Sayak Banerjee
Part 1
The morning sun rose slowly over the muddy banks of the river. A soft orange glow spread across the sky, while the air hung heavy with the smell of salt, mud, and silence. In a small village near the edge of the Sundarbans, a wooden boat rocked gently by the dock. Inside, there were ropes, nets, sickles, smoking pots, and earthen jars—empty now, but waiting to be filled with wild forest honey.
Four men stood near the boat, ready for the journey ahead.
Buro Kaka, the eldest, had skin browned by the sun and eyes full of stories. He had been collecting honey for forty years and still whispered a prayer before every trip into the jungle.
Next was Gonesh, tall and strong, with two fingers missing on his right hand. A tiger had taken them years ago. He said it was the price the forest asked—and he had paid.
Then there was Jiban, thin as a stick, with restless eyes and a smile that came and went quickly. It was only his second time. His mother had cried all night before letting him go.
The youngest was Ratan, just seventeen. He stood silently, eyes on the ground. This was his first journey. His father, a honey collector, had gone into the forest the year before—and never returned.
“You’ve tied the jars?” Buro Kaka asked softly.
“Yes, Kaka,” Gonesh nodded.
The boat pushed off from the dock and glided into the brown waters of the Bidyadhari River. The forest loomed ahead, dark green and endless. The Sundarbans waited with its twisted roots and silent eyes.
They moved deeper into the mangroves. The trees rose from the water like giant hands, and the muddy banks were alive with red crabs. A fish leapt in the distance, and a heron flew low, as if warning them to turn back.
After an hour, they reached a narrow creek. Buro Kaka pointed to a small clearing.
“We camp here tonight. Tomorrow, we go to the hives.”
They stepped off the boat and set up a small shelter with bamboo sticks and plastic sheets. The air was damp and still. Mosquitoes buzzed loudly.
That night, they sat around a small fire. Buro Kaka told stories of Bonbibi, the forest goddess, and Dokkhin Rai—the tiger demon who tricks men by taking human form. The flames flickered across their faces as shadows danced on the trees.
“Do you really believe in Bonbibi?” Ratan asked, his voice quiet.
Buro Kaka smiled. “Belief is what keeps you alive in this jungle. This is her land, not ours.”
A rustling sound came from the bushes nearby. Everyone froze.
“Probably a deer,” Jiban whispered.
But no one laughed.
They watched the fire die slowly. No one spoke of the sound again.
At dawn, they rose with the sun. The forest was quiet, too quiet. Each man carried a basket, a smoking pot, and a small drum to call upon Bonbibi. Buro Kaka sprinkled holy Ganga water on their heads.
As they walked through the dense trees, the mud sucked at their feet. The air smelled of leaves and fear.
Suddenly, Buro Kaka stopped.
“Listen,” he whispered.
From a distance came the low hum of bees. Ratan’s heart raced.
“There,” Buro Kaka pointed.
High up on a tall tree, nestled between two thick branches, was a massive honeycomb. Bees swarmed around it like a moving cloud.
“Get the smoke ready,” Gonesh said.
Jiban began to climb the tree with a rope tied around his waist. He moved quickly, like he had done it all his life.
Below, Ratan lit the dry leaves in the tin can. Smoke rose slowly, calming the bees. Jiban carefully sliced a piece of the honeycomb and lowered it in a basket. Thick, golden honey dripped down, sweet and sticky.
They found five hives that day.
By late afternoon, their baskets were full, and their arms and legs were scratched and sore. Sweat ran down their backs, but no one complained.
Then, just as the sun began to fall, a sound broke through the silence.
A low, deep growl.
Everyone stopped.
Tiger.
“Don’t panic,” Buro Kaka said. “Stay close. No sudden moves.”
They walked slowly, one step at a time. Ratan could hear his heartbeat in his ears. He didn’t dare look around. Every tree now looked like it had eyes.
Finally, after what felt like hours, they reached the camp.
The fire was lit again. No one spoke about what had happened.
That night, Ratan lay awake, staring at the stars through the gaps in the plastic roof. The forest breathed around him—dark, old, and watching.
He understood now—this wasn’t just about honey. It was about trust. With the trees. With the bees. And with whatever walked silently through the mangroves at night.
Tomorrow, the forest would test them again.
Part 2
The next morning began with mist. A pale fog hung low over the muddy ground as the sun tried to push its way through the trees. Everything felt quiet—too quiet.
Ratan stepped out of the tent and stretched. His body ached from yesterday’s climb and walking. The jungle was still waking up. Somewhere in the distance, a monkey shrieked. Near their boat, mudskippers flopped in and out of the shallow water.
Buro Kaka was already sitting by the fire, making tea.
“Did you sleep?” he asked without looking up.
“A little,” Ratan replied.
“Good. You’ll need the rest.”
Jiban and Gonesh joined soon after. The mood was serious. The memory of the tiger’s growl still hung in the air like smoke. No one spoke of it, but it was there in the way they moved—with more care, more silence.
After a quick breakfast of puffed rice and jaggery, they packed their gear. Today they would go deeper into the forest—where the larger hives were found. The most prized honey grew where the forest was thickest, and danger was closest.
They followed Buro Kaka, stepping carefully between roots and puddles. The air grew thicker as they moved deeper. Ratan felt the sweat trickle down his back. Every rustle of leaves made his heart jump. But he didn’t speak. He didn’t want to be the boy who slowed them down.
After an hour, they reached a massive sundari tree. Its trunk was wide enough to hide a cow. High above, clinging to the bark, were two hives—dark golden and alive with bees.
Jiban began to prepare the climb. He tied the rope around his waist and looped it around the tree. Gonesh lit the smoking pot while Buro Kaka whispered a prayer to Bonbibi.
But something was wrong.
“The bees,” Buro Kaka said suddenly. “They’re too restless.”
The swarm was moving faster, angrier. The buzzing was louder than usual.
“We’ll wait,” Gonesh suggested.
“No,” Jiban said. “I can climb fast. If we wait, we may lose this hive to someone else.”
And before anyone could stop him, Jiban began to climb.
“Be careful!” Buro Kaka called out.
Jiban moved quickly, but the bees noticed. As he reached for the hive, a black cloud of wings erupted. The bees stung his arms, his neck, his face. He screamed but held on.
“Come down!” Gonesh shouted.
Ratan felt frozen, watching the swarm attack like a storm.
Jiban tried to cut a piece of the comb, but the bees were too many. His hands slipped. The rope jerked.
Then, with a loud thud, he fell.
He hit the ground hard, the air knocked out of him. His body twisted in pain. The basket beside him cracked open, spilling half-cut hive and buzzing bees.
“Don’t move!” Buro Kaka shouted, running to him.
They dragged Jiban away from the hive. His face was swollen, eyes nearly shut. Dozens of stings covered his skin. He gasped, his lips trembling.
Ratan stood in shock. He had never seen a man cry like that—not from fear, but from pain and helplessness.
Buro Kaka poured cool water over the stings. Gonesh ground neem leaves and turmeric from a small pouch and rubbed it on Jiban’s arms.
“We need to get him back to camp,” Buro Kaka said. “He can’t go on today.”
Jiban groaned, trying to sit up. “I’m sorry. I thought… I thought I could do it.”
“No one blames you,” Buro Kaka said gently. “The forest teaches hard lessons. That was your first.”
They carried Jiban back to camp, taking turns holding him up. By the time they arrived, the sun was high. They lay him on a mat and covered him with a cloth. He fell asleep soon after.
That afternoon, only Buro Kaka, Gonesh, and Ratan returned to the trees. This time, they walked slower, more cautiously. Every hive now looked like a test.
When they found another, lower hive near a fallen tree, Buro Kaka turned to Ratan.
“Your turn.”
Ratan’s heart skipped a beat.
“Me?”
“You must learn. But listen to everything I say. One wrong move, and—”
“I know,” Ratan said, swallowing hard.
He took the smoking pot in one hand and stepped forward. The bees buzzed around him, but the smoke helped. He climbed onto the base of the tree, gripping the rough bark. His hands shook, but he kept going.
As he reached the hive, the buzzing grew louder. The bees flew around his face. He wanted to run. But then he remembered his father—how he had once come home with honey so thick and sweet that Ratan had licked it off the edge of the jar for days.
He reached out with the knife and gently sliced the edge of the comb. Honey oozed out, warm and golden. Carefully, he dropped it into the basket.
And then—one sting. Right on his cheek.
He flinched but didn’t scream.
Another sting on his hand.
Still, he didn’t drop the knife.
“Come down,” Buro Kaka called.
Ratan did. Slowly. The basket heavy in his arms. His face was swelling, but he smiled.
“I did it,” he whispered.
Buro Kaka clapped him on the back. “You’ve taken your first sting. Now the forest knows your name.”
That night, as the fire crackled again, Ratan sat beside Jiban, who was awake but weak.
“Now we both know,” Ratan said.
Jiban nodded. “It’s not just about honey, is it?”
“No,” Ratan replied. “It’s about courage. And the forest watches everything.”
Part 3
The morning after Ratan’s first sting began quietly. The sun filtered in through the thin gaps in the forest canopy, dappling the camp in gold and green. Birds chirped from unseen branches, and a soft wind rustled through the leaves like a whispered secret.
Jiban still lay resting. His face was better, but the stings had drained his strength.
“I’ll stay back today,” he said, sipping warm tea. “But I’m not quitting.”
Buro Kaka nodded. “Rest is part of survival too. The forest gives, but it also waits. When it calls you again, go stronger.”
Ratan packed his basket, his cheeks still sore from yesterday’s sting. But inside, something had shifted. The fear wasn’t gone, but it was no longer the loudest voice in his head. He felt… chosen. As if the forest had accepted his presence, just a little.
Today, Buro Kaka planned to explore the southern bend of the creek, where the hives were rarer but richer. The three of them—Buro Kaka, Gonesh, and Ratan—left camp at sunrise, moving along a narrow, muddy trail that ran between dense mangroves.
The path was wet and slippery. Ratan’s feet sank ankle-deep into the muck. Every step made a squelching sound.
Suddenly, Buro Kaka stopped.
“Look,” he whispered.
In the soft mud ahead were footprints. Not deer, not boar. Larger. Rounder. With four deep toe marks.
Tiger.
The print was fresh. Maybe an hour old. The edges hadn’t even started drying.
“Dokkhin Rai passed this way,” Gonesh muttered.
Ratan’s throat went dry. “Do we turn back?”
Buro Kaka shook his head. “No. He’s moving in a different direction. If he wanted to find us, we wouldn’t be talking right now.”
They moved ahead, slowly and silently, keeping their ears sharp for any unusual sound. Even the leaves rustling felt louder than usual.
As they walked, the mangroves opened into a clearing dotted with tall trees. Sunlight poured in like a blessing. High above, two hives glowed in the golden light—thick, shimmering, perfect.
Gonesh grinned. “They’re ready.”
Buro Kaka turned to Ratan. “Today you go higher.”
Ratan looked up. The tree was taller than the one from yesterday. The trunk was rough and slanted. But something in him said—try.
He took the rope and smoking pot, tied the harness around his waist, and began to climb. His legs were shaky, but his grip held firm. Halfway up, he paused to catch his breath. The bees buzzed around him, but he didn’t panic.
He lit the leaves in the pot and waved the smoke gently toward the hive. The bees began to calm.
With the knife in his hand, he reached up and began cutting a section of the hive. Honey dripped onto his fingers, sticky and fragrant. He could hear Gonesh cheering from below.
Just then, a sudden crack echoed through the trees.
A branch had snapped. Not from him—but from the forest floor.
A growl followed.
Low.
Close.
Buro Kaka’s voice rose sharply. “Ratan! Down! Now!”
Ratan’s heart pounded. He looked down and froze.
A tiger.
It had stepped into the clearing, barely ten feet from Buro Kaka. Its orange-black body shimmered in the dappled sunlight. Its eyes—yellow, wild, ancient—looked straight at the men.
Buro Kaka raised his hands slowly and began chanting the Bonbibi prayer. Gonesh grabbed the fire torch, holding it forward but not moving.
“Don’t run,” Buro Kaka whispered. “Not a step.”
Ratan didn’t breathe. His hands clutched the rope, still halfway up the tree. The tiger’s head turned slightly. It looked up. It saw him.
For a full minute, nothing moved. The forest went silent.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the tiger turned. It walked slowly into the trees, its tail flicking once before disappearing into the green.
The men stood frozen. Even the bees seemed to stop buzzing.
Ratan finally climbed down, legs shaking.
“It saw me,” he whispered. “It could’ve killed me.”
Buro Kaka nodded. “Yes. But it didn’t. That was your second lesson.”
“What lesson?” Ratan asked.
“Respect. The tiger is not your enemy. It walks the same land. We are guests here, always.”
Gonesh let out a long breath. “I aged five years in five minutes.”
They laughed. It was nervous, shaky laughter. But laughter still.
They gathered the honey Ratan had collected, packed it carefully, and began walking back to camp. Every few minutes, someone glanced over their shoulder.
The forest had grown quieter. Or maybe they had learned to hear it better.
Back at camp, Jiban was waiting with a pot of warm rice and lentils. They sat and ate silently, letting the food settle their nerves.
That night, Ratan couldn’t sleep. The tiger’s eyes kept appearing behind his closed lids. But he also remembered something else—that the tiger had looked at him and then turned away.
Maybe, just maybe, the forest had accepted him a little more.
Part 4
The day after the tiger encounter, the air felt heavier. Even the wind carried a weight, like the forest had exhaled slowly and was waiting again. The smell of salt was stronger too—a mix of wet mud, brackish water, and something else. Something wild.
Back at camp, Jiban was finally back on his feet. His face still bore signs of swelling, but the fever had gone.
“You saw it? The tiger?” he asked Ratan as they shared a bit of puffed rice and coconut early in the morning.
Ratan nodded. “I saw its eyes. I don’t think I’ll ever forget them.”
Jiban smiled faintly. “No one does.”
That day, Buro Kaka made a decision.
“We’ve taken enough from the north. We’ll try the salt islands.”
Gonesh frowned. “That’s too close to the tiger’s crossing paths. And the tides come in fast.”
“Yes,” Buro Kaka agreed. “But the combs there are the oldest. Dark honey, thick and deep. Buyers pay double.”
No one argued. In the Sundarbans, honey collecting wasn’t just tradition—it was survival. That honey would feed their families for weeks.
They set out before sunrise. All four this time—Jiban included. His walk was slower, but he carried his knife and basket with quiet pride.
As the boat cut through the narrow creek, Ratan noticed the change in the landscape. The trees stood farther apart here. The mud was blacker, shinier, and the roots of the mangroves rose like spears. Ghost crabs scuttled sideways, disappearing into holes.
“What’s that smell?” he asked.
“Salt,” Gonesh replied. “The tide was here not long ago. These parts flood twice a day. Fast and unforgiving.”
They docked at a bend where an old bamboo marker stood half-submerged. It looked like a warning post. Buro Kaka stared at it for a moment, then nodded.
“We go. But we watch the sun. When it begins to fall, we run.”
The salt island wasn’t really an island—more like a raised patch of land in the middle of a flooded zone, with gnarled trees and occasional grassy tufts. The trees here looked older, bent with time, and many held hives the size of sacks.
“Jackpot,” Jiban muttered, his voice dry.
They began quickly. Ratan followed Buro Kaka to one side while Gonesh and Jiban moved to the other. The bees here were darker, angrier, maybe because of the salt or the old age of the hives. The buzzing was loud, like the sound of a broken radio in the jungle.
Ratan lit the smoking pot. He climbed halfway up a tree, slower this time. His body had learned the movement now, like second nature. When he reached the hive, he paused—not just from fear but from awe. The honey glistened like dark amber, almost black, and thicker than anything he’d ever seen.
Carefully, he sliced off a section and lowered it into the basket. The weight surprised him.
They worked for two hours. Hive after hive. The jars filled fast.
But then, just as Ratan was descending another tree, he heard it—the distant rumble of water. Not the calm kind. The rushing kind.
“Tide!” Buro Kaka shouted.
The forest seemed to react instantly. Crabs fled. Birds took flight.
“Run!”
They grabbed the baskets and began sprinting toward the boat. The water was coming from the south, where the creek split. It wasn’t yet high, but it moved fast, licking the ground with fingers of foam.
Jiban stumbled. Gonesh pulled him up.
The mud was turning to soup. Ratan slipped once, hands landing on sharp shells, but he got up and kept going.
The boat was now surrounded by rising water. They leapt in one by one, throwing the jars into the belly.
“Push!” Buro Kaka shouted.
Gonesh used the bamboo pole to push the boat away. It scraped against hidden roots but moved, slowly, like a tired animal.
As they floated into deeper water, the tide caught them. Not violently, but with force. Like the forest was reminding them—this land is not yours.
For the next thirty minutes, no one spoke. They just breathed.
Back at camp, soaked and covered in mud, they emptied the jars. The honey shimmered in the dim light, thick and dark like treacle. Ratan dipped a finger in and tasted it.
It was unlike anything he’d had before—rich, smoky, salty, and sharp. As if the forest itself had melted into sweetness.
“That’s tide honey,” Buro Kaka said. “Only a few ever taste it. Fewer live to collect it.”
Ratan looked out toward the trees, now still again. The forest had spared them once more.
But it had made its presence felt—in salt, in sting, and in silence.
Part 5
That night, the fire in the camp burned low and slow. No one laughed. No one told stories. Even Jiban, who always had something clever to say, just sat with his arms around his knees, staring at the dark edge of the forest.
Ratan cleaned the empty jars with cloth and water, his hands moving automatically. His mind, though, was somewhere far—on that fast-rising tide, the mud that pulled at his feet, the hive that had felt almost sacred in its sweetness.
The taste still lingered on his tongue.
Buro Kaka broke the silence.
“There was once a man,” he began quietly, “who went into the forest for honey. Just like us. Strong arms, sharp eyes. Brave. Too brave.”
Ratan stopped scrubbing.
“He didn’t believe in Bonbibi. Said tigers were just animals. Said the forest was only trees. Said honey was just honey.”
The wind picked up slightly, making the plastic sheet above them flap.
“One day, during high season, he went out alone. Told the group to stay back. Said he didn’t need smoke or prayers. Said he knew how to trick the bees. And the tigers.”
Gonesh closed his eyes. Jiban didn’t move.
“He was found two days later. Not his body—just his jar. Floating on the water. Sticky with honey. And blood.”
Ratan’s fingers gripped the wet cloth tighter.
“What was his name?” he asked, though a part of him already knew.
Buro Kaka turned slowly to face him.
“Biswanath.”
The name struck like thunder.
That was Ratan’s father.
Ratan stared at the fire. It popped and crackled, sending sparks into the air like tiny ghosts.
“He didn’t come back,” Buro Kaka said. “And neither did his pride.”
The forest had taken him. Not because he was weak—but because he was loud.
Ratan didn’t speak. He stood up, walked a little away from the camp, and sat on a log near the creek. The moonlight danced on the water. He could hear frogs croaking, leaves rustling, and the distant cry of a bird with no name.
He thought of his father—how he used to whistle while sharpening his knife, how he’d bring back honey with jokes and stories, how he once said, “The forest loves brave men.”
But maybe that wasn’t true.
Maybe the forest didn’t love or hate.
Maybe it simply watched.
“Did he scream?” Ratan whispered to the dark. “Did anyone hear him?”
There was no answer, only the gentle sound of ripples kissing the bank.
After a while, Buro Kaka joined him.
“I didn’t tell you before,” he said, sitting beside Ratan. “Didn’t want your feet to shake before you even stepped into the mud.”
“I would’ve come anyway,” Ratan replied.
“I know,” Buro Kaka said. “You’re your father’s son.”
Ratan turned. “But not like him.”
Buro Kaka smiled, lines folding around his tired eyes. “No. You listen. You feel. That’s why the forest hasn’t swallowed you yet.”
They sat in silence for a long time.
Then, from the trees, came the soft hoot of an owl.
Time to rest.
Back at camp, Ratan lay down beside Jiban. The stars peeked through the gaps in the plastic sheet above them.
He didn’t dream that night.
In the morning, he would wake with a new weight—not fear, not pride. Just a quiet promise.
He would go back into the forest. Again and again.
But never alone.
Never loud.
Part 6
The sun had barely risen when the sound of a slow drumbeat echoed through the forest.
Dhum… dhum… dhum…
Ratan stirred from his sleep. It was not loud, but deep—almost like a heartbeat. The others were awake too, sitting up, alert but calm.
“Is someone nearby?” Ratan asked.
Buro Kaka nodded. “A Bonbibi puja. Somewhere not far.”
Jiban stretched his arms. “It’s the season. Every group does it once during their stay. Some before entering. Some midway. It’s a way to ask permission. Or forgiveness.”
The drumbeat came from the east, across the creek. Soon, they saw a second boat gliding between the mangroves. It was smaller than theirs, carrying only three men and a boy, younger than Ratan. One of the men was beating a small frame drum. Another held a tall wooden stick wrapped in yellow cloth.
Bonbibi’s banner.
They docked quietly. Buro Kaka walked over to greet them with folded hands. Ratan followed, curious.
“Namaskar, Harun Bhai,” Buro Kaka said, bowing slightly to the man with the drum.
“Namaskar, brother,” the man replied. “The forest still kind to you?”
“So far,” Buro Kaka smiled. “You’re going deep?”
“Yes. Tide edge. Thought we’d ask Bonbibi for courage first.”
They set up the puja on a flat patch of ground beside the creek. A simple altar made of banana leaves and stones. On it, they placed puffed rice, molasses, a garland of marigolds, and a clay figure of Bonbibi—half woman, half goddess, holding a sword and a conch.
The boy began to sing softly. His voice was thin but sweet. The drumbeat slowed, matching the rhythm of the song.
O Bonbibi, queen of green,
Keeper of jungle, seen and unseen,
Watch our steps and calm the bee,
Let your drum be our key.
The song sent a chill through Ratan’s spine. Not fear—but something deeper. Reverence. The kind that wraps around your bones and tells you you’re standing on sacred ground.
Buro Kaka whispered, “You want to offer something?”
Ratan hesitated. Then he took off the thin red thread his mother had tied around his wrist before he left the village.
“For safety,” she had said.
He placed it beside the clay goddess, next to the honeycomb sliver offered by the other group.
The puja ended with a final drumbeat and silence. Everyone stood still for a moment, as if waiting for a reply.
The forest said nothing.
But somehow, it felt changed.
Later that day, the two groups split directions. Harun Bhai and his team disappeared down the southern bend. Ratan, Buro Kaka, Gonesh, and Jiban moved east, toward the darker zone—an area so dense with trees that sunlight barely touched the ground.
As they walked, Ratan asked, “Do you think Bonbibi really protects us?”
Buro Kaka looked ahead. “Protection isn’t always about safety. Sometimes it’s about strength. Or understanding.”
Jiban added, “She doesn’t promise to stop the tiger. She teaches you how to face it.”
They reached a small hillock, rare in the flat land of Sundarbans. At its base stood an ancient tree, massive and twisted, with vines hanging like ropes.
And on it—four hives. One above the other, like steps to the sky.
“Do we climb?” Gonesh asked.
“No,” Buro Kaka said. “We wait. The bees are angry today. They’ll tell us when it’s time.”
So they sat beneath the tree, watching the hives, listening to the forest breathe.
Hours passed. Ratan’s eyes wandered to the roots of the tree, where a strange shape sat buried halfway in the mud.
He walked closer.
It was a drum. Old, broken, the skin torn, the body cracked. But unmistakable—a Bonbibi drum.
“Someone was here,” he said.
Buro Kaka joined him, examining the drum. “Long ago. Maybe left behind in a hurry.”
“What happened to them?” Ratan asked.
Buro Kaka didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The forest had its stories. Some were never told, only found—in old drums, rusted knives, half-sunken boats.
They waited till evening. The bees calmed. They climbed. They collected.
But the silence remained thick, as if the forest was still listening.
That night, back at camp, Ratan couldn’t sleep. The sound of the drum still echoed in his ears. Not as a warning, but as a memory. A reminder that they didn’t walk alone.
Not really.
Not here.
Part 7
The morning air smelled of burnt leaves.
It wasn’t from their own campfire—this was sharper, denser, curling through the branches like a warning. Buro Kaka stepped outside the camp and sniffed the wind. His brow furrowed.
“Someone is burning too close,” he said.
“Could it be Harun Bhai’s group?” Jiban asked.
Buro Kaka shook his head. “They were headed in the other direction. This smell is from the east. Near the water traps.”
Ratan looked up from his basket of sorted honey. “What’s a water trap?”
“It’s what we call the lowlands that flood often,” Gonesh explained. “Harder to walk. But full of hive trees.”
“Only fools burn heavy smoke there,” Buro Kaka added. “It drives the bees mad.”
They finished breakfast quickly. Buro Kaka was restless, his eyes scanning the horizon more often than usual.
“We go see,” he finally said. “If someone’s harming the hives, we need to stop them.”
They moved quickly, taking only what they needed—no jars, just ropes and the smoke cans. As they walked, the smell grew stronger, now mixed with a strange buzzing—louder than normal. Aggressive.
And then they saw it.
A patch of blackened earth beneath a large tree. Smoke still rose from a pile of half-burnt leaves. Bees were swarming in the air, frenzied, angry, stinging anything that moved. Two broken honeycombs lay crushed on the ground, golden insides dripping into the mud.
“They destroyed it,” Jiban said in shock.
“And didn’t even collect the honey,” Gonesh muttered.
Buro Kaka’s face was like stone. “This wasn’t a collector. This was someone trying to scare the bees away. Or lure the tiger.”
Ratan stepped back, heart racing. “But who would do that?”
Buro Kaka knelt and touched the edge of a boot print in the mud. Large. Deep. Fresh.
“Poachers,” he said quietly.
The word dropped like a stone into a silent pond.
Ratan had heard stories. Men who sneaked into the forest to hunt deer, birds—even tigers. Men who didn’t follow the rules, who didn’t ask Bonbibi for permission, who didn’t care about the bees or the gods or the balance.
“They sometimes burn hives to clear paths,” Buro Kaka explained. “Or smoke out animals. They don’t care that the bees panic. That the forest suffers.”
A loud crack echoed nearby. A branch snapping under weight.
Everyone froze.
Then voices—distant, rough, not speaking like forest men. Not chanting. Not whispering.
“Back,” Buro Kaka whispered. “Now.”
They slipped away like shadows, not speaking until they were deep into the mangroves again. Ratan kept glancing behind them, expecting to see someone—or something—following.
By the time they reached the camp, the sky had turned a shade darker. The air was still thick with leftover smoke.
“What do we do?” Ratan asked. “Report it?”
“To whom?” Jiban shrugged. “The rangers come once in a blue moon. And poachers know how to disappear.”
Buro Kaka sat down slowly. “We stay alert. We don’t go near that patch again. And tomorrow, we move camp. Farther east. Away from this smell.”
That evening, the honey they had collected the day before tasted different—almost bitter. Maybe it was in their minds, but the sweetness now carried a trace of sorrow.
After dinner, Ratan sat alone near the boat, watching the sun sink into the river. The trees stood quietly, like guardians who had seen too much. Somewhere, a bird cried out once, then fell silent.
He thought about the hives—shattered. The bees—angry, confused. The fire—pointless.
Why come into the forest if you don’t respect it?
He clenched his fist. For the first time, he wasn’t afraid of the tiger, or even the sting. He was afraid of people who walked in without listening. Without seeing.
Without understanding.
Bonbibi could protect them from spirits, from beasts, maybe even from tides.
But who protects the forest from men?
Part 8
The next morning, the camp was quiet—too quiet.
Ratan woke to find the fire cold, the others already up, standing around the jars they had filled over the last few days. Something was wrong.
Two of the jars were gone.
Buro Kaka stared at the empty spots where they had been.
“No animal did this,” he said softly.
Jiban kicked at the mud. “Poachers. They followed us.”
“They didn’t touch the ropes, the tools, the boat,” Gonesh muttered. “Just the honey.”
Ratan’s stomach twisted. “They came right into our camp?”
“Like ghosts,” Jiban said. “Quiet, fast, and smart.”
Buro Kaka didn’t speak for a long time. He simply sat down and stared at the footprints near the fire. One was wide and sharp at the heel. Not theirs.
“I thought we were far enough,” he finally said.
Ratan felt a strange kind of anger bubbling inside him. Not the hot, loud kind. The cold, helpless kind.
“They didn’t even take it all,” he said. “Just enough to send a message.”
Gonesh nodded. “They’re watching us. Waiting.”
“Then we don’t give them what they want,” Buro Kaka said, standing. “Today we collect. But we take nothing back here. We hide it.”
“Where?” Jiban asked.
“In the hollows,” Buro Kaka replied. “There are old tree trunks near the dried creek. If we wrap the jars and cover them with dry leaves, no one will find them.”
They moved quickly, like soldiers preparing for war. Every step was measured. Every glance over the shoulder sharper than usual.
Ratan carried the smoking pot like a shield. He wasn’t afraid of bees today. He was afraid of men.
They found three hives before noon. All high up, all heavy. Ratan climbed one, Gonesh another, while Jiban stood watch.
They worked silently, efficiently. Not a single word wasted.
By mid-afternoon, they had four jars filled. They wrapped them in cloth and dried leaves, marked each with a small scratch on a nearby tree, and buried them in a hollow trunk that smelled of moss and dust.
“We’ll collect them before we leave,” Buro Kaka said. “Only we know where.”
That evening, they returned to camp with empty baskets and tired bodies. The wind had picked up, rustling through the trees like whispers.
Ratan sat near the fire, sharpening his small knife—not for the hive, but because it felt right. He had never hated anyone before. Not really. But the thought of someone creeping into their camp, stealing their honey—their sweat, their cuts, their sting-earned treasure—burned like fire in his chest.
Jiban broke the silence.
“Once, long ago, I heard of a honey thief who got lost.”
They turned to look at him.
“He took from a camp like ours. Followed a group, took three jars, ran into the mangroves. Thought he was clever.”
“What happened?” Ratan asked.
“He never came back. People said Dokkhin Rai found him. Others said Bonbibi turned her face away.”
Buro Kaka added quietly, “No one steals from the forest without losing something.”
That night, Ratan dreamed of bees swarming not a hive, but a man—his face blurred, running through trees, stumbling, crying. The buzzing grew louder and louder until it became the roar of a tiger.
He woke up sweating.
Outside, the fire was down to embers. The forest was breathing again—slow, deep, ancient.
He looked toward the tree line.
Somewhere out there, the honey thief might be watching.
But Ratan wasn’t just a boy anymore.
He was part of the forest now.
And he was ready.
Part 9
The sky turned gray just after midday.
A heavy stillness settled over the Sundarbans, the kind that made birds stop chirping and trees hold their breath. The wind had shifted—warm, thick, full of warnings.
Buro Kaka sniffed the air and stood up sharply.
“We need to move the camp.”
Gonesh looked up from cleaning his blade. “Tide?”
“No,” Buro Kaka said, voice tense. “Rain. Big one. The kind that doesn’t stop.”
Jiban stepped forward. “We’re on high ground here.”
“Not high enough,” Buro Kaka replied. “This part floods in hours if it pours. We won’t outrun it. We’ll drown in our sleep.”
They didn’t argue. Not this time.
Quickly, they packed essentials—tools, ropes, drums, tarps, and the two remaining visible jars. The hidden jars near the creek would have to wait. The path Buro Kaka chose led them slightly north, to a mound of earth surrounded by salt-tolerant trees, a spot he called Mathar Uthan—the forehead rise.
By the time they reached it, the sky had darkened like dusk. Ratan looked up and saw the first drops fall—not gently, but fat and fast, striking leaves like drumbeats.
Then came the roar.
Not from a tiger.
From the sky.
Rain.
It poured as if the heavens had split open. Within minutes, the mud turned to soup, puddles to pools, trails to rivers.
They set up the plastic sheet quickly, anchoring it with vines and branches. The four men huddled beneath it, backs pressed against each other, clothes soaked, teeth clattering.
Hours passed.
Water crept up the edges of the mound. Lightning flashed, revealing twisted shadows of trees and flying insects caught mid-flight. Thunder rolled like a god shouting from above.
Ratan’s ears rang. He clutched his knees, staring out into the watery dark. The forest looked unfamiliar now, its shapes distorted, its sounds frightening.
“This is the forest’s anger,” Jiban murmured. “It’s washing the sins.”
Buro Kaka didn’t speak. He just closed his eyes and mouthed a prayer to Bonbibi.
And then—
A snap.
A tree limb cracked and fell near their tarp, splashing mud and water.
Ratan jumped.
The rain didn’t stop.
Sometime in the middle of the night, they heard a long, low cry. Not animal. Not bird. Human.
A voice shouting in the dark.
“Help!”
They froze.
Another cry.
“Help… someone… help me…”
Gonesh stood. “Someone’s out there.”
“It could be a trick,” Buro Kaka warned.
“No one fakes a cry like that,” Jiban said.
They took a torch and stepped into the rain.
Ratan followed, heart pounding.
They walked a short distance before the beam of the torch caught something—someone—clinging to a broken tree trunk, half-submerged in a flooded clearing.
It was a man. Soaked. Bleeding. Barefoot.
And in his hand—a jar of honey.
“He’s one of them,” Buro Kaka said. “A thief.”
The man coughed and reached out weakly. “Please… I didn’t mean to… the others… they left me…”
They pulled him out and brought him to the tarp.
He collapsed on the mud, the jar rolling from his fingers.
No one said anything.
The rain fell harder.
Later, as the man shivered under a corner of the tarp, Ratan looked at him closely.
He wasn’t older than thirty. His hands were scratched and swollen. His face bore sting marks. And his eyes—full of fear, not just of the storm, but of the forest.
“You went into the hive without smoke,” Ratan said.
The man nodded, voice breaking. “I didn’t know… they told me it was easy… they’re gone…”
Silence followed.
Buro Kaka picked up the fallen jar and placed it near the fire.
Then he said, “Let him sleep. The forest has punished enough tonight.”
The rain didn’t stop till dawn.
When it finally did, the world looked new. Wet. Shiny. And quiet again.
The forest had roared.
And they had survived.
Part 10
The forest was drenched and still.
Water pooled in every hollow. The leaves glistened, fresh-washed and trembling. The air was heavy with the scent of mud, bark, and something softer—like forgiveness.
Ratan stepped out from under the tarp and looked up at the sky. It was pale blue again. No clouds, no thunder—only the soft rustle of branches drying themselves in the early sun.
The thief still slept, curled up beside the ashes of last night’s fire, his body broken but breathing.
“He won’t steal again,” Jiban said quietly, coming up beside Ratan. “Some lessons the forest teaches only once.”
Buro Kaka had been up for hours. He had walked the edges of the flooded patch, checked the boat, and said little. But now he returned and said one word:
“Today.”
They all knew what he meant.
It was time to collect the hidden jars. To take what they had earned. To leave the forest behind—for now.
They packed slowly. Their movements were heavy, not from tiredness but from the weight of the days behind them. Stings. Storms. Tigers. Thieves.
Ratan turned to the man still lying near the tarp.
“What do we do with him?”
“Leave him,” Buro Kaka said. “He’ll find his way back. Or not.”
But Ratan couldn’t help it. He walked over, placed half a biscuit in the man’s hand, and tucked the tarp around his shoulder.
“We are not like them,” he said quietly.
They moved through the wet jungle, boots squelching in the soaked earth. The path was slow. Roots were slippery, the air full of buzzing insects waking after the rain.
By the time they reached the old hollow tree, the sun was high.
Gonesh reached into the opening and pulled out the first jar—still wrapped, still sealed. One by one, they retrieved them all.
All six jars.
Golden. Dark. Thick.
Intact.
“They waited for us,” Buro Kaka said.
They returned to camp, filled the boat, and prepared for the journey back to the village. But before they left, Ratan turned once more toward the forest.
“Can I go one last time?” he asked.
Buro Kaka raised an eyebrow. “To do what?”
Ratan held up his smoking pot and a blade. “To say thank you.”
He didn’t wait for approval.
He walked back to the edge of the forest, to the tree where he had first taken honey. The hive was smaller now, its edges rough. The bees flew quietly, like guardians of a house in mourning.
Ratan knelt.
He lit a small fire of leaves and offered the smoke—not to calm, not to cut—but to honor.
He placed a sliver of honey on a stone and whispered, “For you. For what you gave.”
Then he stood, turned, and walked away.
But just as he reached the edge, something sharp touched his neck.
A sting.
He flinched.
One bee had followed.
It hovered in front of his face, then flew off into the sky.
Ratan smiled.
The last sting.
The forest’s way of saying goodbye.
Or perhaps, come back soon.
Part 11
The boat moved slowly through the winding creek, its wooden body groaning under the weight of jars and wet rope. Morning sunlight danced on the rippling water, reflecting off the golden honey sealed carefully in cloth and wax.
Ratan sat at the front, feet dangling over the side. The water was cool against his skin. In his lap rested one of the jars—his jar. The one he had climbed for. The one he had bled for.
Behind him, Gonesh hummed softly, a tune from a forgotten village song. Jiban dozed against the pile of sacks, hat pulled low over his eyes. Buro Kaka held the rudder steady, his face calm but unreadable.
As the mangroves thinned and the scent of salt gave way to the sweeter smells of land—mud, smoke, and jackfruit trees—they saw the edges of the village appear. Huts with straw roofs, women at the banks washing clothes, children splashing water and chasing dragonflies.
And then—cheering.
Word had spread.
A group of villagers stood at the jetty, waving cloths, shouting greetings.
“They’re back!”
“Buro Kaka’s boat!”
“Did they get the honey?”
“Where’s Ratan?”
Ratan blinked. He wasn’t used to being called.
As the boat docked, the crowd rushed in. Mothers checked for wounds, fathers asked about the storm, boys peeked at the jars, and a few older men muttered quiet prayers to Bonbibi.
Ratan’s mother pushed through the crowd, eyes wide, mouth trembling. She didn’t say anything. She just placed her palm on his cheek—the one still marked by a faint sting—and kissed his forehead.
“You came back,” she whispered.
“I told you I would,” Ratan replied softly.
Later, in the courtyard of the village temple, the jars were placed in a line, and the entire group sat under a neem tree to share the tale—piece by piece. The tiger, the salt island, the storm, the thief.
When Ratan’s turn came, he didn’t speak like a boy. He spoke like a man who had learned the forest’s tongue. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word carried the weight of silence, fear, and awe.
When he finished, someone in the back asked, “And your father’s jar? Did you find it?”
Ratan shook his head. “No. But I found something else.”
“What?”
He smiled.
“Where he walked.”
That night, every house in the village lit a lamp in the window. Not for celebration, but for gratitude.
Gratitude that the jungle had allowed their men to return.
Ratan sat outside his hut, alone, the jar beside him. He ran his fingers along the wax seal, the rough twine, the rim still sticky with traces of the wild.
He took a spoon and dipped it gently into the honey.
The first taste was sweet—deep and dark, like smoke and rain and something older than both.
And just then, a bee landed on the jar’s edge.
Ratan didn’t swat it.
He watched as it crawled, licked a drop, then buzzed away into the warm night.
The forest had followed him home.
Part 12
Weeks passed.
The jars of honey were sold in the nearby town—slowly, carefully, one by one. Buyers praised its richness, its deep color, its rare salt-kissed notes. No one knew what it had cost. Only the forest did.
Each of the four men returned to their lives. Gonesh repaired fishing nets and helped mend village roofs. Jiban spent more time near the river, teaching boys how to row and spot fresh tiger tracks in the mud. Buro Kaka visited the temple each morning and sat silently under the banyan tree, eyes far away, as if listening to something no one else could hear.
And Ratan—he changed too.
He no longer woke startled. No longer looked over his shoulder every time a leaf rustled. Instead, he walked the village paths slowly, with quiet steps, and eyes that noticed more than they used to.
One day, he was walking near the edge of the river when he saw a man sitting alone beneath a tree.
It was the thief.
The same one they had saved on flood night. Thinner now. His arms still carried faint marks from bee stings. He looked up when Ratan approached.
“You’re still here,” Ratan said.
The man nodded. “Didn’t know where else to go. Your village gave me a roof.”
Ratan sat beside him. For a while, neither spoke.
Then the man asked, “Do you think… Bonbibi forgives?”
Ratan picked up a stone and threw it gently into the river.
“She doesn’t forget,” he said. “But if the forest lets you live… it means you still have a choice.”
The man looked down. “I didn’t come to steal. Not at first. They said it was easy. Just smoke, cut, and run.”
“It’s never easy,” Ratan said.
The man nodded. “No. It’s not.”
A few days later, Ratan began to train again—with Buro Kaka’s quiet approval. He carried ropes to the old tree in the field and practiced climbing. He collected dry leaves and made small smoke fires. He even carved a little drum, just like the one used in the Bonbibi puja.
His mother watched silently. Then one morning, she handed him his father’s old blade—cleaned and wrapped in red cloth.
“He would’ve been proud,” she whispered.
Ratan didn’t answer. He just held the blade and bowed slightly.
When the next honey season came, Buro Kaka didn’t say much. He simply tapped Ratan on the shoulder and asked, “Ready?”
Ratan smiled. “Always.”
This time, the group was smaller. Gonesh had injured his leg and stayed behind. Jiban came along, still sharp with jokes and warnings. And the third was the man who had once been the thief.
He no longer stole.
He learned.
He listened.
He followed.
They returned to the Sundarbans.
The forest welcomed them with silence—not cold, but thoughtful. The trees looked familiar, yet new. The hives were there, shining like gold on bark, guarded by bees that buzzed low and steady.
Ratan climbed the first tree.
He moved with respect—not fast, not slow. He lit the smoke gently. He whispered to Bonbibi. He reached for the hive not with hunger, but with gratitude.
When he came down, the comb in his hands dripped honey so dark it looked like melted dusk.
Buro Kaka nodded.
“Now,” he said, “you are the forest’s man.”
That night, as they lit the fire under the canopy of stars, Ratan looked out at the mangroves and thought of everything they had seen together—tigers and storms, thieves and drums, loss and return.
He thought of his father.
Of the first sting.
And of the last.
The forest remembers, he realized.
It remembers the ones who listen.
The ones who learn.
The ones who return.
And now, it would remember him too.
Forever.
The End
