It
was a winter day in the Sundarbans. A quiet chill from the sea drifted through
the whispering mangrove forest, carrying the scent of salt, mud, and stillness.
Murali Sir (Senior IFS officer) and I were returning to Jharkhali from Bonnie
Camp. Leaving the wide expanse of the Bidya River, our boat turned left into
the narrow embrace of the Suryamukhi Creek—one of those creeks that holds life
in abundance and danger in equal measure.
The tide was low. Vast
stretches of muddy creek bed lay exposed, glistening under the pale winter sun.
This brief window of retreating water invited life to emerge. Spotted deers
were stepping cautiously along the banks, wild boars rummaged through the mud,
whistling ducks dotted the shallows, and countless birds and animals revealed
themselves, as if the forest had momentarily lifted its veil.
Midway through the
creek, we spotted a small wooden boat—humble and quiet—carrying a husband and
wife. As a routine habit, I approached the fisherman to check his permit. He
held a valid authorization to fish within the forest block. While the husband
tended to his nets with practiced patience, the wife on the other end of the
boat was completely absorbed in preparing food for him.
Their boat was
conveying a simple story of survival: prawns resting in a small bowl, crabs
packed in ice—fresh catches of the day. Strands of small fasha fish were
pierced with thread and tied to the roof of the boat, drying slowly in the
winter air, swaying gently with every movement of the creek.
During my two-year
stint in the Sundarbans, I had seen many such boats—husbands and wives
venturing deep into the mangrove labyrinth, often for three or four days at a
stretch. These journeys were not adventures; they were acts of necessity.
The couples are fishing
in a place where a tiger could leap from the forest without warning if they
step onto land, and where a crocodile could rise silently from the water if
they lost their balance. Yet, the couple remained calm, bound by more than just
work. They supported each other not only by sharing labour, but also by facing
all the odds around them.
From dawn to dusk,
their lives revolved around fishing, cooking and helping each other. In that
fragile boat, floating between water and forest, they understood each other’s
silences, fears, and needs. Life had taught them a simple lesson: survival in
the Sundarbans is never solitary—it is always together.
While
coming back to home from the trip, life of couple lingered in my thoughts. In
today’s urban life, husbands and wives rarely struggle for food or shelter.
With comfort and time at their disposal, they often search for reasons to
argue. Yet here, in the heart of the Sundarbans, a couple fought against
hunger, wilderness, and death—side by side—without complaint, without conflict.
Amidst the tidal mangrove jungle,
existence is not questioned—it is lived, side by side.
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