As the men disappeared, he knew his time would also come. When they were all gone, he sat up inside the boat and looked around. The sky had grown quite dark. The muddy gullies looked darker and muddier than ever. Not a leaf stirred. The heat simmered and rose in vapors from the slime. A White Bellied Sea Eagle flew swiftly overhead as if it was in a hurry to reach home. Even the ripples in the water had died down. Animul sat and sweated.

The minutes ticked by and the young man felt drowsy. He leaned against the side of the boat and closed his eyes. As the sweat trickled down his foreheads his thoughts drifted to his little girl. She was coming running towards him, her tresses flowing in the wind.

The wind had picked up. All of a sudden, her locks went flying as the wind howled. The coconut tree in front of his house crashed with a large crack. He jerked away from his slumber and looked up to the storm as it hit the top of the trees above the boat. Then the massive paws and jaws severed the dreamy head. Animul had joined the ranks of his ancestors who had entered the forest.

***

That night, the honey collectors hastily pulled their boats away from the spot of terror. The rain poured in the forest. In the ancient tradition of this forest, the blood-soaked vest of Animul drooped limply, tied from the Gewa tree below which he had dreamt about the little girl for the last time.

By Teesta Lahiry