Story - 5 | September 2025

< Contents

Sundarbans — The Mysterious Mangroves

SUDARSHAN Roy

Class: XII, PM Shri Kendriya Vidyalaya,
Kolkata, West Bengal

On the 17th of May, 2024, in the stillness of the night, I found myself wide awake. My mind was restless with thoughts.

With a quiet sigh, I tucked away my MacBook, zipped up my bag, and lay down, hoping to catch a little sleep before the sun came up.

I woke to a soft orange glow outside my window. My watch flashed 5:47 a.m., just three hours of sleep, a number I’d come to accept as normal. The early morning breeze felt refreshing as I scrambled to pack the last of my things. By seven, we had to leave for Dhamakhali, a quiet town two hours from Kolkata, where our river journey would begin. We ended up leaving fashionably late, at 7:30 sharp.

Joining us was my father’s colleague, a man I was meeting for the first time. He was called Rhythm uncle, as I was told to call him. To my surprise, he turned out to be remarkably similar to me in many ways, and over time, I started calling him bhaiya instead. He opened the trunk of his car, while campus guards helped us load our bags.

With my father up front next to Rhythm bhaiya, and my mother beside me in the backseat, we hit the road. Bhaiya drove smoothly, maintaining a steady 80 km/h even through the maze of traffic. The city slowly gave way to open fields and small villages. I spent the ride staring out of the window, recording tiny moments on video, occasionally drifting off to sleep. In the glass reflection, I caught sight of the dark circles under my eyes, like a tired raccoon, I thought.

Suddenly, the car jerked. Bhaiya slammed the brakes just in time to avoid a motorbike that swerved dangerously close. My father immediately got on a call with our crew to sort out last minute details.

We arrived at Dhamakhali around 9:30 a.m. Two friendly locals assisted bhaiya in parking the car in a nearby garage. Starving, we headed to a small tea stall. My parents and Rhythm bhaiya sipped hot tea and nibbled on biscuits. I joined them, allowing the warm tea to rouse my sleepy senses.

Soon after, we crossed a narrow, arched bridge connecting the mainland to the launch point of our river expedition. My heart raced with excitement as I stepped onto the lounge, a spacious, double-decked boat that would be our home for the next few days. We had it entirely for ourselves. My parents followed, their faces filled with curiosity and anticipation. 

I darted around the deck, exploring every nook and cranny like a child in a candy store. While the others stowed their bags in the lower deck, I snatched my mom’s phone and began filming the breathtaking view. The lounge gently swayed as it pulled away from the dock. I sank into a chair on the upper deck, letting the river breeze caress my hair.

Halfway through the journey, Gourangho bhaiya realized he had forgotten to bring cups for the lassi. We made a quick detour to an island called Sandeshkhali, where we found clay cups crafted from soil. The chilled lassi, served in those earthy mugs, tasted even more delectable than usual. My father, always the environmentalist, reminded me that the cups would dissolve harmlessly into the river. I gently tossed mine into the water and watched it float away.

Breakfast followed shortly after, a simple yet delectable meal. Potato curry, fried potatoes, and hot chapatis, the kind of food that not only nourishes your body but also soothes your soul. We ate with our hands, surrounded by the river’s glistening waters, like liquid gold.

By noon, the sun beat down relentlessly above us. I was drenched in sweat, so I descended below to change. I swapped my blue tee and sweatpants for a dry polo and track pants, feeling brand new again. Back on the deck, I stood at the bow, awestruck by the vastness before me. The river seemed endless, its waters shimmering under the sun, kissing distant islands on the horizon.

My curiosity piqued, I approached the captain and inquired, “How do you manage this lounge?”

“Come inside,” he replied with a smile, opening the door to his cabin. Eagerly, I followed him. The console reminded me of my favorite video games. I contemplated asking my dad if I could become a captain someday, but instead, I turned to Aninda bhaiya.

“Can you teach me how to fish?” I asked.

The ensuing hour tested my patience like nothing else. I struggled to catch even a single fish, while the adults chuckled at my clumsy attempts. However, I didn’t mind. I knew I’d try again tomorrow.

We employed an old-fashioned method: a plastic bottle wrapped in string, with prawns as bait. I tossed it into the river with hope in my heart, knowing that my moment was yet to come. As afternoon gave way to evening, the sun descended, casting a warm orange glow over the river. I sat quietly at the lounge’s edge, my feet gently skimming the cool water.

Although I hadn’t caught a fish, I had gained something else, patience.

That night, we anchored near an island dense with mangroves. As darkness enveloped the sky, the Sundarbans whispered to us. Crickets chirped, unseen creatures splashed, and birds called from afar. It dawned on me then, this forest wasn’t just alive; it was ancient, breathing, and listening.

Dinner was modest but comforting: steamed rice, golden dal, egg curry, and fritters, enjoyed under a sky adorned with stars. Oil lamps flickered on the deck, their flames dancing in the wind. Rhythm bhaiya regaled us with tales from his past visits, of crocodiles, ghost lights, and fishermen who had lost their way. His voice, woven with shadows and flickering flames, brought these stories to life.

Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. I lay on a thin mattress on the upper deck, the wind tousling my hair, and the forest humming in the distance. The Sundarbans had seeped into my consciousness.

At dawn, a knock woke me. “Come see the sunrise,” bhaiya whispered.

I stepped outside, and there it was: the world bathed in a mesmerizing blend of orange and lavender, reflected perfectly in the tranquil water. The mangroves stood tall and proud in the mist, like ancient sentinels guarding the forest.

After a quick breakfast of luchi and cholar dal, we boarded a smaller boat, which zipped us through the narrow channels of the forest. Mangrove roots clung to the muddy banks like grasping claws, while kingfishers darted across our path, and mudskippers blinked curiously at us. Every inch of this enchanted forest seemed to hold a magical allure.

Suddenly, the boatman hushed us, pointing ahead. “There,” he said, “a spotted deer stands frozen.” Behind it, a subtle shift in the shadows caught my attention. My breath caught in my throat.

The Sundarbans tiger, a rare sight, was there, but something in the air felt heavy. The forest fell silent, and the deer vanished. Whatever we had seen or felt vanished just as swiftly. Back on the lounge, I was determined to catch that elusive fish. I baited the hook, cast the line, and waited patiently.

A sudden pull sent me yanking back, and up came a shimmering silver fish, flipping wildly in the air!

Everyone cheered, my mother clapping, my father smiling quietly, and Rhythm bhaiya whistling a joyous tune. “You’re a Sundarbans fisherman now!” he declared, and I couldn’t help but grin, my cheeks flushed with pride.

That evening, we visited a forest watchtower. After a short hike through the woods, we climbed the bamboo stairs to an open platform, where the night had fallen, and the world below slept peacefully.

And then, they came. Hundreds, thousands, of fireflies, tiny blinking stars among the trees, as if the entire galaxy had spilled down to Earth. “I wish I could bottle this,” I whispered, captivated by the sight. “You just did,” my father replied, gently tapping his temple.

The next morning, as we journeyed back to Dhamakhali, the lounge was filled with a quiet, lingering atmosphere. No one wanted to leave this magical place. As the muddy river gradually gave way to clearer waters, I stared into the forest one last time. The silence, the tiger’s gaze, the silver fish, and the fireflies, all these memories would forever be etched in my mind.

I wasn’t just returning with photos and videos; I was carrying back a piece of the Sundarbans’ unforgettable magic.

 

< Contents