They stopped inside a crumbling bunker, left over from the war. Kakababu leaned against the wall, breath ragged, but triumphant.
“Kakababu… the manuscript?”
They didn’t run toward the boat. They ran into the deeper forest, where the ground was firmer. Santu’s lungs burned, but Kakababu moved with a strange, rhythmic speed, his stick finding hidden footholds. Kakababu O Santu
“Old man,” the leader growled, “you’ve walked far enough into the wrong story.”
As they limped toward the shore, the full moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the Sundarbans like a silver ghost. Behind them, the shouts of the thieves faded into the croak of frogs and the distant, coughing roar of a Royal Bengal. They stopped inside a crumbling bunker, left over
Santu stared, then burst into a disbelieving laugh. “You used a wasp nest. And a fake treasure. And your own nephew as bait.”
“They have guns, Santu. We have history,” Kakababu replied, not looking away from a twisted sundari tree. “And history is a far more reliable weapon. Look there—below that exposed root. Do you see the unnatural angle of the mud?” They ran into the deeper forest, where the ground was firmer
A twig snapped behind them. Santu’s heart hammered. Three silhouettes emerged from the fog, rifles glinting.