In Koyra, ending the deer hunting trade falls on the shoulders of just 8 men
After 5 August, while beef and mutton became expensive, deer meat could be found in abundance at Maheshwarpur village in the Sundarbans. Only eight foresters stand between poaching and what many locals see as a rightful source of food and income
Two sides of the river. Two different stories.
On one side, civilisation ends. The Sundarbans begin. At the river's edge, the only sign of human habitation is a bungalow — half-constructed and almost falling apart. Eight men live there. They are the protectors of the jungle: the foresters.
On the other side lies Maheshwarpur, the village from which the forest needs protection.
Keep updated, follow The Business Standard's Google news channel
In Maheshwarpur, after 5 August 2024, you could not buy a kilogram of beef or goat meat. What you could find in abundance was venison. For months, deer meat became so common that people travelled from distant villages just to buy it. Even small family occasions, whether weddings or birthdays, called for venison.
According to forest officials, a deer could sell for as little as Tk10,000. A mature Black Bengal or crossbreed goat often costs considerably more.
Sajal Majumdar, officer-in-charge of the Koyra forest outpost, believes that the abundance is a sign of something deeper than a thriving black market. It reflects the fragile relationship between the Sundarbans and the communities living along its edge.
The seven men under his command patrol a vast landscape of rivers, canals, mudflats and dense mangrove forests. The people entering that forest to hunt deer, set traps or engage in other forest offences vastly outnumber them.
"The locals here have been hunting deer since childhood," Sajal said. "Almost everyone in this region is connected to poaching or some kind of forest-related offence. My office has only eight men, but the number of people going into the forest to commit offences is far greater."
The imbalance extends beyond numbers.
Hunters know the forest intimately. They navigate narrow canals that are inaccessible to larger patrol vessels. Their boats are smaller and faster. Many have spent their entire lives travelling through the waterways and mudbanks of the Sundarbans.
Forest officers, by contrast, often find themselves chasing offenders through terrain where even movement becomes difficult.
"We can't move through the forest the way they can," Sajal said. "Their boats can go where ours can't. They can walk through the forest. We can't move through it the way they can because of the aerial roots — it's very difficult for us."
For years, the conflict between the Forest Department and local hunters remained largely contained. Then came 5 August.
Like much of the country, the Sundarbans region experienced uncertainty during the political transition that followed the fall of the government. According to forest officials, wildlife trafficking surged during that period.
"Around 5 August, the country went through a kind of transitional, unsettled situation," Sajal said. "People suddenly behaved differently."
The consequences quickly became visible.
"Deer trafficking reached its peak after that day," he said. "We received constant threats. Villagers warned they would burn us out, beat us and stop us from coming ashore."
For the men stationed at Koyra, even routine activities became difficult. Going ashore meant visiting local markets for supplies, travelling to court or handling administrative work. According to the officers, these trips increasingly carried risks.
"If we went ashore, groups would gather and confront us," Sajal said. "There were times when none of us could go ashore."
The forest outpost became an island in more ways than one. Forest guards altered their travel routes, avoided nearby markets and sourced supplies from farther away. When court appearances became necessary, they often travelled via alternative routes rather than passing through hostile areas.
The hostility reflected more than anger over arrests.
For many residents of villages surrounding the Sundarbans, deer hunting is not viewed through the same lens as wildlife conservation policy. Hunting has existed in various forms for generations. What the Forest Department sees as poaching, many locals see as a source of food and income.
That economic reality sits at the centre of the conflict.
"The forest makes no distinction between the hunter driven by greed and the hunter driven by hunger," said one forest officer.
The arithmetic behind poaching is difficult to ignore.
According to Sajal, a deer typically sells for between Tk10,000 and Tk20,000. If three hunters participate in a successful hunt and divide the proceeds equally, each person may earn Tk5,000 to Tk7,000 from a single night in the forest.
The legal alternatives are often less rewarding.
Crab fishing, a common livelihood in the region, may require seven or eight days of work to generate a similar income.
"His thinking is that if he hunts for 10 days, he can make Tk70,000," Sajal said, describing the logic he believes motivates many offenders. "Even if a case against him eventually racks up fines of Tk10,000, he has no regrets."
That calculation creates a challenge that enforcement alone cannot solve.
Mizanur Rahman, a forest guard stationed at Koyra, has experienced that reality firsthand.
For months at a time, he remains separated from his family. This year, two Eid holidays passed without him being able to go home.
"We carry out the directives given to us as faithfully as we can," he said. "But the resources here — the trees, the wildlife, the fish and the honey — are extremely tempting, and people are easily drawn to exploiting them."
According to Mizanur, conflict emerges the moment forest officers attempt to stop people from accessing those resources illegally.
"If we simply allowed them to continue doing what they do, there would be no conflict between us," he said.
During a patrol operation, Sajal and his team pursued a group of suspects into a canal. After apprehending several individuals and seizing their boats, the officers found themselves under attack.
According to Sajal, the suspects used oars as weapons. One forest guard suffered a broken hand. The officers later filed a case. Legal proceedings remain ongoing.
Yet despite the threats and risks, patrols continue.
Over the past year, the Koyra outpost has increasingly relied on quieter tactics. Rather than using noisy trawlers, whose engines can be heard from a distance, officers often conduct patrols in smaller boats.
"We patrol much more quietly now," Sajal said. "If they hear the trawler, they disappear into the forest."
Forest officers also identify specific locations where deer gather during periods of high water. During new and full moons, when tides rise and wildlife concentrates on higher ground, patrol teams wait in ambush.
"A deer typically sells for between Tk10,000 and Tk20,000. If three hunters participate in a successful hunt and divide the proceeds equally, each person may earn Tk5,000 to Tk7,000 from a single night in the forest. If someone hunts for 10 days, he can make Tk70,000. Even if a case against him eventually costs Tk10,000, he has no regrets."
In many cases, the officers do not catch hunters directly. Instead, they recover snares.
The traps are simple but effective. Constructed from wire and anchored to trees, they tighten when an animal attempts to escape. According to Sajal, hundreds of such snares may be active in the forest at any given time.
The scale of the problem is reflected in enforcement data.
According to figures provided by local forest officials, only three wildlife trafficking cases were filed in 2023. In 2024, the number rose sharply, with thirteen cases recorded after August alone.
Whether that increase reflects greater enforcement, increased trafficking or both remains difficult to determine. What is clear is that the struggle over the Sundarbans extends far beyond the forest itself. It is a struggle over livelihoods, conservation and the limits of state authority in remote regions.
For Mizanur, the long-term solution does not lie solely in arrests.
"You cannot eliminate crime through enforcement alone," he said. "You have to change how people think."
That is why forest officials regularly organise awareness meetings in surrounding villages and conduct educational programmes in schools. They also arrange drawing competitions, where children draw the forest surrounding their villages and its rich biodiversity.
Mizanur believes lasting change will come when children begin challenging the practices accepted by previous generations.
"If children understand why deer hunting and fish poisoning are harmful," he said, "they can become a barrier within their own families."
Across the river from Maheshwarpur, the half-finished bungalow still stands. Inside, eight men remain as the sole protectors of the forest. Every day they cross the same water that connects the forest to the village that depends on it. Every day, the same dilemma awaits them on the other side — a forest they are sworn to protect, and a community that needs it, profits from it and, increasingly, believes it has every right to take from it.
