Ancient Sundarbans, Night of the Great Storm
The wind came first.
It howled through the mangrove roots like a wounded animal, rattling the thin bamboo walls of the hut where a small child sat curled against his mother's lap. The storm lantern swung wildly above them, scattering gold light across the packed mud floor.
Then the rain began.
Not normal rain.
Not the soft monsoon kind the villagers welcomed every year.
This rain attacked, each drop hitting the ground like a stone.
Thunder cracked open the sky.
The rivers—Matla, Raimangal, Vidyadhari—all began to rise at once, as if some invisible hand had grabbed them by the throat and pulled them upward.
"Hold my hand," his mother whispered, voice shaking.
He squeezed her fingers, tiny and trembling.
Outside, people were screaming.
"Paani uthe jacche! The water is coming!"
"Take the children!"
"Run to high ground!"
But the Sundarbans had no high ground.
The mangrove forest was flat, endless, and full of dark water waiting patiently to swallow anything it wished.
Lightning ripped the sky apart for a heartbeat, and the child saw it—
a black wall of river water moving toward them.
A wave.
In the Sundarbans.
That should have been impossible.
His father burst into the hut. "We have to go! NOW!"
His mother lifted him in her arms, running barefoot across the mud. The storm tore at her clothes, at her hair. Men rushed with ropes, women cried, children clung to anything they could.
Another thunderclap split the night—
And the wave hit.
The world turned into water.
The child's ears filled with the roar of the river.
Something struck his leg.
His mother's grip slipped.
"MA—!"
Her hand vanished.
The sky and river blurred into one violent, churning mass.
He kicked weakly, terrified, swallowing muddy water as he sank deeper and deeper. The taste of salt, rot, and panic filled his mouth.
He didn't know how to swim.
He was six.
Six-year-olds didn't survive floods in the Sundarbans.
His tiny fingers reached upward, searching for his mother…
but found nothing.
Darkness pressed around him.
His chest burned.
The water dragged him downward like a grave.
Then—
A warm hand touched his cheek.
The water softened.
The weight vanished.
A voice—calm, gentle, older than the forest—echoed inside his small mind.
> "Do not be afraid, little one."
Something lifted him, cradling him like he weighed nothing at all.
Through the blur of water, he saw a shape—
a tall figure walking through the flood as if the river answered to him.
Bare chest marked with faint glowing lines.
Long wild hair trailing behind like black waves.
A tribal shawl clinging to his shoulder.
Amber eyes shining in the darkness, gentle as a lullaby.
He wasn't human.
But he wasn't frightening.
He smelled faintly of damp earth and honey.
The child clung weakly to the stranger's neck.
The water around them grew calmer, forming a soft circle of stillness.
The deity whispered:
> "I am here. You are safe."
The storm raged on, screaming, tearing the forests apart.
But around the boy, nothing touched him.
The spirit walked through the flood, holding him above the water with both arms—as if he had carried children like this a thousand times before.
When they reached the edge of the mangrove trees, he placed the child onto a drifting fishing boat.
The deity smiled softly, a smile full of old sadness.
> "Live. Grow strong. I will watch over you."
The boy's vision blurred.
Water dripped from his eyelashes.
His tiny mouth tried to form a name.
But he didn't know it.
By the time rescuers found the boat, the spirit had disappeared into the forest like a dream.
The child survived.
His parents didn't.
And from that night onward—
every time he walked into the forest,
the wind felt warmer,
the trees leaned closer,
and something unseen followed him like a silent guardian.
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