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Although stories of Bego Bhoot were rarely heard when Palan was growing up, they were once widespread—back in the days when tiger attacks were very common in the Sundarbans. One such story, passed down by Dilip during that fishing trip—the story of which I have already shared, became Palan’s prized possession.

It was as we already know, during the time of monsoon—the group—seven of them—floated through the silent rivulets, wrapped in the thick, damp air of the Sundarbans. Fleeting clouds unleashed incessant needles of rain. Seeking refuge, they huddled inside the Ilshi-chhai, sharing tales, chit-chatting, and enjoying idle conversation.

That afternoon, Dilip spoke up. “It’s not always tigers” he said, his voice was uneasy. “There’s something else in these forests—something older, stranger. A spirit, perhaps. Many majhi-molla have felt their hearts leap into their throats in its uncanny presence”.

Dilip started his story:

That year, we had taken our boat into the right-hand rivulets of Vidyadhari. It was a typical fishing night. We were waiting for the high tide, at one Gai-path (opening of a relatively narrow channel of water) to shift our Tana—the arrangement used to trap shoals of fish that would enter the rivulet with the gradual swelling of the water.

There were five of us—Baripada, Dhana, Aliul, Ramsaran, and me. Baripada, with his sharp eyes, was always the most alert among us. In a while, he came up to me, speaking in a suspicious voice. He had seen something—or thought he had—something that plunged into the water from the left bank.

In the Sundarbans, you don’t get second chances.

Warily, we turned on our torches. Even that was a risk—too much light could draw the attention of patrolling police, from either India or Bangladesh. If they caught you, it meant a night wasted, endless questioning, and heavy fines. But in that moment, the unknown was more dangerous than the law.

We found nothing significant. Maybe it was an otter, or a saltwater crocodile. But no—soon after, Ramsaran, who was stationed at the back of the boat, almost tumbled over as he broke into a panic. He claimed he had seen something—something massive—slithering behind us in the water. “A snake” he said, “as fat as a full-grown pig, following the boat!”

It sounded completely absurd. No snake in this part could grow that thick—unless it had just swallowed something whole. And if that was the case, it wouldn’t be swimming; it would be curled up somewhere, digesting. Still, we left nothing to chance. We scanned the water again, our torches slicing through the dense, stubborn quiet of the jungle too tight. But there was nothing significant. Only the still surface, heavy with a silence that felt too complete.

Ten minutes passed. Then it was me. I wasn’t spared either.

Just twenty yards from the boat, I saw them—two bright eyes floating on the surface of the water, low and steady. My heart stuttered. There was no room for doubt: it could be a tiger. I stared harder. The shape was indistinct, but I caught a vague ripple, something like a crocodile’s glide—but not quite. It was too smooth, too deliberate. It had to be a tiger.

I stationed three of us at the back of the boat, with Dhana posted at the front deck as backup. Aliul held the middle, on left side. We were all armed—Ballams, Dhwajis, Laghis—ready for anything.

The lights on the surface of the water flickered a bit. Then everything went black. Pitch black! We hesitantly looked around, trying to assess the situation. And then—we saw it! A tiger—silent, massive, standing right beside Dhana on the front deck.

We froze.

Next thing we knew, we were drifting, all five of us, alive—mid-water, mid-day. We didn’t know where we were. None of us remembered what happened after that moment. The tiger. The darkness. The silence. It was like we had been lifted out of time.

Then, in the distance, a small dingi appeared. It grew larger as it came towards us. Two men were inside it. Aliul gathered some courage, asked them, cautiously, “Do you know where we are?”

It was a strange question—unthinkable, even. In the Sundarbans, no fisherman would ever get lost. If one is found alive on his boat, he always knows his way. And here we were, five of us … drifting!

The two men looked at us, suspected something, and then asked, “What has made you look so blank?” We told them everything. They listened carefully, one of them finally spoke, “It must’ve been the Bego Bhoot of Sadar Sahib” he said.

According to old tales, Sadar Sahib was the son of General Hector Munro. He came to the Sundarbans long, long ago for sport. In December 22, of 1792, Sadar Sahib disembarked from his ship with two companions. They were having lunch—cold meat and bread—when it happened.

One of his friends later wrote in a letter,“I heard a roar, like thunder, and saw an immense royal tiger spring on the unfortunate Munro. In a moment, his head was in the beast’s mouth, and it rushed into the jungle with him—as easily as I could lift a kitten—tearing through the thickest bushes and trees. Everything yielded to its monstrous strength.”

Locals still believe Sadar Sahib never truly died. That his spirit could not bear such an end. They say, he sometimes shifts into that tiger’s form, the one that had killed him—and ever since, he appeared whenever he pleases, stalking the rivers, terrifying the majhi-mollas, and leaving behind only fog, silence, and lost memory.

This story is developed by Team SPOUT

Copyright: SPOUT Books