Sundarban Wood

Kajol scraped the last smear of molasses from the pot, the wooden spoon warm from the stove. He rinsed the remaining sticky, brown filling and packed the rest of the peethas into tupperware. The sticky rice cakes were steamed with the molasses coating the insides, bleeding into brown leopard spots on the outsides. He packed away the peethas carefully, to avoid them cramming and sticking to each other. He was too proud of his work to let them crumble or turn stale overnight. The peethas were fired over a large, wood-fire oven. Kajol removed the half-burnt planks of wood and saved them in a disposable bin to reuse later.

“Still not tossing those out huh?” Naima asked.

“No dear, you have to make the most of these. Especially nowadays,” Kajol insisted.

“And…it can’t be any other wood. It has to be-”

“Sundarban? Yes, my love. No exceptions,” he stated firmly.

Kajol refused to use any wood to fire his peethas unless they were Sundarban- with no room for exceptions. The wood must come from trees harvested from the Sundarban Forest. A massive mangrove forest that sat on the delta formed by the confluence of the Ganges and Meghna rivers, wedged between Bangladesh and India. A vastly diverse ecosystem home to the Bengal Tiger, over two-hundred species of birds, and a sundry of trees and plants. He set the bin aside, signaling to Naima to avoid tossing them out.

“Looking to catch some more of these later?” she asked, pointing at the bin.

“In this economy? Might be a hard catch. Tripled in price, and I want to avoid raising the price of the peethas,” he confirmed.

Kajol always urged that the peethas must be fired under wood, not coal. That the wood must be from the Sundarban Forest only. This was one of many heirlooms he’s kept from his father, Yakub, who also steamed peethas for sale. Yakub would wake up early every morning and push his wood-fired oven onto the street market a few roads down from where they lived. He insisted on lugging along this oven, instead of a simple steamer the other street merchants would use. Many would mock him, until they tasted his peethas. The Sundarban wood glowed a viridescent green when lit in the oven, releasing a rustic, old-world aroma that filled the street corner. Customers were drawn to the little food stall that gleamed a bright green radiance at night with a waft of the subtle, smoky essence. They stayed for the fresh, sticky rice cakes filled with viscous brown sugar molasses. The sweet sugar filling caramelized with an infused, woody aroma that released charred, earthy, concentrated flavor bombs.

Some claimed the wood from Sundarban forest had mystical properties that allowed it to glow green, unlike the usual orange-red flame from other trees. Others would rebuke this, claiming various scientific reasons and theories to explain why. Regardless of what some may argue, no one could debate against the various uses of it. Sundarban wood quickly became the preferred source of heat - burning longer in fireplaces, filling the city of Dhaka with a sweet, rustic haze. Others credited the cinnamon bark from Sundarban for having a particular kick to it— a punchy, peppery flavor profile undercut by the spicy, citrus undertones.

“Honey, are we going to be late this month again? Hasan said he’d cover for us, but two months in a row? This is rent, not just groceries anymore,” Naima brought up worriedly.

“Don’t worry dear, our sales are going up slowly. People really love our peethas, the older ones remember my father. We’ll get that bigger stall, we already have a better location. I just need to find a way to offset the price of the wood,” Kajol said assuredly.

Kajol never tried to displace his anxieties and worries with Naima— he figured she had enough on her plate with the baby’s due date just a couple of weeks away. He’s had a handful of meetings with potential suppliers- but none were willing to abdicate the price. There was one more client willing to meet with him— Lucky Logging Services. The first of its kind— a company dedicated to affordable logging products, including smaller portions for cooking. Most folks were astonished that they were able to export these materials to begin with— as some of the earliest laborers shared harrowing stories of encounters with tigers and crocodiles in the Sundarban Forest. They were one of the very few businesses around that were able to afford commercials on the air:

Feeling Lucky? Call us Lucky Logging Services!

For all your needs. Furniture, fueling, fire-you name it!

One-hundred percent ethical and range-grown Sundarban Wood.

With our experts in artisanal thinning,

we operate solely in a fully carbon-positive output.

Grade A Pine. Sustainability Harvested.

Call us today!

The commercial had a fun jingle that aired towards the end, with smiling woodcutters and laborers. We called them Bawalis, those that worked with cutting and preparing the logging services in the forest. Kajol was keenly aware that Naima would not support his decision— she always sneered whenever that commercial aired.

“Lucky Logging Services? More like yucky logging services,” she would say in contempt.

Following with further criticisms on over-consumption, shady practices, topped off with an overall critique on free-market principles and capitalism. These would go over Kajol’s head— eventually setting up a consultation with the company stealthily after Naima went to bed.

By seven PM, the consultant from Lucky Logging Services had dropped by. He made sure to navigate this warily- his experience is lackluster as a novice salesman. His father never worked with consultants or suppliers, but knew the Bawalis closely enough to receive his batch of wood.

“I see your numbers have dipped in the last few months. Twelve percent decrease is not favorable,” the consultant remarked.

“Sir, yes- however, I can assure you that with a new supplier we can double our supply and reduce the overall price,” Kajol rebutted.

The consultant wiped with a neatly folded satin handkerchief from his breastpocket. After their conversation— the consultant suggested he would share their prospects with upper management. He left his card and made his exit. Upon his departure, Kajol let out a sigh and leaned his back against the door. He needed this deal- affordable Sundarban wood was non-negotiable.

Kajol found an old receipt issued by Lucky Logging Services. He examined it— a quote for one-hundred and fifty pounds of lumber issued to someone for a shockingly low price. An address was located at the bottom— a fitting task to impress this potential consultant and perhaps persuasive enough to bargain a better deal.

Naima wouldn’t want this— he thought to himself.

She’d understand, he regaled with excuses. The address was not too far.

Whatever it takes.

Kajol made his way down the neighborhood with the receipt stuffed in his back pocket. He gleefully walked down the dusty roads in an upbeat pace, with buoyant notes of sanguine rhythmically matching his steps. A bag containing the peethas, that he brought along as a gesture of hospitality, swung around his wrists like a pendulum melodically following his pace.

There’s no way they don’t offer me a deal. Once they take a bite of this— they can’t say no.

Kajol continued marching down the roads as the sun had just set. He walked past the corner where his father would station his mobile oven. Kajol couldn’t help but wonder how his father worked long hours at that corner— in open-toed sandals and a clunky oven that wouldn’t always cooperate.

I’m going to have a whole depot. A whole restaurant. People will enjoy peethas in a nice, warm place when they come to mine.

Kajol arrived closer to the address but noticed it within a distance. A large, mansion-like structure outfitted with a polished wooden exterior that stood out from afar. It adorned an intricate architecture with pillars and detailed designs veiling the balconies, guarded by a massive pearlescent gate that wrapped around the perimeter.

He stood outside for twenty minutes while pressing the doorbell, quickly learning he wouldn’t be a guest this evening. A quick glance around the corner revealed a large, white truck sporting the Lucky Logging Services logo, driven off-road into the woods.

Kajol followed the truck’s trail - past the “DO NOT ENTER” signs guarding the forest. He was warned as a child to never wander into the Sundarban. Harrowing tales of thieves, tigers, crocodiles— were enough to keep any child at bay. The Bawalis were considered heroes for safely collecting and returning with the precious wood, but barely any were bold enough to pursue such a profession. The truck’s tire prints led Kajol down a long, winding path. The encroaching tree canopies blanketed the dark-blue evening sky, with pockets of stars bleeding between the crevices of the leaves. He moved forward cautiously until he saw a faint light in the distance. He continued walking when the sounds of chatter and machinery met him from the trail. He crept closer, hiding behind a tall bush.

There was a crew of men who appeared to be working, delegated into different tasks. A duo manning chainsaws- steadily making their progress on a tall tree halfway through the thick trunk. It released sage green sparks the more the chainsaws chewed through them. A trio of workers meters away were shearing the bark off the wood. Smoothing it down when it reached a final group of workers who shaved them down into planks. Kajol quickly noticed they had chains locking their ankles and wrists together– just enough for them to not desert their work stations. A strange, purple haze emanated from the chains.

The chainsaws began roaring once again– when the tree finally began to fall. It croaked as it descended from the skies and crashed onto the jungle bed, erupting in deep tremors enough to startle Kajol. He jolted away from the tall bush, when one of the workers caught sight of him.

“Who’s there,” one of them shouted in his direction.

Kajol slowly rose from the bushes, his hands up in submission.

“Who the hell is this guy?” another jeered at Kajol.

“Probably sent from the boss to spy on us,” another one questioned.

“No! No, wait!” Kajol shouted in panic. “I’m not a spy. I just wanted to–”

“Wanted to spy on us?” two of them clamored on.

The workers began to murmur as the tensions eased. Until one of them shouted:

He owns that little peetha spot in the market. He’s one of them.

The workers armed themselves with their work tools. Chainsaws revved, shears clinked, and knives were brazenly brandished. Kajol nervously backed away into the trail he came from. He took one more glance at the purple haze brewing from their chains until he marched back onto the trail.

I should’ve listened to Naima - she wouldn’t want me here.

Kajol’s knees buckled as he continued walking down the trail, frightened and panicked.

I need to get home before Naima wakes up.

She’d be so worried about me.

Suddenly, a strange rumble shook him in his core. Within the distance, a silhouette of a creature standing stoically eclipsed the end of the trail. A four legged creature, its contrasting stripes barely revealed itself under the moonlight. He recognized it and was warned many times since childhood — a large, Bengal tiger with its eyes piercing the pitch darkness. Frozen in place, the tiger slowly crept towards him. He immediately diverted off trail— into the weeds of the tall bushes. Weaving past hordes of tall trees, he found himself a few hundred yards away. Utterly lost without direction, Kajol grew anxious.

He continued walking with his head on a swivel- examining for any dangers lurking behind him. The trail of illuminated trees ended before a bonfire where a silhouette of a man hunched over casted a shadow behind it. No heavy machinery or work supplies in sight. Unsure what to do, he watched from a distance. A raspy voice quietly erupted:

You think I don’t see you there, boy?

Kajol crept forward towards the old man. He sat on the dirt floor with nothing but what appeared to be a wand. It had a mahogany finish with a faint green luminescence beating synchronously. Kajol spoke under his breath:

“Uh…hi there, sir. Could you point me in the right direction?”

Kajol was met with silence. The old man sat unbothered, refusing to turn around.

“Home? What is that?” he replied facetiously.

“Home. My house. Where I live,” Kajol explained disjointedly.

“Ah… I see,” he replied curtly, followed by some chuckles.

“Sir, please. I have a wife who’s pregnant— I need to get home now,” Kajol started to plead.

“Looking for an exit when you came here for something, didn’t you boy,” he replied with more chuckles.

Kajol’s frustrations grew:

“What’s so damn funny?”

The old man’s chuckles continued, growing into a sheer laughter.

“Fuck this,” Kajol was fed up and began to storm off when he tripped over a branch. He sat down on the dirt floor, defeated and compromised.

“You have to make a decision, boy,” the old man wheezed.

Kajol refused to acknowledge him this time. He was tired and lost. The old man slowly nudged forward towards Kajol.

“Or I will make it for you,” he said as he quickly pinned the sharp end of the wand poking into his neck. Kajol stared at him, frozen in fear, feeling the sharp end of the wand slightly puncture his neck. A tear rolled down his cheek, his eyes watery in fear.

“This wood? This is what you were looking for?” the old man taunted him. “It’s pretty isn’t it?”

Kajol stayed still, quiet.

“This wood here. It burns. But it’s burning boys who never got to be fathers.”

Kajol looked up at him, frozen in fear. The old man’s wheezing began to sharpen, releasing the wand from his neck and sitting down on the dirt beside him. He took the opportunity to jolt up and snatch the wand, distancing himself from him. The old man didn’t resist, barely reacting.

“Tell him I said hi. When you see my boy.”

Kajol gazed at him with furrowed brows. He marched back into the forest.

The wand glowed ominously, directing him back to the trail. His fingers skimmed the surface and grooves of the wand. It was polished unlike others. He knew he couldn’t be much farther from the entrance.

Naima- I’m coming.

He took a glance back and saw the work site. The old man’s words reverbed internally:

This wood here. It burns. But it’s burning boys who never got to be fathers.

He noticed the truck sitting there, this time joined by a black sedan. His gut was wrenched. After a brief hesitation, Kajol slowly walked back to the work site. He crept towards the work site where he saw the consultant making his rounds, barking at the workers lined up with their eyes fixated on the ground below. He walked by them berating and taunting them, one by one.

Fahim, it’d be a shame if Nina had to wear the same clothes again for school. This is the second year in a row. We don’t want that right?

Pritom, your mother and those hospital bills. Allah knows they aren’t going to pay themselves. Where’s your grit?

Tanjim…that bloody landlord wanted to have you out on the streets. I gave you an opportunity, and we made an agreement.

One of the bodyguards caught sight of Kajol hiding behind the bush and dragged him out into the scene. The consultant immediately recognized him.

“Kajol Khanna. What brings you here? Weren’t you warned to not enter the Sundarbans? This is not for you,” he taunted menacingly.

“The deal is off. Let these men go, or I–”

“Or what?” the consultant interrupted.

He stepped forward calmly towards Kajol, the bodyguards on each side of his shoulder.

“Kajol, you’re a smart business man, no? Your father would want this deal,” the consultant continued to roil him.

“My father would never–”

“Never what? Oh, Kajol…trying to do the right thing? Stick to the smart thing.” he said as he crept closer to Kajol.

His words stung Kajol, his face revealing a dismayed grimace.

“Okay- tell you what, Kajol.” He slipped out a small notepad and tore a paper off, scribbling numbers on it.

“You take this- you get all the Sundarban wood you’ve been looking for. Then, you fuck off and make your little pastries and pretend you never seen anything. Pretty sweet deal right?”

The consultant folded the note neatly into the breast pocket of Kajol’s tattered dress shirt.

Kajol, restrained, exhaled heavy breaths as his chest puffed increasingly. Kajol scanned the background, a heavy tension that the workers couldn’t hide. Young, Bengali men- some in their teens, who never had a chance to live a life. The chains that weighed on them. He knew what he had to do.

Kajol quickly raised the wand to the sky and let out a scream— releasing a green shockwave that knocked the consultant and his bodyguards down. The wave instantly released the workers from their shackles, the purple haze dissipating into the air.

The consultant, irritated and knocked down:

What did you do? Why?

Kajol shouted, “You won’t keep these men here anymore. Your days are done.”

The workers cheered in unison, forming a mob and attacking the consultant along with his bodyguards.

A few hours later, Kajol returned home. Naima rushed him and gave him a hug, before hitting him on the shoulder:

Where did you go? I was worried about you. Did you go to speak with that man I warned you about?

Kajol nodded. She examined his tattered clothes and immediately knew he went through something tonight. He gently placed his hand on her stomach, gently caressing the curvature of her womb.

“We’ll have enough.”