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Honey hunters' hymn
EVERYTHING was set for the mohal -- the honey hunting adventure to the Sundarbans.
The honey hunters' boats called palwar are moored at the Barigoalni forest jetty with food, huge earthen pots filled with drinking water, curved knives and cane baskets for honey collection. The forest department has given them a fortnight's permission for the forest adventure.
The honey hunters and their relatives say their prayers. Their wives and children have come to see off the most adventurous people of the Sundarbans -- the mowals.
As the forest officer pulls the
trigger of his rifle, the honey collection season sets in. The mowals gently work their boats into the Kholpata river -- each containing an odd number of mowals -- five to seven a group. They slowly paddle their way to their chosen mangrove islands.
We tail behind on our motor launch. As the boats fan out to different water channels, we accompany two boats.
We embark on the bank of a creek with seven honey collectors and two armed forest guards under the leadership of the Bahardar. The water current was at its ebb. We cross the knee-deep water to reach the forest fringe. Just a little away starts the dense line of Hental, Goran, Gewa and Kholshi trees.
But what immediately caught our attention is the footprints of a medium-sized tigress going parallel to the bank.
Elahi Box, the eldest of the mowals, tried to talk us and the young honey hunters into changing the place. But no one seemed to go for another search. And so, the forest guards fired two blank shots to scare off any tiger that might be around.
I felt the hot caress of the blazing sun. Intoxicating fragrance from wild flowers smacked my senses. Bees were buzzing overhead and small birds like beeeater, warblers and oriolis were droning through the silence of the forest.
Mangrove pins, scattered twigs
and thorny bushes of Hental slowed our advance with the busy-footed honey hunters. The band was at a quick pace -- as if in search of a priceless prize -- almost running like the deer in search of honeycomb. They quickly melted into the shadow of the woods, leaving us behind with two forest guards. The guards guided us through thick bushes along the track that led into a clearing.
The forest woke up from its slumber to the coos of the hunters. "Allah^Allah," screamed one of them. It sent ripples of an assuring message much across the forest that the hunters scouted out a hive, not very off.
Good news, indeed. But we could not reach the spot within half an hour. We threaded our way through two watery inlets that made our advance difficult. The area is comparatively open. Hunters were busy making torches with Hental leafs and Goran twigs.
From a safe distance of 20 metres, we looked through the green foliage and saw a hive suspending crescent-shaped from the branch of a Passur tree, about four metres from the ground.
As rock bees are aggressive and determined to protect their hives, hunters warned us not to use flashlight in taking pictures of the hive. We were well protected against the stings of bees and hid deep in the bushes, but the shitless hunters muffled only pieces of cloth around their faces, necks and heads. Their unprotected eyes were blinking bright in hopes of honey.
Suddenly, a screen of black smoke blocked our vision, as the honey gatherers lit their torches to smoke bees out of their hive. They raised all the torches closer to the hive and thousands of bees streamed out. The forest came alive with hums of the insects flying to safety.
The deserted nest appeared through the haze left by smoke puffs. I felt a tinge of sadness. The whole scene opened a pattern of images in my mental frame -- a nest pillaged, a family of insects driven away and the plunderers lusting for the booty.
But the hunters have little time to think about the other side of honey hunting. One of them climbed up the tree, a curved knife strapped
to his waist, and cut the honeycomb open. Two others raised their cane basket to collect the harvest for which they journeyed all the way from home. The job was done within 20 minutes.
The hunters left us behind for another round of honey collection. We had had enough fun and headed back to MV Bhela with the guards.
It was the first of April. Our boat was waiting for us in a canal. Later in the day, the hunters came back to the boat with a huge collection of honey and wax to spend the night with us. The sun slipped beyond the horizon, spreading its fading glow on the earth. We thought our adventure would end without a streak of fear. But it was not. A nor'wester cut a path through the area with strong winds. Lightning pierced the dark sky and thunders reverberated overhead. The storm died down after two hours of frenzy. We found ourselves safe.
To spice up our time, we huddled together to listen to the hunters' stories. Most have a sad story to tell. But most have no fixed work for a living -some catch shrimp fry, some work as day labourers. Most went on honey hunting with their relatives and lost at least one member of their families to the attacks of tigers.
The hunters have trademark words to describe every step they make in their adventure. They call hunting mohal, wandering for hives chata, cane basket ari, torch karu, honey mou and bees moupoka.
The hunters look for thick, cream colour padma modhu extracted from nectar and pollens of Kholshi flowers
KHASRU CHOWDHURY photo SYED ZAKIR HOSSAIN