Last week, I finally toured the Sundarbans after having wished to do it for more than four decades. Much of my to-do list has now been checked. And, owing to the delightfully congenial company, this was one of the best vacations I have ever had, which is saying something, because I have travelled so much for so long with so many people to so many beautiful and interesting places.
Having first gone off to Calcutta, we set off for the jungle on the morning of Wednesday, 25th February. There was my friend Saibal the wildlife enthusiast and his wife Kulbir ji, with whom I had travelled to Kanha a year ago. They had made all the arrangements, so I didn't have to lift a finger. Pupu and Swarnava went along without having to be persuaded too hard: I was thrilled, for this was the first time I was travelling with them since they became an 'item' (I hope I am using the word in the correct Gen Y/Z sense). There was Pratyush, who revels in our company. And there was Shoumo the actor (to me, who has actually seen him growing up before my eyes, he will always remain my beloved nitbor). It was a three-hour drive along the Basanti Highway to Gadkhali, across the water from the much better known Gosaba, where we parked our cars and boarded the launch Delta Queen, which could at a pinch seat 40 plus, at a quarter to twelve. The afternoon was already warm to hot, but balmy. The boat was very well-appointed, with clean little washroom and beds, though we, it goes without saying, spent almost all the time lounging on the deck as we manoeuvred between the mangroves along the distributaries with pretty names (like Vidyadhari), some of which were bigger and deeper than many rivers I have seen inland (and so green, so green), keeping our eyes skinned in the hope of catching fleeting glimpses of all sorts of wildlife, and knowing that tigers in hiding were very likely keeping an eye on us.
No, we didn't see any tigers. Which certainly didn't disappoint me, firstly because I have seen enough in the wild already, secondly because the locals say only half in joke that it is best not to see one, the first sight being quite likely to be your last, since virtually all Sundarban tigers are maneaters, and essentially because I love the forest and the water for their own sake, and don't belong to that class of tourists who go around the Himalayas for days and lament that they 'saw nothing' if they couldn't catch a glimpse of Everest or Kanchenjungha. Lunch was delectable and sumptuous; we were dropped off at evenfall at a nice little riverside resort with large rooms and ample beds. We found a lot of friendly to ecstatic canine company, which, for the likes of us (Shoumo is an animal rights activist among other things) is always a welcome bonus. The evening was spent the way we like best, drinks and snacks and a lot of adda and laughter, slowly dozing off, somehow dealing with dinner (no slight to the cook), then off early to bed and sound sleep.
Swarnava, Pupu and Pratyush hate waking up at daybreak even more than I do, so we were all groggy and grumpy when boarding the boat (this one was named Sher Khan!) at 6.30 next morning. But the beauty of the sunrise through the mist and the chilly wind quickly stirred up everyone's spirits, aided by a hearty breakfast. I don't know how, but everyone had already become garrulous friends with everyone else (I believe I was the quietest of all), and it is unbelievable how fast eleven hours passed, with lunch in the middle and some of us dozing off for short spells now and then. The cameras were worked like crazy: we eventually figured that more than a thousand photos had been taken, making me sigh to remember the days when we took along film rolls in modest quantity, and worried about making every shot, every frame count. We saw all kinds of things, from myriad species of birds (including a rare sort of eagle, besides egrets, kingfishers, adjutant storks) to huge crocodiles, monitors big and small, swamp deer, wild boar, otter, mud skippers, monkeys... and miles and miles of dense, unspoilt jungle. What dismayed was the factoid that the sea is encroaching ever deeper inland, so the waters have become brackish, and as a result the sundari tree, after which the forest is named, is becoming scarce - most of the flora is of the garjan and hental variety. Oh, and in the early morning we had stopped at a site which offered a watchtower, a shrine to Bonbibi and Dakshin Rai, a large freshwater watering hole and a botanical garden designed to educate us about the local vegetation.
Next morning, Swarnava, Pupu and I cried off the boat trip, I because I was exhausted after waking up so early three days in succession, and S and P because they had work to do online (the internet connection, weak to non-existent, had been quickly restored the first day itself). Pupu and I have done this more than once - we need time to unwind very slowly; that is essential to full enjoyment of any trip. Shoumo and Pratyush went off with Saibal and Kulbir for another eleven hour sail. Frankly, I enjoyed the day quite as much as all the other days, doing absolutely nothing: lunch on lobsters was delicious, and Pupu came to sleep beside me while Swarnava was working through the afternoon. Late in the evening, we went for a walk up to the edge of the jungle to catch sight of spotted owls across a rutted path over an embankment in deep darkness. A few of the doggies accompanied us, heaven knows why. Pupu walked with her arm entangled with mine. Bliss.
On Saturday we boarded the boat for the last time at about 8.30, and, after another five hour cruise and a hearty lunch, we were dropped off at Gadkhali. By that time, the boat manager and guide had become friends: 'Do come again', they urged. We set off at around 1.15, took the road through Baruipur and Kamalgaji, and were back at home at around 3.40. I heard later that Shoumo, who dropped off Pratyush later, was discussing how lonely they would feel after four days of such jolly and close camaraderie. All of them have since thanked me for coaxing them into making the trip, despite all their work and engagements, so that's a small victory I think I can be proud of. I want to make loved ones happy, and cannot have enough of their thanks when I succeed. I missed Sunandini and Koushik and Aveek badly. God bless you all.
To all readers, I shall urge: make this trip, but do ensure that you do it with true loved ones.
Finally, two things that impressed me: the authorities were very strict about not carrying disposable plastic water bottles on the boat, and not one of the numerous boats we saw, some crowded with passengers, was playing earsplitting 'music' on so-called DJ boxes. More power to the elbow of the Forest Department, and may the tigers live in peace.
Back in Calcutta, I went to renew my passport. The hassle was absolutely hateful. Then imagine queuing up for visas every time like a beggar, then the expense, then long layovers and not being able to smoke for hours and sitting cramped inside a tin tube for 7, 10, 15 hours at a stretch and often not even being able to talk much with the locals because of the language barrier... so much for the joys of travelling abroad, and I thank my lucky stars for YouTube: I can do all the foreign travel I want from my bedroom, at virtually no expense and trouble at all. If I cannot travel abroad like a VVIP, to whom no rules apply, I should consider it pathetic even to try. I do hope, however, that I can see more of my vast and still in places charming country before I die.
For photos, click here.
1 comment:
Sir, what a delightful and evocative account of the Sundarbans. Your description of those slow boat journeys through the green waterways, the misty sunrise, the easy adda on deck, and the quiet pleasure of simply being there with loved ones captures something essential about travel that so many hurried tourists miss. The forest and the water themselves are the true spectacle.
Your post stirred deep nostalgia in me. I visited the Sundarbans once during my childhood, and the landscape you describe brought back memories of that strange, haunting delta where river and forest seem to melt into one another. My grandfather, who had travelled extensively through those waterways in his younger days, used to recount stories of the region that left an indelible impression on me. One tale in particular still sends a shiver down my spine: he spoke of a night when a tiger silently boarded their boat in the dead of night, sending the entire crew into frozen terror. Whether memory had embroidered the incident over time or not hardly mattered—the atmosphere of danger and awe he conveyed made the Sundarbans seem almost mythical to a child.
Alongside those true adventures were his fictional tales of Manu and Tanu and their journeys through the mangrove creeks. I still remember listening to those stories, utterly mesmerized, on dark evenings by the dim light of a kerosene lamp. Reading your account unexpectedly revived that same childhood sense of wonder.
Thanks to your recommendation some time ago, I also read The Hungry Tide by Amitav Ghosh and found it absolutely riveting. It gave literary depth to the very landscape that you describe so vividly here.
Interestingly, I have also been fortunate to see the mangroves in Okinawa. While the Sundarbans remain incomparable for their scale, mystery, and the aura of latent danger, the Okinawan mangroves struck me as even more picturesque in their sheer visual beauty. I feel rather lucky to have seen both worlds.
In the end, as your post so gently reminds us, the Sundarbans are not merely about wildlife sightings or photographs. They are about companionship, shared laughter, stories carried by tide and memory, and the quiet joy of being there with those we love. Thank you for bringing that world so vividly to us.
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