A strange landscape beyond the mist
We were at a desolate part of the river, cruising close to the edge of the shoal. Suddenly a curious scene caught our eyes. Along the slope of the edge, about a thousand or more cows and buffaloes were marching on
As the day unfolded, the mist hung low and thick. There was no sun in the sky and the Padma was veiled in a diffused glow. It could be any time of the day - noon, morning or even afternoon - nobody could tell by the light.
Rajshahi shivered in the unforgiving North wind blowing from the Himalayas.
Along the desolate bank of the Padma River, the empty boats, sitting silently on the mirror-like water, appeared frozen in time. Their semi-crescent hulls reflected perfectly in the calm river.
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From the high bank, the winter river looked surreal. Sandbars emerged like ghostly islands, obscured by the thick mists that clung to the water's edge.
A lone crow half-heartedly flew across the river into the mists. Its caw sounded more of a croak.
Our boatman Anik peeked into the barely visible tape of a river and said, "I don't think we can spot any bird in this weather. Visibility is too low."
Our hearts sank. We waited until 10 in the morning for the thick fog to clear and yet the day did not promise anything. Shall we turn back? To what?
Nah. We decided if the day had to be wasted, let it wilt on the boat instead of sitting in the hotel room.
So we took off. The wind seemed to pierce through our down jackets and force our body into stiffness. On this lonely Padma the puttering of the engine sounded hollow and made the chill even chiller.
Anik the boatman was quite a character. Hardly in his 20s, he has developed quite a knack for birding, through association with birders who would hire his boat. Now he can identify species. He knows the spots for specific kinds of birds. For example, he was talking about the grey francolin habitat in the far corner of the Padma. I recalled finding some posts of the bird on the birders' group.
"What is the name of this place? Seems like nobody lives here," I asked.
"Well, this is India. Why should somebody live here?" he answered.
When our boat started, the river was totally wrapped in mist, giving the impression that we were sailing on clouds. As if the boat was hanging from nowhere. But an hour into the journey, the sun broke through and an egg yolk of an unreal sun hung in the sky. The visibility improved somewhat and we found flocks of ruddy shelducks sitting on the edges of the shoals in their big rounded brownish bodies.
Their loud soulful calls were ringing loud. I remember finding thousands of them in Chitwan in Nepal and their calls were so loud that we could hardly hear our voices.
Then came the tufted ducks, bar-headed geese and the garganey flocks. They would take flight as soon as we cut the engine. Probably, they have learned that hunters don't like shooting from a moving boat.
It was now noon and we were at a desolate part of the river, cruising close to the edge of the shoal. Suddenly a curious scene caught our eyes. The riverbank was at least 30 feet above the water level. Along the slope of the edge, about a thousand or more cows and buffaloes were marching on. So numerous in number that they formed a long streaking line.
At a certain point of the bank, they started climbing up chaperoned by four herders. We stopped and climbed the bank to a completely strange landscape.
It was wild and uncared for. For miles around, only wild grasses, thistles, scrubs grew. There was not a sign of any habitation or farming. A few trees tried to grow tall but got stunted. A complete flatland as flat as your palm.
The cows trampled through the grass across the plain. The herders were issuing high-pitched commands for the cattle to guide them in line. Dusts rose, dizzying the vision. With the sun against us, the rays played on the fine dust, creating a magical edge.
I walked to a herder. His name was Yunus Ali.
"Who owns the cows?" I started a short conversation.
"Me. I got 450 cows. You see that fell? He has 150. Some of us have 500 or 600."
"And where do you think you are taking them?"
"We live across the river but graze the cows here. We are taking them to the Bathan (ranch)," he raised his fingers to the yonder.
"So you raise them for milk?"
"I milk them but don't get much price. Six to seven hundred taka worth of milk every day."
"What is the name of this place? Seems like nobody lives here."
"Well, this is India. Why should somebody live here?"
Suddenly I got alarmed.
"Really? This is India?"
"Yes. Where you are standing, all of it is India."
"But where are BSF guards then?"
"Somewhere up there."
"Don't they come and arrest you?"
"Sometimes they do. But most of the time we manage to hide in the bush and run away. If they come now we can save ourselves. But you will get caught. Once some villages from across the river came and took away about a hundred cattle."
"So what happened next?"
"We had negotiations. After that they returned the cows but kept back 30 buffaloes. I lost about 40 lakh taka."
Some cows were straying off the course. So Yunus ran off, yelling hard and harshly.
This is not a good place to stand and watch this sight. We quickly got off the bank to our boat and sailed back.
