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WHEN I MET Ananta in December 2022, he was preparing for a crab-catching trip, double-checking to make sure he had packed the essentials: bait, food, and water.
Ananta lived in a modest dwelling made of clay and bamboo in a village on the edge of the Sundarban Tiger Reserve (STR) in coastal West Bengal, India. After crossing the Matla River and several tidal creeks, Ananta and his team would reach the crab-catching area inside the buffer zone of STR, where they intended to stay for three to five days.
While discussing crab-catching experiences and challenges, I asked Ananta if he had ever encountered a tiger. Approximately 226 Royal Bengal tigers roam the Sundarbans, the world’s largest mangrove forest spanning 10,000 square kilometers across India and Bangladesh.
Ananta replied without a second thought. “It is our fate to live with a tiger,” he said. “We have no other choice for our livelihood, either suffer in poverty or die in a tiger attack. I’m worried about my family. What will happen if I die?”
Gazing at the sky, he took a long pause and then added, “It is the best time to catch crabs.” According to Forest Department rules, fishing and crab-catching are prohibited from April 1 to June 31. “If everything goes well this season,” Ananta said, “I will pay my debt, and I am dreaming of building a pucca house.”
Less than two months, later, I learned that Ananta died in a tiger attack.
Every word Ananta had spoken to me lingered in my mind along with vivid memories of him and his home. I could not sleep properly for a few weeks, thinking especially about what would happen to his elderly parents, 3-year-old daughter, 5-year-old son, and wife. The most upsetting part is that, like thousands of tiger victims, Ananta’s death went unrecorded in official records. He was hurriedly cremated without performing any rituals.