Nishidak: The Phantom’s Cry and the Fox’s Warning in the Sundarbans

Aniruddha Basu’s pen was in revolt. Trapped by urban noise and familiar routines, he felt a creative drought so severe that he couldn’t write a single letter. In the end, it was the mystery of the Sundarbans that called to him. His mission: to immerse himself in its folklore, myths, and raw forest life, and emerge with a novel. A letter of recommendation from a high-ranking official granted him special permission from the Forest Department, but the Ranger was firm. “You will be responsible for your own safety. The core area is strictly off-limits. And you must take an armed forest guard with you.”
At the jetty, Paresh Madhi was waiting. A man in his fifties with a sun-scorched face and eyes that held the wisdom and roughness of the tides. With him were his young assistant, Subrata (nicknamed Khoka), and the forest guard, Kalu, a rookie nervously clutching an old rifle that looked like it would fall apart before a tiger ever did.
The boat, a medium-sized vessel with an old motor chugging at its rear, set off. “Paresh-da, where are we heading?” Aniruddha asked.
Paresh scanned the sky. “Babu, you wanted to see the deep forest. We will cross the Matla river and go further. But we must be careful.”
Kalu chimed in, “Sir, we will go near the core area, but entering it is against the rules.”
“Don’t worry,” Aniruddha assured him, “I just want to feel the environment, take some notes. Nothing beyond the rules.”
The chugging of the motor was the only sound as they glided between dense green walls of mangrove—Garan, Geowa, Hetal, Golpata. The breathing roots jutted out from the mud like countless sharp knives. Aniruddha began taking pictures, captivated. In his diary, his fascination spilled into verse:

O Badavan, realm of whispered lore,
I’ve come to touch your primal core.
In verdant green, where life’s a hum,
Does death in every moment come?

As the river bent, the sun softened, casting a mesmerizing glow. Paresh Madhi began to sing a low Bhatiyali tune, a melody as deep and effortless as the river’s current:

Oh, river wave, my bride sails on a distant way,
I long to return, but my tears hold sway.
On this Ganga tide, my fate’s unknown,
Life and death are His will alone.
In the Hetal grove, the tiger waits to prey,
The crocodile glides on the watery way,
Yet the boatman rows, with faith in his soul’s keep…

The song stirred something deep within Aniruddha. As evening descended, Paresh slowed the boat at the mouth of a narrow creek. “We’ll spend the night here, Babu. This place is quiet.”
“So early? Can’t we go a little further?” Aniruddha asked.
Paresh shook his head grimly. “No, Babu. It’s not right to travel at night. And ahead lies the jungle of Chamta island.”
At the mention of the name, Kalu grew visibly tense. “Yes sir, Paresh-da is right. That is a very dense jungle, known for high tiger activity.”
Aniruddha didn’t press further. After a simple meal, he lay on the boat’s deck, sleep far from his eyes, listening to the symphony of the jungle.
Suddenly, a strange call pierced the night, silencing everything else. A continuous, mournful, yet sharp cry: “Kuwu… Kuwu…” It came from the dense jungle to their left.
“Kalu, what is that sound?” Aniruddha whispered.
“Sir, be quiet,” Kalu hissed, his voice trembling. “Do not answer it.”
Paresh was also awake, raw fear etched on his experienced face. He gestured for silence, then recited an old folk rhyme in a near-inaudible whisper:

“In the tiger’s name, the tiger’s hawk,
The Baghor’s cry makes strong men walk… to their doom.”

The call came again, closer this time. “Kuwu… Kuwu…” It sounded like a desolate plea.
A cold dread washed over Aniruddha. This was no animal’s call. “Baghor? What is that?” he couldn’t suppress his curiosity.
“The spirits of those taken by the tiger, Babu,” Paresh whispered, his voice shaking. “Those whose bodies are never found. They call out in the night. Some say they are searching for their killer. Others say they are looking for a companion to share their fate.”
The call continued, seeming to circle the boat—first distant, then frighteningly close. Khoka was muttering prayers, and Kalu gripped his rifle with white knuckles.
Then, the “Kuwu” call stopped. It was replaced by something far more terrifying. An inhuman, agonized scream ripped through the silence: “D…huh…hoo… huh… hoo…”
A thousand agonies were woven into that sound. It was from a human throat, but there was nothing human left in it. Aniruddha felt his heart leap into his throat. He shut his eyes, huddling with the others as the sound finally faded, leaving behind a silence more deafening than the scream itself.
At the first light of dawn, a frantic Paresh ordered them to leave. They reached the main river, and a collective sigh of relief went through them when the motor sputtered back to life. But their ordeal was not over. Suddenly, the motor died again, and this time, it refused to start.
They began to row, a strenuous task against the current. To save time, Paresh decided to take a shortcut through a wide, dense creek. Here, the jungle canopy was so thick it blotted out the sky, plunging them into a gloomy twilight even during the day.
“Paresh-uncle, look!” Khoka suddenly cried out, his voice sharp with terror.
There, on a thick branch overhanging the creek, sat a massive tiger. Its striped body was almost perfectly camouflaged, but its pair of blazing yellow eyes were fixed directly on them.
Aniruddha’s breath caught in his throat. Kalu fumbled with his rifle, but Paresh stopped him with a sharp gesture. “Put the gun down! Don’t provoke it. Stay quiet.”
The boat drifted slowly, helplessly, closer. Death, Aniruddha thought, could be so calm, so beautiful. Just as the tiger tensed its muscles to spring, another sharp, continuous call erupted from the jungle behind it: “Feuuu… Fee… Feuuu!”
Startled, the tiger paused. Its ears twitched, its head turning towards the source of the new sound. Its focus had shifted. It let out a low, irritated growl. The “Feu” call grew more insistent, as if signaling something. After a moment of hesitation, the tiger made a decision. With a powerful leap, it abandoned its prey and disappeared into the deep jungle, following the strange call.
Everyone on the boat was frozen. After a long moment, Paresh trembled and thanked Allah for their lives.
“The Feu?” Aniruddha whispered. “What was that?”
“A type of fox, or jackal, Babu,” Paresh explained, his voice still shaky. “The forest’s herald. They say it calls to signal a tiger’s hunt, hoping for scraps. But today… today, it saved our lives.”
When they finally reached the jetty, it was evening. Aniruddha had the plot for his novel, but the price of admission had been a brush with a terror he would never forget. He finished his novel and named it Nishidak’s Badavan (The Night-Caller’s Forest). It became a bestseller, but Aniruddha knew he could never fully capture the reality of the Baghor’s cry and the Feu’s intervention. Some experiences can only be felt; some fears can only be one’s own. The night in the Badavan was etched into his memory forever—a witness to a chilling horror and an inexplicable miracle.