In the Light of Freedom in the Sundarbans

The purpose of this essay is to share my recent journey to a remote village in the Sundarbans—an experience enriched by the warm company of the Mukti volunteers.

On the 4th of November, around noon, we reached a village called Kankan Dighi. There, a group of young and elderly men were waiting for us. In their daily lives, they have woven farming and organic cultivation into their very way of living—so naturally, so beautifully—that it seems like a portrait of perfect harmony between humans and nature.

Endless rows of paddy fields stretched before us. Beside them, cucumbers, pumpkins, wax apples, and other vegetables grew in abundance. They spoke of the soil: which plant prefers which companion, how to retain fertility, how to rotate crops with scientific precision, and how minerals deep within the earth must be present in the right proportions for plants to grow healthy and strong. For two full hours, they explained countless principles of organic farming—each method deeply understood, each practice firmly rooted in experience.

What I saw in their eyes during those two hours was nothing but love—love for the soil, for the crops, for their animals: cows, calves, ducks, hens, fish, and even the earthworms working unseen beneath the ground. Their voices and gestures revealed the same tenderness. And together, these strands of love have formed a larger love—for humanity itself. To them, life is vibrant; even within the harshness of nature, they are constantly seeking the pulse of living.

Yet this piece is also about something else—something that, in the fading autumn light of that day, revealed another face of rural Bengal, far removed from the glittering, perfumed walls of our silver-lit city malls.

We were on our way to meet a group of village women responsible for conserving the mangroves. Since we had come from Kolkata, they were waiting for us at the Mukti office.

The soft evening light still lingered on the sky, on the narrow embankments, the paddy stalks, and the thatched roofs of mud houses. No cars travel this path. We rode motorbikes along the narrow ridges, and as we turned left, we noticed an elderly man seated on the ground in a thatched shed at the edge of a field. A small book lay on the table before him. A few women sat around, listening. A microphone stood near him. Curious, we asked what was happening. The answer: A reading from the Ramayana and Mahabharata. The village women had gathered to listen.

We moved on. For the next half hour, we listened to the women—leaders of the mangrove protection groups—as they spoke of their work planting and nurturing mangroves along the riverbanks. Each of them leads a team. They know how the mangroves protect their village; they have seen it with their own eyes. Their clarity, their confidence—born out of surviving terrifying storms like Aila and Amphan and then rebuilding from the ruins—left us astonished.

Communication was not always so good. Earlier, storm warnings rarely reached them in time. They still carry the memories of those raging winds, of embankments collapsing, of entire nights spent in fear. And yet, they have risen beyond that trauma. They have built long green walls of mangrove along the riverbanks and continue to expand them. Mukti, the NGO, guides this project. At the end of each month, the women receive rations for their families—rice, lentils, flour, oil.

As we listened to their stories, we felt ourselves drawn deeper into their lives. In the distance, we saw a school building where their children study. Each morning, teachers from Mukti prepare them for formal education. Do the children not run away to play—to ride bicycles, to fly kites? we asked. The women smiled: “Times have changed. Now they study. Mukti has taught us how to breathe. This garden of flowers, this desire to create beauty—we never knew such things before.”

The determination and courage on their faces were extraordinary. Women who once remained confined within their homes now stand in the heart of the community. They work with their own hands. They bring home food for their families.

After bidding them farewell, we went to the watchtower to observe the mangrove plantation.

By the time we returned, the light had dimmed. At a bend in the road, we again heard the voice from the microphone—the reading of the Mahabharata. The names Duryodhana and Dushasana floated through the crisp, cool autumn air. We city-dwellers walked through the quiet landscape—fields of paddy, trees, water, and endless green—listening to those ancient names.

The women sitting before the elderly reader seemed to be recognizing the Dushasanas of their own time, drawing lessons from the ancient epic. And perhaps they were lighting lamps within themselves—lamp to lamp—preparing to resist oppression, just as the mangroves silently stand against the raging storms.

Supriya Bandyopadhyay
Lead – Media and Publications, MUKTI