The river was low, slow, brown as old tea. Nuru crouched in the prow of the narrow boat, one hand dipped in the warm wake, the other gripping his father's old jute sack. In it lay three brass jars and a coil of rope: all the tools he’d inherited, along with the honey path and its unspoken rules.

Behind him, Gafur da muttered prayers, more for the ears of the tigers than for Allah. Everyone knew the tigers were quick to anger and slow to forgive. The men didn’t speak of it as superstition. They spoke of it the way fishermen spoke of tides.

"We'll try near the dead pool today," Gafur said. "The bees built high last year. With luck."

"Luck’s for those with another trade," Nuru replied, and leapt ashore.

The Sundarban forest stood half in water. The trees leaned like old monks, arms lifted in perpetual benediction. The air tasted of salt and flowers, and felt, of something that moved when you weren’t looking.

They hiked two hours inland, pausing often to listen to the hush of birds, to the clatter of monkeys, to feel for that deadly absence of sound that sometimes signaled a bengal's presence.

“Your father," Gafur said softly, “once caught three hives in one day. But he was fast. Fast enough to fill the jar and run."

Nuru swallowed the old grief. “He wasn't fast enough."

They found the hive by scent. It hung like a golden wound high in a sundari tree, buzzing with the work of thousands. Nuru climbed --he always climbed--and as he rose, he thought of what his father used to say: The forest gives you a heartbeat’s warning.

He reached the hive. The bees, drunk on sun and nectar, let him close in. The thick wax was rich with promise. He carved gently, whispering thanks to the swarm. The honey slid into his jar in viscous threads.
A rustle below.

His heart jumped a warning.

An orange stripe, a shadow moving with a powerful stillness.

“Nuru!" Gafur shouted.

He didn’t look down. The forest could teach him nothing new--only repeat its cruel, indifferent catechism. He sealed the jar, tied it to the rope, and began to descend. Fast. But not too fast.

At the base, the tiger waited, watching--its mouth half open as if to speak.

Then, as if remembering some older hunger, it turned and vanished.

Gafur let out a breath. “You were lucky."
Nuru held the jar to the light. It glowed like a promise too dear to keep.

“No," he said. “I was allowed."


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Inspired by Amartya Sen's 'reflection on the Sundarbans '