Story - The Snake, Author - Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee

The Snake

Dr. Ratan Bhattacharjee 

Rabi and Samad arrived in the Sunderbans just as the sun began its descent, casting long shadows across the tangled mangrove forest. The air was thick with salt and mystery, and the boatman who ferried them across the brackish waters had spoken little, his eyes darting toward the trees as if they held secrets too ancient to name.They were here for research—an academic study on the Sundari trees, whose roots curled like ancient fingers into the swampy soil. But both men knew that the Sunderbans were more than a forest. It was a living myth, a place where the line between legend and reality blurred like mist over the delta.

Their base was a modest forest bungalow, raised on stilts to avoid the high tide. That night, as they unpacked their equipment and reviewed their notes, the jungle hummed with life. Crickets chirped, frogs croaked, and somewhere in the distance, a howl—low and guttural—echoed through the trees.

“Tiger,” Samad whispered, his voice tinged with awe.

Rabi nodded. “Let’s hope it stays distant.”

But the forest had other plans.At dawn, they set out with their guide, a wiry man named Babul who had lived his entire life on the edge of the forest. He knew the Sundari trees like kin and could read the forest floor like scripture.They walked for hours, cataloging root structures, measuring salinity, and noting the delicate balance between land and water. The Sunderbans were a paradox—both lush and harsh, nurturing and unforgiving.

It was near midday when they stumbled upon the clearing.The air was still. Even the birds had gone silent.

Rabi saw it first—a flash of orange and black, moving with fluid grace. A Royal Bengal Tiger, majestic and terrifying, stood poised in the center of the clearing. Its eyes were locked on something in the grass.

A snake.

Not just any snake—a massive Indian python, its body thick as a tree trunk, coiled and ready.The tiger growled, low and resonant. The snake hissed, its tongue flicking like a warning.

Then, without prelude, they lunged.It was not a fight. It was a dance—ancient, primal, and brutal.

The tiger’s claws slashed through the air, catching the python’s scales. The snake retaliated, wrapping its muscular body around the tiger’s torso, squeezing with terrifying strength.

Rabi and Samad watched, frozen. Babul raised a hand, signaling silence. This was not their world. They were witnesses, not participants.The tiger roared, a sound that shook the canopy. It twisted, biting into the snake’s flesh. The python tightened its grip, its coils pulsing with effort.

For a moment, it seemed the snake might win. The tiger staggered, its breath labored.

But then, with a surge of power, the tiger broke free. It leapt, claws extended, and struck the snake’s head with a force that echoed like thunder.

The python recoiled, dazed. It slithered away, wounded but alive, disappearing into the underbrush.

The tiger stood panting, blood on its fur, eyes still burning with wild fire. Then, as silently as it had come, it vanished into the forest.

No one spoke for a long time.

Rabi finally broke the silence. “That wasn’t just survival. That was something older.”

Samad nodded. “A story written in muscle and instinct.”

Babul looked at them, his face unreadable. “You saw Bon Bibi’s judgment,” he said softly. “The forest tests all who enter.”

They returned to the bungalow in silence, their minds replaying the encounter. That night, Rabi couldn’t sleep. He sat on the veranda, listening to the forest breathe.

He thought of the tiger’s eyes—fierce, intelligent, ancient. He thought of the snake’s resilience, its refusal to yield.

He thought of the Sunderbans—not as a research site, but as a living entity. A place where stories were not told, but lived.

The next morning, they ventured deeper. The forest seemed different—more alive, more aware. Birds called in strange patterns. Monkeys watched from the trees, their eyes curious.

They reached a grove where the Sundari trees grew thick. Rabi knelt to examine a root structure, tracing its curve with reverence.

Samad wandered toward a shallow pool, its surface reflecting the sky. He paused, then called out.

“Rabi. Come see this.”

Rabi joined him. In the water lay a snake—smaller than the python, but still formidable. It was dead, its body twisted unnaturally.

“Not the same one,” Samad said. “But maybe a message.”

Babul arrived, his face pale. “The forest is warning you,” he said. “You must leave an offering.”

Rabi frowned. “An offering?”

“To Bon Bibi. She protects those who respect the forest.”

They followed Babul to a small shrine nestled between two trees. It was simple—just a clay idol, garlanded with flowers.

Rabi placed a handful of rice and a coin at the base. Samad added a folded leaf with a prayer written inside.

Babul bowed. “Now you may continue.”Their research progressed. They documented the Sundari trees’ resilience, their ability to thrive in saline water, their role in preventing erosion. But the forest had changed them.

Rabi began writing—not just data, but reflections. He wrote of the tiger and the snake, of the silence before the roar, of the shrine and the offering.

Samad sketched—roots, leaves, the curve of the python’s body, the fire in the tiger’s eyes.

They were no longer just researchers. They were storytellers.

On their final day, they returned to the clearing.

It was empty.But in the center, where the battle had taken place, a single Sundari sapling had sprouted.Rabi knelt beside it, touched its leaves.

“Life,” he whispered. “Born of struggle.”Samad placed a stone beside it—a marker, a memory.

They stood in silence, honoring the forest.

Back in Kolkata, their report was praised. Their data was thorough, their insights valuable.

But it was the story that lingered.Rabi published an essay titled The Snake and the Tiger: A Sunderban Chronicle. It was read widely, translated into Bengali and Assamese, and even featured in a literary magazine.

Samad’s sketches became part of an exhibition—Wild Memory—celebrating the unseen battles of nature. They returned to the Sunderbans a year later. The sapling had grown.And in the distance, a tiger’s roar echoed through the trees.

About the writer:

APJ Abdul Kalam Awardee writer Dr Ratan Bhattacharjee is a former International Visiting Professor Fairleigh Dickinson University New Jersey & a Multilingual Columnist