The temple at last...

The temple at last...

Ada Chai forest station looked forlorn in this deep forest -- an outstation with a pale existence. We walked down a long wooden pier that had developed gaping holes through its rotten wood planks. At the end of it was the wooden station its planks blacked by continuous rain, damp, musty smell hanging in the air. The lanterns could hardly beat the gloom of the gathering dusk as we entered the ramshackle station. The dampness enters your inside and you feel dizzy. I was taken aback by the unbelievably sorry living condition of the foresters.

What surprised me more was the backyard of the station. A long pier about ten feet above the ground had run to the toilets. And it was protected with tightly knit golpata partition all the way. The floor was also made with solid wood.

“The man-eaters,” one of the foresters smiled. “This is a tiger infested area. Only a few days ago, a tiger visited our station. We don't want to get dragged away at night while going out to the toilet.”

We took a short walk at the back of the station. Thick thorny hetal bush had spread all the way to the keora forest.

“Don't walk any further,” a forester warned. “The tiger often sleeps in this forest. We should not take risk at this hour.”

We felt bad for these people who were living in constant fear of the big cats. And worst still, their life had turned bleaker by the lack of drinking water. The only fresh water pond had become unusable after Aila had dumped salt water into it. Tonight they were left with only a jug of water and if fresh rain did not come tonight they would be left without any.

It was getting late and we had to leave the station in a sullen mood, leaving the poor souls to fend for themselves. As our boat crossed the river to the ship, we could see Shibsha forest on our left where that mysterious temple sits tight amidst thick forest and where that even more mysterious tiger lives. Tomorrow we are going to look for it.

……………

The day began with a heavily overcast sky. It rained the whole time last night and it was now drizzling. Breakfast was quick and then the ship set out along the Shibsha River. But at the entry to the Shibshah canal we had to anchor again. It was now low tide and we waited for the high tide so that we could enter the serpentine canals in an engine boat.

From here, I looked out to the deep forest lying ahead and wondered what a daunting task it was for Raja Protapadittya to set up a township here to fight the pirates some 450 years ago. Who were those brave men and women who came to this wilderness and tried in vain to make this place liveable? We were here to get inside that deep forest to have a look at the remnants of the temple that was built by the Pratapadittya settlers.

The tide turned soon and we took the engine boat to cross the choppy stretch of the river to enter the channel that twisted through the deep forest and gradually became narrower. We saw a huge white-bellied sea eagle slowly winging above us to the other side of the forest. What a majestic bird it is! We saw a honey buzzard and a grey-headed eagle too.

The journey was becoming mysterious now and we felt a kind of adrenaline rush thinking about the temple tiger. We were slowly rowing and a strange kind of silence had wrapped us tight. There were no songbirds singing. Only the crowing of an occasional red jungle fowl proved that it was not a dead forest.

Rows of golpata and hetal bushes frilled the blackish muddy banks. Beyond them stood the sundari and kewra and myriad other varieties in a tangle to form a dense forest. Reza Khan pointed out to the hetal fruits and said these are a variety of dates. They looked brilliant orange. Mudskippers and blue fiddler crabs crawled the banks among sharply pointed breathing shoots.

The canal had become so narrow here that the boatmen climbed down in the mud and pushed the boat as oars were of no use here. Khosru was looking intently ahead to locate the canal that would take us closest to the temple. The spiky hetal branches were brushing our faces and we had to be careful to save our eyes. It was drizzling again.

Suddenly Khosru signalled to stop. He was silently pointing to the bank. The pugmark was definitely imprinted a few minutes ago -- a huge male tiger had jumped across the canal. The claw marks were sharp and fresh -- the swampy mud had not blunted them yet. We silently watched the mark, a weird feeling descending upon us. We did not know whether the tiger was watching us from behind the bushes. What was he thinking?

From the boat we stepped right onto the bank and sank knee-deep in the spongy mud. Very slowly we climbed up the steep slope and found ourselves into a hedo bush. Hedo is the ideal place for tigers in the Sundarbans as the cats can use the reed like plants as mat to sleep on in the swamp forest.

“Everybody! Shout! Shout loudly!” Siraj yelled. “Not every forest is a good place to sight a tiger. Make noise as much as you can!” Siraj had seen some recent human victims of tiger attack and the memories were still fresh in his mind.

“Whaaaoooo,” we hollered, almost in unison. And we started walking, trying to cross the hedo brushwood as quickly as possible. But however fast we tried, our progress was painfully slow. Every step saw us sinking deeper in the most sticky mud. And we almost lost balance with every step too. That posed a most perilous prospect as the sharp breathing shoots were everywhere around us in great numbers. One fall and at least ten of them would pierce you through.

But then there were two more dangers. Our shoes were getting stuck in the mud and we had to vigorously pull our legs to free them. This was really challenging. And then we had to first place our foot slowly and carefully to be sure that we were not stepping on any breathing shoots hidden in the mud.

Some of us were slowing down and Khosru shouted us to a halt.

“One guard in the front and the other in the rear,” he ordered. “Everybody must be covered by the guards. No-one should fall behind!”

I very much doubted how much protection the two forest guards could provide in case of a tiger attack. Before they could aim their rifles, they would skid and roll over on the mud. But still they gave us a kind of mental protection -- by now a strange kind of fear had seeped into our mind and we did not want to meet this mysterious temple tiger any more.

Soon one by one we got rid of the shoes because with them on it was impossible to move any further. Barefooted, we were exposed to more danger though. Anytime a breathing shoot could nail through our soles. And a little later our situation was further jeopardised as Reza Khan dragged out a dog-faced water snake by its tail from the mud. Who knows how many of them are lying on our path. And I remembered Khosru warning us to be extremely careful at the temple sight because it is teeming with cobras.

Thickets brushed against our faces and they stung like wasps. The drizzle, the danger, the crooked branches of the trees and the deep shadow of the forest created a ghoulish atmosphere. Suddenly Reza Khan stopped dead. He was the only guy still courting a boot.

“The tiger is close by,” he whistled. “It is stalking us.”

The words hit us like bullets and froze us for a moment. An icy wave trickled down my spine. We felt helpless in this terrible terrain. For the first time, I resented having come here. And I did not know whether I would have the energy left, if not life itself, to cross the same distance back. Worst of all, we had no idea how much path we had yet to cross to the temple.

“Shout louder!” Khosru ordered and we tried to best use our lungs. Someone suggested the guards shoot in the air. But the foresters looked unsure they have to explain to their officers for any bullet spent.

“It's useless,” Ronald Haldar murmured beside me. “If it is a man-eater, no shouts can deter it.”

“But we are twenty together. The tiger surely would not dare to attack such a large pack,” I said hopingly.

“Ha! There you say,” Ronald snorted. “I know of tiger attacks on bigger packs. Man-eaters are man-eaters.”

We started walking faster now probably by the fear of the unseen tiger softly following us. And no-one wanted to be too far away from the guards. After sometime, I lost track of time. We were all walking mechanically like some haunted souls. Plop, plop, our feet rose and fell in the mud. I was no longer glancing at the reeds that almost sandwiched us from all sides. We just kept treading. In empty heads. In empty minds. And then finally came in view a bright brick structure through the bush.

Slowly the temple became clearer. It is about 30 feet high, a very old structure. The thin bricks had lost their sharpness of edge over the centuries. Plants had grown all over it, darkening its haunted look. There was an opening through which we tentatively stepped inside and held still for a few seconds. We did not want to be bitten by a cobra. Then as vision adjusted to the semi-darkness we panned our eyes around and then tilted up. It was a small place, about 350 square feet. The ceiling had arched and showed some obscure designs. Some 450 years ago, people used to come here and place their offerings. Smell of incense would swirl in the air, mixing with the strange outer smell of the forest. Sundarbans would then become a magical existence. Some 450 years ago, these people the kaguji or papermakers and molongi the salt producers would find spirituality in the shadows of this temple.

Someone called out from outside and my spell was broken.

“Tiger marks!” a voice was heard.

Right beside the temple we saw the pugmarks of the temple tiger. So fresh that even the grasses were yet to lose their rumple. It looked like a tigress. Was the large canal-crossing male its mate? The tigress was probably resting on the high ground of the temple when its sleep was disturbed by our shouts. She got up and went down to see who the intruders were to enter her kingdom.

“We must get back fast,” Khosru announced.

Headcounts were done and we lined up again -- one guard in the front, another in the rear. Then we plodded on through the mud, through the needles, through the same danger. Again.

Naturally Narail...

Naturally Narail...

WE were supposed to visit Narail months ago. But then many moons moaned by and all our plans collapsed one after another for one reason or another. Finally when we found time, it began with a disaster.

On a perfectly nice winter morning, we parked our car at the Mawa police station for two nights and went over to the speedboat terminal. On the other side of the Padma would wait a microbus. This arrangement would have been the quickest to Narail. With a heavy backpack and the jacket wrapped round my hand, I first stepped on the front deck of the speedboat. As I was about to step inside the canopy, two more halfwit fellow travellers with no knowledge of a speedboat's behaviour jumped in.

It took a second for the boat to rock vigorously, like a bucking horse; and the next second I found myself floating on the Padma. My backpack felt like a tonne of brick and impossible to dislodge. My jackets were fitted tightly. Somehow I swam against a current that was trying to carry me out to the middle. Then I found the white hull of the speedboat above my head. I grabbed its edge and calmed myself.

Then I was laughing manically. All those birdbrains responsible for the mayhem and my watery state were also in water. All with their backpacks and one of them swimming like a rat thrown into the pond.

There were people stretching out their hands to me and I caught a few of them, or they rather caught me and pulled. Try to climb onto a speedboat from the river and find out how difficult it is. Almost when I was thinking the rest of my life would be spent on the Padma bobbing like the float of a fishing rod, they landed me on the deck. The rest were rescued as well.

Drenched, we sat like some catfish and chattered teeth as the speedboat roared through the Padma for half an hour. I tried to see the best of the river view -- the seagulls dancing on the waves, the long sandy beaches and wonderful squirt of silts thrown up by dredgers looking like whales spraying water.

Thankfully, the chilly ride was over, but not our indignation. All the fools on the other side of the bank -- from village morons to newly-wed girls going to in-law's house -- asked if we fell over the speedboat. Our answers varied -- No, we were scuba-diving, only we forgot to change clothes; No, we were up in the sky too high and got drenched by the clouds; No, we are Argentinean pearl fishers.

..............................................

Once on the other side, the journey transformed into one of bliss and wonderment. The road was wide and empty eerily empty for Bangladesh . For minutes we traveled before meeting another vehicle. The roadside view also changed dramatically. The fields spread away to the horizon and uncountable palm trees gave that special feature to the landscape. Then I realized all those tals we have in Dhaka must have come from here. Jute sticks were piled up along the road in the most interesting fashion. The stacks looked like witches' hats.

In exactly four and a half hours from our journey in Dhaka we found a narrow side road and followed it to a beautiful river. The narrow river meandered very gracefully through bright yellow mustard fields. Not a ripple in it. Its marbled water looked almost blue. Only occasionally a jute-laden boat would appear lazily and sail away.

A few blackened figures stood knee-deep in the river and used buckets to throw water onto their saplings on the slanted paddy fields. We looked at the cotton-balling clouds above and inhaled the utterly village smell -- of water, mud, mustard and paddy -- and knew heaven is here.

There was a strange ferry here -- a private one inscribed “Arunima Modhumoti Ferry” on it. Its triangle shape made us to research out that it was in fact the sawed-off front of a steel boat, probably a cargo ship. A Chinese diesel engine has been fitted to its side in a watchtower like room.

It took us a few minutes to cross the ferry. Here we had to board a rickshaw-van. A ten-minute trip through a village took us to the resort Arunima Countriside. The tree-frilled wide road welcomed us inside the sprawling resort to a cosy bungalow.

It's a beautiful place full of tall trees and big ponds. There was a beel as well -- a water body so huge that the end part of it had been turned into a bird sanctuary. Amid thousands of red lotus were nesting the winter birds, mostly whistling teals, cormorants, egrets and herons.

On the bank of the beel is the dining place. We watched the birds cackling and whistling and rising above the water and dropping again as we had our lunch.

I took a stroll around the resort. It has many promises. The whole place has been turned into a golf course as well. We were told that a team from Dhaka Club had recently come here to play. The landscaping has been outstanding at places. So close to the Dhaka city, it could be anybody's dream retreat. With conference rooms and all, a corporate attraction.

The bamboo rooms with ACs and all by the beel are interesting. Only their balconies are too narrow for any meaningful lazing.

……................................….......……..

There was this big field behind our bungalow and a high ground for the golf tee. We sat there in the after noon and watched two horses grazing nearby. There was this lonely farmland beyond the field -- the paddy stalks looked dry and golden in the dying sun. A long stretch of tall trees lined round the field like a looming forest.

Suddenly the sun died down and a fine layer of mist settled in. A little girl in a red frock limped along the field. The sun was now hanging very low, looking like a pink fireball. The horses neighed. The cackling of the birds peaked as their nesting time neared.

We watched the whole Dalisque transformation of nature and felt content.

………................................................

Before evening we took a walk through the village. It was the most beautiful village I had ever come across. Bamboo huts with clean yards fenced off with hedges. The traditional bamboo pigeon pens hanging under the ceiling ledges. The calf with their mothers chewing the cud. The jute straws burning in the mud oven. That old acrid smell.

You could hear the children's laughter and the silhouettes of the women cooking in the outhouse. The kerosene lamps and the burning firewood throwing a kind of wavering glow on the faces. The men were sitting in the yards, puffing on their hukkas. Their faces content with the smell of the hays stacked in the corner. The harvesting was just completed and it was a good year. The rain had lifted the crops in time and the pests were few.

Then I heard the unmistakable hoots. Our searching eyes found two owlets sitting in the gathering dusk on the electric line passing over the barren field. They were waiting for the field mice to come out.

We left them to their own affairs and walked to the Modhumati river. A half moon had cast a magic spell and flooded the river silver. We could see as far as the farthest bend. The river lay there prattling some mysterious songs to the universe.

We listened as a perfect night closed in.

……..............................................

It was time to come back. This time at Mawa we were extra cautious while getting on the speedboat. One after another we filed ourselves. No rush. Ah. All safe.

After about fifteen minutes we were in the middle of the Padma and something queer caught our eyes. Lots of speedboats were moored in the mid-river. What are they doing, we wondered. First I thought they were tourists enjoying the Padma cruise. But what interests should tourists find here? Then they must be some kind of geological surveyors looking for minerals. But then why so many women and children?

Just then our speedboat passed by one stationary boat. To our surprise we found that the outboard engine had been taken apart and the boatman was fiddling with it. Then we passed another boat and its engine was also dismounted. We passed another and another. And then we realized what had happened. The river was so shallow here that the boats were all stuck.

Hardly a second went by before our boat suddenly stopped with a sudden jerk and three of us just simply tumbled over into the river. The same three. I stood up sheepishly, all wet once again. But then I again started laughing maniacally.

Whoever has ever heard of the Padma flowing just ankle deep in midstream?

Cambodia by Bicycle...

Cambodia by Bicycle...

[ Two faces of Bayon.]

"Whenever you see three Cambodians, remember the fourth one who was killed by the Khmer Rouge.” A friend shared this sobering thought on the eve of a special adventure I was about to embark on: a bicycling trip from Bangkok to Angkor Wat in Cambodia. While this undercurrent of sadness was a part of the trip, my adventure was also filled with unexpected challenges, friendly people, and awe at seeing the magnificent ruins at Angkor.

After spending our first day (March 14) cycling in Thailand, we reached the Cambodian border at Prum at noon of the second day. We bicycled onward 17 km to Pailin and stopped there for the night. Pailin is famous for two things: sapphire mines nearby and several retired Khmer Rouge officials. Luckily I did not run into the latter while exploring the town in the afternoon. The streets of Pailin were torn up for installing sewage pipes and it was dusty and hot. Many more children than I had seen in Thailand played in the streets. The market reminded me of the bazaars of the smaller towns of Bangladesh, with the vendors waiting with their offerings while their children entertained.

The next day was our most difficult: 92km from Pailin to Battambang, the second largest town of Cambodia. Expecting another hot day (mid-30s) we started bicycling at 7am. Having braved Dhaka's traffic and shattered roads for many years, riding through Pailin's potholes was easy for me. But just outside the town I ran into trouble. That's because we started climbing the foothills of the Cardamom Mountains.