The Phantom Cry of the Sundarbans: Deceit in the Mangrove Maze

The new moon night was absolute. In the labyrinthine heart of the Sundarbans, the water of a saltwater creek, black as ink, lay still. A single kerosene lamp cast a flickering, nervous glow upon a small boat carrying four souls from Lahiri Pur village: Subhas, Ram, Jamini, and Abhimanu. They were venturing deep into the forbidden core area, driven by the hope of a better catch of fish and crabs. The demands of an empty stomach are a powerful master.
In this world, the tide is king. It swells the creeks, and when it recedes, it exposes vast mudflats. On either side, the mangrove jungle rose like a fortress, its gnarled buttress roots clawing at the earth like the giant, skeletal fingers of a sleeping monster.
Subhas, his skin weathered by fifty years of sun and salt, was the most experienced. He held the tranquility and sharpness of the deep water in his eyes, knowing every turn of the river, every pull of the current. Ram was a strong young man of thirty, but his strength was matched by his timidity. Jamini, a widow of thirty-five, was the only woman. For the sake of her children, she matched the men oar-stroke for oar-stroke, her resolve as tough as the mangrove wood. And then there was Abhimanu, barely a man, his blood hot with the courage of youth but lacking the wisdom of experience.
The silence of the jungle was profound, broken only by the occasional cry of a nocturnal bird and the rhythmic splash of their oar cutting through the water. The creek was a treacherous path of deep channels, shallow banks, and submerged logs. Suddenly, Abhimanu whispered, “Subhas-da, the creek feels… too quiet tonight.”
Subhas glanced at the starless sky. “It is a new moon night, and the wind is still. Be watchful.”
Silence fell again. Then, from the deepest, most inaccessible part of the jungle, a strange, harrowing wail echoed through the trees. It was sharp and piercing, like the cry of the ‘Boghoria’.
The oar nearly slipped from Ram’s grasp. He trembled, his voice a choked whisper. “The call… Did you hear it? That is the Boghoria! Such a sound in this jungle…”
Jamini’s face had gone pale. The legend of the Sundarbans was known to all: the restless spirits of those taken by tigers are said to wander these forests, their sorrowful cries echoing through the night. To hear their call, and especially to answer it, was to invite certain death.
Subhas’s voice was a sharp rebuke. “Quiet! It is nothing but a wild boar or a jackal.” But even as he spoke, he felt a cold dread gripping his own heart. He had heard such sounds before, but tonight’s cry was clearer, more alive, and it seemed to float directly from the forbidden part of the jungle.
They paddled on. A moment later, a voice called out, clear as day, using a familiar name. “Abhi… Oh, Abhi… Come this way… into this small canal…”
Abhimanu, startled, began to turn the boat. Subhas grabbed his arm, his grip like iron. “No! Don’t you dare!” he hissed, his voice tight with urgency. “That is a trick of your mind, or the deception of a demon.”
Fear now coiled around them all. Jamini began chanting the name of the goddess. In this vicious, lonely wilderness, it took little for superstition to become reality.
They rounded another bend, and this time, a dim light appeared ahead. With it came frantic cries for help. “Save us… Save us! Our boat is stuck on the mudflats… the tide is rising!”
Ram almost shouted, “Subhas-da, it’s a boat! Someone is in danger!”
Subhas hesitated. On one hand, there was the terrifying legend of the Boghoria; on the other, the desperate pleas of fellow humans. He was a man who had always rushed to help others. But tonight felt different. Was this call real, or another trap?
“We must go, Subhas-da,” Abhimanu urged. “What if they are truly in peril?”
Subhas relented. “Steady the boat,” he commanded, his voice grim. They carefully steered towards the light. As they drew closer, the scene became clearer: a small dinghy was indeed stuck on the shore, and several figures were splashing in the water, waving their arms for help.
The moment their boat came within reach, two larger boats shot out from the dense cover of the buttress roots on either side. The “endangered” men stood up instantly, their hands no longer waving for help but brandishing sharp sickles, clubs, and crude handmade guns.
“It’s a trap!” Subhas roared, but it was too late. A dozen pirates swarmed their small boat. It was the infamous gang of Raghu the Robber, a terror to all fishermen in the inner creeks.
A desperate, unequal fight began. Subhas, Ram, Jamini, and Abhimanu fought for their lives. Subhas used his heavy oar as a weapon, and Jamini swung a wooden plank with fury. But they were hopelessly outnumbered and outgunned. A heavy blow to Ram’s head sent him collapsing into the boat with a cry of “Ma-go!”. Abhimanu was quickly overwhelmed and beaten into submission. Jamini fought like a tigress, but a pirate struck her arm with such force that her plank fell into the water.
Subhas knew it was over. He came face-to-face with Raghu, whose face was a mask of vicious glee. “Well, well, Subhas the boatman,” Raghu sneered. “Caught a lot of fish today, have you? Did you think you could cheat us? Your fish, your nets, and this boat are ours now. And that woman…” His lecherous eyes fell on Jamini.
The pirates bound them tightly with coconut coir ropes and threw them into a corner of their own boat. They looted everything—their hard-earned fish, crabs, honey, and even the last drop of kerosene for their lamp.
As dawn began to break, while the pirates were busy dividing their spoils, Subhas whispered to Jamini, “The Boghoria call and the cries for help… it was all them.”
Jamini’s voice was hoarse with pain. “But how did they call Abhimanu by name? So clearly?”
“They spy on the villages, on the other fishermen,” Subhas explained, his experienced mind piecing it together. “Or perhaps that first strange wail was a distraction, to make us believe the cries for help and dismiss any other suspicion.”
Abhimanu wept. “It is all my fault. I was the one who insisted we go.”
“It is not your fault, boy,” Subhas said, his voice firm despite their situation. “It is a duty to help those in danger. But even devils can use our sense of duty against us. The real mystery is elsewhere.”
Suddenly, an idea sparked in Subhas’s mind. He noticed one of the younger pirates seemed less hardened, more ill-at-ease. Subhas gestured to him. The young man, surprised, came closer.
“Brother,” Subhas said, his voice broken. “Do not kill us. We are poor folk. Take what you have, but spare our lives. And do you not know the laws of this jungle? Without the mercy of Maa Banbibi, no one survives in this water-forest. Have you made your offerings to the mother?”
Superstition runs deep among all who travel the Sundarbans. The young pirate hesitated. He went to Raghu and spoke to him. Though Raghu scoffed, the faces of the other men softened. They had little courage to defy the spirits of the forest while in its very heart.
Sensing his chance, Subhas pressed on. “We will make an offering to Banbibi at the next new moon. We will pray for you by name, Sardar. Let us go.”
Raghu considered this. They had already taken everything of value. Killing them would only create trouble if word got out. “Alright,” he snarled. “I will give you your lives. But if I see you in this jungle again…” He let the threat hang in the air, followed by a cruel smile. He glanced at Jamini one last time. “I will spare the girl this time. But next time…”
The pirates untied them and shoved them into their old, battered dinghy. “Now, get out of here!” Raghu shouted. “And if you say a word of this to the police or the forest office, I will burn your entire village to the ground. Remember that.”
The four broken souls began the long journey back to their village as the sun rose, casting a pale light on the mudflats and the silent buttress roots. They were overwhelmed by fear, humiliation, and a chilling sense of violation.
When they recounted their story back in the village, many were skeptical. But Subhas did not remain silent. He secretly confided in a brave young man from the village and a forest guard he trusted, Prasad Mahato.
Over the next few days, Subhas was lost in thought. He was convinced that this pirate gang was just the tip of the iceberg. Their methods—the fake Boghoria call, the use of a specific name—were too sophisticated for common thieves. There was a larger mind at work.
A few days later, on the night of the Purnima, the full moon, when the tide was at its highest, Subhas set out again. This time, he was not alone. With him were a few other brave companions and Prasad, the forest guard, who was now armed.
They hid their boat and proceeded on foot through the jungle, following a route Subhas had deduced. Guided by Subhas’s impeccable instincts and Prasad’s GPS device, they approached a secret hideout on a high mound, perfectly concealed by dense foliage.
From the cover of a thicket, Subhas looked through an old pair of binoculars. He saw not only Raghu’s gang, but also several unfamiliar men whose city clothes looked out of place. He could overhear snippets of their conversation. They weren’t just looting fish; they were smuggling animal skins, tiger bones, and other contraband, using the deep forest as a transit point. The ‘Boghoria’ call was a tactic, performed by paid locals, to scare off fishermen and keep their clandestine routes clear.
Subhas signaled for the forest guards to prepare. As dawn approached, they surrounded the hideout. “Hands up!” Prasad yelled. The gang was stunned, but they quickly tried to fight back. A brief firefight erupted. Raghu was injured while trying to escape, and the rest of the gang was forced to surrender.
The interrogation revealed a terrifying international trafficking ring that used the Sundarbans as its base. They had exploited local legends and the desperation of innocent fishermen to protect their criminal enterprise.
Subhas was hailed as a hero for his courage and sharp intellect. But he knew the mysteries of the Sundarbans were far from solved. Even now, in the deep of the night, a true Boghoria might still be crying out, a restless spirit wandering the shadowy maze. But he had learned a vital lesson: if one could overcome the evil created by men, one could learn to face the dangers of nature with respect and courage. The water-forest was not just his livelihood; it was a battleground of mystery and survival, where a deep conspiracy could be hidden behind every cluster of buttress roots. And sometimes, when he was alone on the water at night, he could still hear that phantom cry on the wind, a chilling reminder that the Sundarbans is as beautiful as it is brutal.