Kakababu O - Santu

Santu squinted. “It’s… darker. Like it was dug up recently.”

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. Kakababu O Santu

Santu stared, then burst into a disbelieving laugh. “You used a wasp nest. And a fake treasure. And your own nephew as bait.” Santu squinted

Kakababu reached under his own gamchha and pulled out a wax-cloth parcel. “I dug it up yesterday morning, before they even arrived. What those fools chased tonight was a decoy—a brick wrapped in old newspaper.” Behind them, the shouts of the thieves faded

The tide was rising fast, swallowing the muddy trail behind them. Santu, breathless and slapping at a cloud of saltwater mosquitoes, turned to his uncle. Raja Roychowdhury—Kakababu—leaned heavily on his walking stick, his gamchha tucked tight around his neck despite the humidity. His left leg, crippled from a long-ago bullet wound, dragged slightly, but his eyes, sharp as a heron’s, scanned the mangrove canopy.

A twig snapped behind them. Santu’s heart hammered. Three silhouettes emerged from the fog, rifles glinting.