[A brief introduction to the author: Niranjan Mandal hails from the Sundarbans and it is his roots that have inspired him to study extensively the culture and archaeology, regional history and folk traditions of these areas. A retired bank executive, he has pursued literature as a matter of passion. Himself an editor of the Kabikalpa magazine he has to his credit poetry collections – Aphuran Aranyaneel (1988) and Bishanna Canvas (2014), a short story collection Badabaner Padabali (2019) and a novel Ujanbhatir Kathakata (2020). The present one is a translation of the short story “Badabaner Bagdamara” from Badabaner Padabali.]
A dark silent night. One could hear the sound of the water lapping along the banks of the river Raimangal in the salty breeze, the tedious chirping of crickets for a while; and the air was heavy with the scent of the bain flower. But the silence of the night was shattered by the sudden noise of agitated commotion from the riverside locality. These were the shrimp-catchers of Gayenpara.
Hey son, get up! Wake up from sleep! Don’t you hear me, Rakhal? Ebb tide has set in. You need to hurry if you are to catch shrimps. Get up and get going! Wake your wife up and light the lamp!

At Gayenpara, just on the bank of the Raimangal, it was Rakhal Gayen’s mother calling up her son. The old woman suffered from gout, couldn’t sleep well at night. She started nagging her son and daughter-in-law even before daybreak. Rakhal retorted in anger—
Why are you making such a row at the dead of the night? The first cock hasn’t crowed yet. It’s dark night still. It’s backbreaking labour through the long day for me, and after that I can’t even sleep at night! You’re counting your days, you old hag! Won’t you ever have some sense?
The old woman was sleeping in the courtyard of the thatched hut. She sprang up from bed as she heard Rakhal speaking:
Don’t abuse me at this old age. It’s for your own good. The river is ebbing. At this time you’ll be able to catch a lot of shrimplets with your dragnet. Such a large family—four sons and two daughters. You need to feed them, don’t you? No one else would feed them if you sit back at home. The more shrimplets you catch the better you’ll be paid. As the old saying goes, “It’s money that makes the world go round”.
Rakhal’s wife got up in the midst of this chaos and lit the kerosene lamp. Meanwhile, clear light was visible on the riverside. Broken words, the sound of the casting of fishing nets came floating through the silence of the chilly night.
Rakhal told his mother:
You and your daughter-in-law carry on with the fishing dragnet and the large vessels. Look there, our Jata Gayen is leading with a light. I’ll bring the large net and the bamboo poles.

Rakhal’s wife was counting the pin-sized shrimplets of the previous day. The old woman held the lamp high. When Rakhal reached the river bank with his net the old woman said, “Rakhal, now cast the spell to close the river. These days the rivers are crocodile and shark infested. Throw three clods of earth in three directions of the river. It will close the jaws of the crocodiles and the sharks with a magic charm. It will be safe to get into the river and haul the net then. It’s your father who taught you the mantra. He was such a renowned soothsayer! People would come from far off places to get a token of the magic charm from him. How he used to be revered! Chhidam Mandal of the mallas was a dedicated admirer of your father. It was none other than your father who saved his snake-bitten son. Such a gifted soothsayer! Still he went to the forest with the honey collectors as their fortune-teller and never returned. My heart breaks when I think of it...my heart breaks to pieces...”
Rakhal said, “What’s the use lamenting now? Let me remember the charm.” He waded into the river and standing in the knee-deep water of the Raimangal uttered the charm:
 Across seven seas and thirteen rivers
If the crocodiles and sharks
With the ebb and flow
Come and go
Between the ebb and tide
Let fast, very fast,
Their mouths be shut fast.
Whose order is this? It’s the
Order of our presiding Banbibi,
It’s the order of the Lord of the Jungles,
It’s the decree of the supreme Mother Goddess.
Of Ma Kamrup Kamakhya.
Let the river be shut.
Fast, fast, really fast!

Afterwards Rakhal planted a small stick on the bank at one end of the bamboo-fastened fishing net and tied a cord to it, “Hold the rope and stand on the sandbank. I’ll set the net straight getting into the water”. Rakhal jumped into the water and started spreading the net well, “The tide is high today. See how the salt water is glistening in the dark. Looks like there would be a lot of shrimplets today.” Rakhal’s wife replied, “Yes, Amulya’s mother was saying that Amulya caught a lot of shrimps last night.”
Casting the large net properly Rakhal reached the riverbank with his legs smeared with salty slime to the knees and told his wife, “Give the dragnet to me. I’ll drag it along the sides of the sandbank. Meanwhile, you change the water of the big vessel with the shrimplets.” But his wife cut him short, “You don’t have to get into this waist-deep water in the middle of the night to drag the net. You can never trust the salt water. Remember the saying goes that ‘salt water, dark night / wife, vulture and raven’ should never be trusted. Don’t you remember that poor man of Jairampur whose leg was bitten off by the shark? He bled so profusely...Oh, I still remember the anxiety and helplessness. Those charms and spells no longer work these days. This is kalyug. Unwed girls are giving birth to children these days, widows are remarrying. Those old charms have lost their efficacy. That’s why I advise you not to drag the net getting into the water.”
But did anybody bother about what she said? By that time Rakhal had already moved afar along the riverbank dragging the net in chest-deep water. Changing the water of the vessel of the shrimplets Rakhal’s wife called out to her mother-in-law, “Ma, go home and bring my elder son Nuno and the elder girl Phuti to help me sort the shrimplets. You won’t be of any help with your poor eyesight.”
The old woman started off for home, obeying her daughter-in-law.
By now the riverbank was resounding with the cacophony of the shrimp-catchers. Jata Gayen of the neighbouring house broke out singing at the top of his hoarse voice, dragging the net—

Shrimp is my bread-giver, my son,
Shrimp is my grandchild,
The money-making insect floats in water
And we try catching it day and night.

Rakhal shouted, “Why, that’s a nice rhyme indeed! You seem to have a knack for it. And without some sense none can make verses like these.” Ranga, who was standing by him said, “Jata, the other day you made a rhyme on our village folk. Why don’t you let Rakhal hear it?”

Jata said, “But where’s my incentive? Give me a bidi at least.” Ranga gave him a bidi and Jata started reciting in a loud monotone:
“-----Kanchan of Kalkhali is broken
Binod hauli has bloodshot eyes
Tall Kailo shits standing up
Bhuban Bachhar sits thinking
Punni’s son Dhiren is a bong thief---
And Durgo the boatman is a ganja addict.”
“If I come up with such verses about the village folk, Punni’s son Dhiren will get real angry”, said Jata. Others burst out in a wild laughter. Such light-hearted talk lessened to some extent their painful drudgery of  hauling the net through the salty muck in waist-deep water.
Rakhal called out to his wife, “Come here with the large vessel. And separate the shrimps.” He trudged upward from the knee-deep slime. Later he shook the shrimplets into the vessel from the dragnet.
His wife started sorting the shrimplets with the help of an oyster shell from the heap of muddy waste. In the light of the weak kerosene lamp she started putting the reddish brown pin-sized shrimplets into another vessel and counted “One...two...three...one twenty...two twenty...” She continued counting them in this fashion. The shrimplets would be sold on this count—sometimes a hundred rupees per thousand, sometimes barely fifty.
By that time Rakhal was back with his dragnet in waist-deep water. There was no break for him, no rest. The cool breeze of dawn blew. Dawn was breaking. The soothing early morning breeze brought melody to Rakhal’s voice as he sang –“O my sailor mind, take up the oar/ I can row no longer,/ I rowed the boat throughout my life—O yes! I rowed the boat through this whole life... How long shall this life be...” In the semi-darkness of early dawn Rakhal’s mind travelled down memory lane – to the long-lost past, to the times of suffering and privation.
His village was Amtali. But the village did not offer much scope for shrimp-catchers. The river there did not attract shrimps to a great extent. So he shifted with his family to the village Hemnagar, on the other side of the river Raimangal.
Gradually the images conjured up in front of his eyes. That year Aamtali did not receive enough rain during the months of Ashwin-Kartik of early autumn. The lush green paddy field dried up in front of their eyes in dearth of a drop of rain. As far as you could see long stretches of parched paddy field with the corn dried up lay desolate like the desert. Losing his last resort he turned destitute. He alone knew the suffering and privation that he had endured from the tilling of the land to the planting and nurturing of the paddy. He used to work at a local household in the morning and tended the paddy in the afternoon. With time the plants turned lush green. When the soft breeze of Bhadra blew through the youthful cornfield Rakhal felt as if young girls were swaying in the exuberant high tide of youth. He used to be overwhelmed at the sight. After that came the month of Ashwin and the untimely drought. Fiery heat waves descended from the skies, burning and devastating the green fields.
After that life turned all the more difficult. All the villagers were affected by the drought. There was no work in the village. Then came the shrimp-dealers from the Malancha- Ghushikata area. They lured everybody with money and showed them the trick of catching shrimplets with nylon net. Since then life was only a struggle—catching shrimps to earn a livelihood. Would you call this a life? A long sad sigh emerged from the broken heart of Rakhal.
Thoughts of misfortune carried him away to a new world in the cool breeze of the early morning. The branches of the bain and the garjan on the sandbank swayed in the salty wind. Amidst the silence you could hear the sound of the yellow leaves shedding. From across the dense wood on the other side of the Raimangal came the early morning twittering of birds. Dragging the net along, Rakhal came close to his wife and shouted, “Hurry up! Finish off the work quickly. Don’t you remember the dealer would come this morning? If we can’t sell our shrimps to him we won’t be allowed to sell them to anyone else later. Remember that Muslim dealer from Mollakhali who bought a hundred rupees’ shrimplets from me on credit the other day? He never paid me back. You can’t trust people these days. As the saying goes, a person with a head of dark hair is nothing but a scoundrel. Look at our ill fate! Here we spend days in and days out in this sluggish saline water disregarding the threat of crocs and sharks. And there goes the dealer. He tricked me off my hard-earned shrimps! This is our fate.”
Arranging the cast net properly Rakhal started off with his dragnet in the eastern direction in chest-deep muck. It was almost morning by now. Rows of nylon net set up along the sandbank swelled like peacock-blue sails against the silvery breeze of the dawn.
The charm spread. Yellow Indian cuckoos sang, sitting on the caraway branches – “Talk to me dear wife! Oh talk to me!” But his wife had fled in anguish never to return. Bank mynas were warbling. The morning was flooded with white herons. And the charm extended through the sweet call of the open-billed storks. Ducks were diving into the water and resurfacing. Spreading flowery white wings, it appeared as if they were deep in a meditation seeking the soundless dawn of the soul. But Rakhal paid little heed to all this. Dragging the net along, he went on speaking to himself.
They were poverty-stricken. And hunger had driven them to this troublesome life where they had to earn a livelihood by shrimp-catching. But the profit of their pains was reaped by the fishery people of Kalinagar, Nyajat and Chaital. These fishery-babus were now filling their ponds and reservoirs with thousands of shrimplets bought at a throw away price. When the shrimps would grow they would fetch crores of rupees. And the babus would then enjoy life to the lees with wine and women. Fragrant wines would intoxicate their enchanted nights. But the poor, hungry villagers with large families—they would never taste the bliss of a fistful of white well-cooked rice in the afternoon, just the way they would never enjoy the luxury of busking in the golden sunlight descending from the blue sky. Shrimps used to fetch good money earlier. But the market had declined since. The fishery people too were no longer offering good price. The prices had now slumped to a mere four to five rupees per thousand. Still you must run the family. Nothing could be done. Hunger was merciless. This tough life, so much of physical labour through day and night—Oh God! Would our days of privation never come to an end?
Rakhal dragged the net along, whispering to himself. His inner dialogue continued, “With the breaking of the dawn, the crow and the bank myna have left their nests with that indomitable urge to live their life anew. The dove’s prayer for the golden sunlight can be heard. The eastern sky has turned crimson; that marks the end of all fear. The salt water is lapped with the colour red. The day is not far away. Look, the red round ball-like sun has already galloped up the sky like an energetic horse. The sweet charm of the morning light creates waves in the sky and the air all around. The dawn of happiness is approaching. Yellow striped sari with a golden border for his wife, brown trousers for Nuno, milk-white shirt for him, brick-red frock for the elder daughter Phuti — a fistful of rice two times a day, a piece of green paddy field tilled by plough and oxen—”
What rubbish dreams were these! Dragging the net along, Rakhal grew almost senseless and those nonsense thoughts started playing hide and seek in the deep recesses of his mind. What was it? A bite on his leg? His right leg suddenly felt weightless...The salt water was suddenly turning red. Gradually the golden dream seemed to engulf his mind completely and he was unable to remember anything. Rakhal’s head was reeling.
Jata who was nearby threw away his net and ran to Rakhal – “Dada, what happened?” Jata jumped into the water and dragged Rakhal onto the bank, “Why so much of blood Rakhalda?”
When he was brought onto the shore it was found that a shark had torn away lumps of flesh from below his knee. The sandbank flooded with blood. These saltwater sharks were so ferocious and their teeth so sharp that one couldn’t gauge the danger at first when attacked. Rakhal, too, couldn’t fathom it. Rakhal’s wife was sorting shrimplets attentively. As Jata called her she came running and tumbled down on Rakhal: “Oh God! How could you do this to me? How could you ruin my life like this?”
By then, the blood of Rakhal had coloured the saltwater red as if it was the festival of colours, holi. But the suffering and devastation of these poor, victimised, subaltern people did not shatter the golden sun, nor did its golden fragments drop down and get scattered amidst the saltwater of Raimangal.

Glossary :
Amtali, Hemnagar, Mollakhali, Kalinagar, Nyajat, Chaital etc.= Place names referring to villages in and around the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans, spread over the North and the South 24 Paraganas of West Bengal, India.
Bain, garjan = Mangrove trees found in the Sundarbans.
Banbibi (the Lady/Goddess of the Forest), the Lord of the Jungles (Shajanguli) = Presiding deities of the Sundarbans. Folk deities worshipped by the honey-collectors, woodcutters, shrimp-catchers etc. of the mangrove forests of the Sundarbans. They are evoked to ward off the various dangers of the forest including attacks by tigers, crocodiles, sharks and such other ferocious creatures.
Bhadra, Ashwin, Kartik = Months of the Bengali year roughly from mid-August to mid- November. Bhadra-Ashwin refers to early autumn and Kartik is late autumn.
Bidi = A type of thin, crude and cheap cigarette in which unprocessed tobacco is hand-rolled in leaves. Bidis are popular across India.
Raimangal River = A tidal estuarine river in the South 24 Paraganas, meandering through the Sundarbans.