The Inner Workings of Resilience in the Sundarbans

“Deep belly breath in, count to seven, long breath out,” my mind coaches my body, mimicking the motions of the waves around me. Breath in as the waves ebb, breath out, as they lap up against mud banks dotted with the pneumatophores of mangroves. In…and…out.

A Resilience Toolkit: Breathwork, Mangroves and Embankments

Breathwork, a stress management tool, gaining traction as an emotional resilience-building practice, coaxes the body into relaxing when triggered by the stress response, fight or flight. Stressful life events had left me emotionally and physically burnt out. To recover, I dug into my arsenal of coping mechanisms, settling on nature-assisted therapy with a large helping of breathwork. This was how I found myself in the convoluted waterways of the world’s largest mangrove delta, the Sundarbans, breathing in rhythm with the tide.

Beautiful forest, “Sundar” “Ban”. Enlisted as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1987, the only mangroves hosting Bengal tigers, the Sundarbans is beautiful as it is dangerous, and dangerous as it is vulnerable. Located across two of the world’s most populous regions, India and Bangladesh, the delta is a coin. One face battered by and vulnerable to climate change, the other, a nature-based solution to the very phenomenon destroying it. The Indian Sundarbans are under strict state control, instituted to protect the biodiverse-rich area designated a Tiger Reserve in 1973, National Park in 1984, and Critical Tiger Habitat in 2007.

Our boat is making its way to Burirdhapri, a checkpost on the Indo-Bangladesh border. To our left, the island settlements of Kalidaspur and Kumirmari display a variety of embankments — concrete, earthen, bamboo and palm fortified, reinforced with boulders, in varying states of wear. On the right, contrasting starkly, the uninhabited islands of Morichjhapi, Arbesi, Jhila are verdant with mangroves, the original residents of the reserve. Two seemingly complementary solutions to building climate resilience in the delta: one grey infrastructure, the other green.

Constructed in the 1770s to reclaim tracts of “wastelands” (mangrove forests) into cultivable areas, embankments in the Sundarbans have altered tidal inundation regimes, sediment accumulation and the geomorphology of the delta. As we round the corner of Morichjhapi, I see evidence of this in rows upon rows of fallen mangroves. Tidal erosion and local sea-level rise have stripped their skeletal roots from the mud they once clung to. The toll, I am told, increases during cyclone season. With every increase in the magnitude and frequency of cyclones, the regenerative ability of the Sundarbans mangroves weakens. 

Community Camaraderie: The Failsafe When All Else Fails

Twenty kilometres downstream, on the island of Pakhiralay, Pradip Mondol, part owner of “Abhinandan”, the lodge where I am staying, makes his way to the earthen embankment abutting his property. He passes concrete jetty structures partially reclaimed by the sea, thinning mangrove patches and domestic tourists munching on jhalmuri. Pradip and his neighbours must patch up their embankment before the cyclone season starts. The group is a mix of different castes, classes and religions with a common goal: survival. For them, it is the embankments that keep saltwater out of their homes and fields, safeguard their potable water sources, and allow their continued existence in the delta. Their camaraderie steps in where institutional structures fail them.

Back on our boat, Samrat Paul, Field Officer for the Wildlife Trust of India (WTI), recounts his three years in the Sundarbans, witnessing first-hand the loss of lives, homes, lands, and livelihoods from five major cyclonic events. “Stronger early warning systems have lowered threats to loss of life. Despite the struggle, the people here, they rebuild,” we pass another patched-up embankment. “Before cyclone Sitrang hit, the locals worked tirelessly to strengthen embankments. They are tough people.”

Around 3,628 km of these embankments, together with 3,483 sq km of remaining mangroves, physically stand between life and submergence in the Sundarbans of West Bengal, until they too yield to the whims of the tide. 

Between the Devil and the Deep Sea

Ironically, the largest protected mangrove forest is home to over 4.5 million in India, of whom 44 per cent live below the poverty line and nearly 50 per cent are landless, making them some of the most marginalised in the world. These communities are on the frontline of not just climate change and climate disasters, but also human-wildlife conflict.

When Basudeb Mondol, a fisherman from Deulbari village, crosses into forbidden territory, the only sounds are his oars slicing through the Bidyadhari’s complex vascularity of creeks and his breath. The last three days were a failure. Too many fishermen, not enough fish in the waters around home. Over the years, Basudeb has strayed more frequently into the core area of the reserve, an area banned to locals and tourists. He risks being caught by the Forest Department or a tiger. Either way, the fine is blood exacting. But empty nets cannot fill empty stomachs, pay doctor fees, or protect from the cyclones that will hit in four months.

Tomorrow, he will join a group of chuniris (crab collectors) east of Dobanki, but until then, baan (eel) or parshe (mullet) will do. Invoking Bonbibi’s name, he enters a narrow creek and sets up his net. He must work fast; the tide will rise in a few hours. In his haste, he misses the warning flash of striped amber wading silently through the murkiness behind him. Minutes later, his limp body is dragged into the mangroves, net floating uselessly in the rising water…blood fine paid.

At least 62 people were killed by tigers between 2015 and 2019 because, under the cover of darkness, easy prey is rarely discriminated. Samrat knows this all too well and has been working to keep both wildlife and people safe, installing nylon fences, an effective mitigation tool, with the Forest Department around the perimeters of villages and forest islands bordering them.

But without land to cultivate, livelihoods depend on the surrounding forests and waters, areas outside the safety of embankments and fences. With these odds stacked against them, who can local communities turn to?

The Glory of Bonbibi: A Catalyst for Cultural Resilience

Closer to Kumirmari, I see a tiny dwelling half-hidden in the thickets. “A temple dedicated to Bonbibi, our local deity,” says Bithika Mondol, one of 70 guides trained by the Sundarbans Forest Department to accompany tourist boats within the tiger reserve. “Bonbibi protects those who venture into the forest. She commands that they enter with a clean heart, take only what they need, and respect the other forest creatures.”

I am reminded of my first night in Pakhiralay, where a troupe of Pala gaan performers enacted Dukhe Jatra, a story in the Bonbibi Johuranama. The worship of Bonbibi treats the jungle as a “commons”, transcending the boundaries of religion and caste. Hindus and Muslims alike pray to the goddess who demands unity, casting aside prejudices and politics in exchange for protection. 

Perhaps the answers to my questions lie in this story celebrating Bonbibi and her deeds, the Bonbibi Johuranama. This syncretic belief is a manifestation of cultural resilience which brings into focus the influence of cultural background (cultural values, language, customs, norms) on adaptive capacity. Cultural resilience posits that individuals and communities can deal with and overcome adversity not just based on individual attributes, but also from the support of larger sociocultural factors or in this case, Bonbibi.

Where Bithika’s education has allowed her to train as a guide, the same does not extend to the family of uneducated forest workers in Emilibari. They must instead depend on the hostile landscape around them. Outside their mud and grass thatched house, the men deftly knot together dried eel with nylon netting, preparing bait for their crab-collecting expedition. They know that the moon controls the moods of the tides, the best crab-harvesting times, which mangroves have the best honey-filled hives, that they must only take what they need, leaving enough behind. They believe the forest is a sacred space and follow customary norms on extraction of its resources. All this stems from their belief in Bonbibi, that come what may, she will protect them. So, they leave their homes, braving dangers, whether cyclones or wild animals, guided by their traditional ecological knowledge and adaptability to inhospitable forests.

Back in Deulbari, Bhanumati Mondol rubs the last trace of sindoor from her forehead, completing her transformation into a tiger widow, Bagh-Bidhoba. The Forest Department will not compensate her husband Basudeb’s death; his remains were found in the core zone. Their children are young; she has no male relatives. As she prepares herself to enter the forest, she must steady her nerves, “Bipode poriya bone jeijone daake, Ma boliya Bonbibi doyar maa take, Uddhariye taro torey aponaro gune, Maaer o hujura koto likhibo ekhane…” (Facing any danger inside the forest, whoever prays to her, Ma Bonbibi protects them all).

Deep breath in, hold it…long breath out.