The Two Sundarbans - stories conservation leaves out

24 Jul, 2026

I was a child when I first watched Bonbibi-r Pala during a three-day trip to the Sundarbans.

By then, the mangroves had already begun to feel mysterious to me. For two days, the mangroves had lived in my imagination through terrifying stories of tigers, Kamot (river sharks), sudden attacks, narrow escapes, and impossible acts of courage, some true, some half-true. To my young mind, the Sundarbans felt like a magical world, dangerous, beautiful, and alive.

On the second evening, we sat near a Bonbibi temple by the river. Beside it stood a small bamboo pandal, patched with colourful bedsheets. Around it lay traces of earlier performances - a broken tin sword, torn cloth, bits of sholapith ornaments and headgears. Then, almost like magic, the empty space began to change. People gathered. Chairs appeared. Lights were fixed. Children ran around excitedly and told us that Bonbibi-r Pala was about to begin, and that Dakshin Rai would arrive soon.

In Bengali, pala refers to a narrative play or verse, and gaan means song. But that evening, it was much more. People of all ages, genders, and religions had gathered. The sun had almost set when a sharp yellow light focused on the pavilion. Several characters appeared one by one, bright, faces painted heavily. And then came Dakshin Rai - the tiger king. He entered in a red kurta, with a large moustache and a red cloth tied around his head. He jumped into the pavilion, glared at the crowd and, to show his greed, began salivating fiercely. His saliva ran down his face and soaked his clothes.

I burst into laughter. So did the other tourist kids. But the laughter died almost immediately. The local children and a few elders turned and glared at us. I did not understand it then but knew we had crossed a line. For us, Dakshin Rai was a funny character in a play. For them, he was fear, faith, memory, and the fragile line between survival and loss. We were not laughing at a performance. We were laughing, unknowingly, at the experiences they lived every day.

Twenty-one years later, while thinking of a story for International Mangrove Day, I was surprised by how vividly I still remember that glare. That evening taught me the duality we live in. The Sundarbans can be a thrilling destination for a tourist, but it is also a home to millions of people; it is a place of risk, livelihood, and grief. The same tiger that excites a tourist may haunt a fisher, a honey collector, or a child waiting for someone to return from the forest.

That is exactly why perspective matters. Conservation cannot be built only based on maps, species lists and protected-area boundaries. It must also understand culture, faith and lived experiences. For too long, we have romanticised the idea of conservation, often for our own benefits. Perhaps that is why the highly priced fresh ‘Sundarban Tiger Prawns’ in urban markets evoke a sense of wonderment but completely overlook the hardship of the ‘Meendharas’, the women who collect them, wading in the saline waters for hours, risking their health and lives.

The Sundarbans is a complex system. To conserve it meaningfully, we must learn to respect the people who depend on them, their culture, values, bliss & sufferings and their understanding of this ecosystem.