The Shaitan—also known as Shaytan or Satan—is a name whispered in fear, an entity said to lead lost souls astray in the dead of night. Some claim it lurks in the shadows, preying on the weary and unsuspecting. Others believe it manifests in the form of spectral apparitions, unsettling those who dare to tread its haunted paths.
One such ominous presence is tied to an ancient tree—the Shaitan Nir Gach (Tree of Shaitan)—a solitary guardian standing amidst the vast paddy fields of Daulahbon and Hapatirbon, between Shaharpara and Kurikiyar in Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Sylhet, Bangladesh.
The name Daulahbon carries historical weight, with “Daulah” meaning “prince” in Bengali and “bon” translating to “field.” Meanwhile, the name Hapatirbon is believed to have an even deeper significance, rooted in the legacy of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA). It is said to derive from four syllables, each holding a profound meaning:
• Ha – A local adaptation of “Shah,” the first name of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).
• Pa – Signifying the footsteps of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA).
• Tir – Referring to the shore of the River Ratna, where Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) first set foot.
• Bon – Meaning “grass” in Bengali, which grows in the fields. Locally, “bon” is also used to mean “field,” denoting the surrounding landscape.
Over time, this revered location evolved into what is now known as Shaharpara, a name deeply steeped in spiritual and historical significance.
This tree, known in Bengali as Hijol Gach, belongs to the species Barringtonia acutangula, a freshwater mangrove that thrives in wetlands across South Asia and Northern Australasia, from Afghanistan to the Philippines, and even in parts of Australia. With its gnarled branches and haunting silhouette, the Hijol Gach—also called itchytree or mango-pine—has long been steeped in folklore, feared as a resting place for dark forces.
Villagers tell tales of travellers losing their way near this tree at night, wandering in circles until Fajr, the first light of dawn. Some claim to hear whispers carried by the wind, while others have sworn they glimpsed shadowy figures lurking beneath its branches. But the true horror of the Shaitan Nir Gach is not just in its legend—it is in the chilling encounters of those who have crossed its path.
What happened to us on that fateful night in 1993 was no mere superstition. It was a reality that still haunts me to this day.
The Shaitan, or Shaytan, also spelt Satan, is said to be the entity that led us astray on a night when we found ourselves daunted by spectral apparitions. The infamous Shaitan Nir Gach (Tree of Shaitan) stands between Shaharpara and Kurikiyar in Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Sylhet, Bangladesh. It is the sole tree in the vast expanse of Duwalabon (also spelt Dowalabone or Daulahbon) and Hapatirbon, both of which are paddy fields.
During the flood season, the tree becomes encircled by water, while in the dry months, swamps form in both Daulahbon and Hapatirbon. This lone sentinel, standing defiantly amidst the fields, has long been whispered about in local folklore. The villagers refer to it as the Tree of Shaitan, a place believed to be an asylum for dark forces.
Renowned for its eerie presence in all seasons, the tree is said to mislead travellers at night, causing them to lose their way and wander aimlessly through the fields until the break of Fajr (the Muslim morning prayer), which occurs just five minutes before sunrise. One such bewildering event took place in 1993, on a moonlit night with moderate weather, marking the end of the flood season in Bangladesh.
Flooding is a common occurrence in the country, especially between June and September, as nearly 80% of Bangladesh’s land consists of floodplains. It was on such a night that my paternal nephew, Khosru Hossain Kamaly, and I found ourselves entangled in an unsettling ordeal. Khosru and I were close in age—I was precisely one year and twelve days older than him, our birthdays separated by that exact difference.
That night, we were returning home from Sylhet on a late bus. Upon disembarking at Bhober Bazar near Mega Khali Nauka Ghat (a boat harbour or boat wharf), we realised, to our dismay, that we had missed the last ferry. Ordinarily, we would take a ferry from there to our village, West Tilak (also spelt Tilok), which is a part of greater Shaharpara.
The harbour was eerily empty—there was neither a boat nor a canoe in sight. Anxiety crept in as we deliberated our next move. Then, I remembered a childhood friend from East London, Abdul Mossabbir, who lived not far from Mega Khali Nauka Ghat, towards the western side. Hoping for assistance, we made our way to his home, seeking a boatman who could take us across.
Upon hearing our plight, Mossabbir regretfully informed us, “I cannot send my family servant to drop you home. The journey is long, and it is already quite late. All the servants are fast asleep, and they must rise at dawn to work in the paddy fields, planting Boro rice. This is a crucial time, as the season is coming to an end, and their presence in the fields is urgently required by the head of our family.”
However, not wanting to leave us stranded, Mossabbir arranged for one of his village men to escort us home using his family’s traditional canoe. This boat, primarily used for transporting water hyacinth (Eichhornia), known in Bengali as Kusurifena and locally as Fena, was a weighty, longboat built in the distinctive Jagannathpurian style, referred to as Fatami Nauw—a vessel measuring approximately 33 feet in length.
“The boat is sturdy and well-suited for the journey,” Mossabir assured us. “The boatman will take you across and then return with the canoe.”
The boat was moored some distance away, further to the southwest, but to reach it, we had to pass through Shaharpara on foot. The path ahead was treacherous—muddy, slippery, and laced with stagnant water. Yet, with no other alternative, we set forth on our journey into the night, unaware of the unsettling experience that awaited us.
The route to Shaharpara is straightforward, though the distance from where the boat is anchored is considerable. The journey would take over an hour by boat. Once we reached Shaharpara, we would then head east toward West Tilak, a journey of less than an hour through Hapatirbon, which lies to the north of Shaharpara.
Hapatirbon and Daulahbon are connected, forming the eerie territory of the roaming Shaitan, whose presence is believed to dwell in the infamous Tree of Shaitan. To the west of Hapatirbon lies the village of Syedpur, and immediately to its east is Shaharpara. After the harvest, both paddy fields remain submerged in water, turning them into ideal fishing grounds.
As the floodwaters receded, the land became fertile, preparing for the next Boro rice plantation. When we reached the middle of Hapatirbon, we could see Shaharpara ahead, just south of our boat. Khosru instructed the boatman, “Once we get closer to the village, turn left toward Daulahbon—that’s the way to West Tilak.”
Then, something unusual happened.
Suddenly, from the vast emptiness of the flooded field, a peculiar, unusually flat, and small boat—no more than nine feet long—appeared in front of us. It seemed to materialise out of nowhere. In its centre stood an old-fashioned pressure kerosene lamp, yet its glow was strangely dim, far weaker than expected.
The figures aboard the boat were difficult to discern, appearing only as dark silhouettes—two short, shadowy figures standing at opposite ends. One of them was rowing with a bamboo pole, while the other was spearfishing with an old-fashioned pronged pole spear. The spear-wielding figure moved with unsettling precision, continuously striking at fish with swift, deliberate motions. We could hear the splashes and piercing sounds as clearly as if they were right beside us.
Their boat wasn’t far from ours, yet their faces remained hidden. They faced forward, never turning toward us. Their movements were unmistakably human, yet something about them felt deeply unnatural.
As we watched, unease creeping over us, we realised that their boat wasn’t merely passing by—it was deliberately crisscrossing in front of us, obstructing our path. They continued to fish, undisturbed, as if unaware of our presence, yet their closeness suggested otherwise.
It was the peak of the fishing season—a time when villagers across the region ventured out at night, using pronged fishing spears, fire torches, and kerosene lamps to hunt in the shallow floodwaters. But something about these figures was different.
Before leaving, Mossabir had handed us a battery-powered torch, one of five he owned. But as fate would have it, the battery was almost dead, barely emitting any light. We tried to illuminate the mysterious boat, but the weak glow failed to reveal anything more than shifting shadows. Even the moonlight, bright though it was, did little to clarify what we were seeing.
And then it happened.
As their boat weaved closer, we finally caught a side view of their faces—or rather, what should have been their faces. But there was nothing there. No features. No eyes. Just shadowy voids.
It was then that we understood—these were not human fishermen. They were ghosts.
The boatman, now visibly unsettled, had been watching the suspicious boat crisscross in front of us. Finally, he turned to us and said, “Could you kindly ask them what they’re doing? They keep blocking our path, and it’s distracting me.”
I raised my voice and called out to them, “Who are you?” But there was no response.
A long silence followed, and I yelled again—yet still, no answer.
However, the shadowy figure with the pole spear continued his relentless spearfishing, striking the water with an unnatural rhythm, as though he were catching a fish with every thrust. This wasn’t a conventional way of fishing—something felt terribly wrong.
Our doubts began to turn into certainty. It was impossible to catch fish one after another in this manner. The moment you spear one fish, the others scatter, forcing a brief pause before the next attempt. But this figure never stopped—he kept stabbing the water over and over as if the laws of nature did not apply to him.
Adding to the unease, we could hear strange murmuring sounds coming from their boat. It was a conversation of sorts, but the words were indecipherable, spoken in a language unlike anything we had ever heard.
At this point, we began to understand the true nature of what we were witnessing.
Perhaps this was the beginning of poltergeist activity.
Suddenly, many things made sense—the dim, ineffective lamp, the unusual flat shape of their boat, and its ancient design. It was a monoxylon—a dugout canoe, carved from a single, hollowed-out tree trunk, likely hundreds of years old.
And why was the lamp placed in the lower-middle part of the boat instead of at the Golui (fore), the proper position for illuminating fish?
Then, the final confirmation came.
The spearfishing figure’s refusal to acknowledge us—his complete disregard for my questions.
Khosru, now visibly shaken, whispered, “Sasaji (Uncle), is this the Shaitan from the infamous Shaitan Nir Gach of Daulahbon?”
The Tree of Shaitan—renowned for leading travellers astray in the dead of night, forcing them to wander the fields until Fajr.
At that moment, despite the fear gripping us, I forced a laugh and decided to confront whatever this was. I raised my voice and shouted,
“Hey, you stupid Shaitan! Why are you playing games with us? We are locals—we know our way home! Now get lost and stop wasting our time!”
The boatman gasped in horror.
“Please, don’t mock them!” he pleaded. “They are not human. They are ghosts… and they love to eat fish!”
I turned to him and reassured him, “Do not be afraid. These spirits cannot harm us physically. There are three of us in this boat. Stay calm, and just keep rowing steadily.”
We had heard many tales of this Shaitan, notorious for leading people astray at night. But now, we were experiencing it firsthand.
Then the boatman spoke again, his voice trembling.
“Look around… It’s late. Do you see any other fishing boats? Any lamps in Hapatirbon?”
We turned in all directions—and to our shock, there was nothing.
Not a single light. Not a single boat.
Even Shaharpara, which had been clearly visible just moments ago, had vanished.
Our village should have been directly south of our boat, yet now, all we could see was an endless expanse of water.
The realisation hit us like a cold wave—we were trapped.
At that moment, the atmosphere changed.
A deep, guttural rumbling filled the air, a sound unlike anything we had ever heard. The water churned violently, and the noise grew louder—an overwhelming, unnatural turbulence that sent a chill through our bones.
We were no longer just lost—we were surrounded.
The dugout canoe was still crisscrossing in front of us, blocking our path.
Panic was taking hold.
Khasru, his voice now shaking, pleaded with the unseen forces.
“Mamu (Maternal Uncle) … we have heard so much about you. We accept your presence. Please… let us go home safely.”
The boatman sighed in resignation.
“Tonight… we will not reach home. We will be wandering these paddy fields all night. That is for certain.”
Khosru muttered under his breath, “These Shaitans cannot harm us directly. All they can do is make us lose our way… and force us to wander until dawn.”
And at that moment, we realised—we were at their mercy.
At this point, I raised my voice and declared firmly,
“Hey, Shaitans! We are going to Shaharpara, and we are the descendants of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)! Leave us alone right now!”
The moment those words left my mouth, something extraordinary happened—Shaharpara reappeared before our eyes.
Just moments ago, the village had been completely obscured, as though swallowed by the darkness. But now, it stood clearly to the east of our boat.
The boatman gasped in shock. “Shaharpara was to the south earlier! But now, we’re on its west side! These Shaitans nearly led us astray, pushing us toward Syedpur instead!”
Relieved but still shaken, the boatman admitted, “I’m not going home alone tonight. It’s too eerie, and I’m already terrified by those Shaitans’ horrendous tricks. I need a place to stay—I’ll sleep at your house, even if it’s on the veranda, until morning.”
I reassured him, “Don’t worry, we have enough space for you to stay. But my concern is the boat. It was given to us in trust—it’s my friend’s family boat, and it’s also expensive.”
Since we had taken a different route through Shaharpara instead of Daulahbon, the boat would not reach our home directly. Instead, it would end up in Tilkidara, forcing us to terminate the journey there and then walk through the dirt track road of West Tilak to our home in Master Bari.
The boatman, still rattled, responded, “I don’t care! I’m too shaken up to go back home alone.”
I thought for a moment and then said, “There’s only one place to park the boat—under the Tilkidara culvert bridge. But do you have a chain and lock for security?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“What if someone steals the boat?” I asked.
The boatman sighed. “I’ll come back at Fajr after the Azan. It’s not far off now. I just hope no one steals it in the meantime.”
The Legend of the Dugout Canoe
We had heard many old stories passed down through generations—stories of abundant fish in the area during the flood season, when people didn’t even need nets to catch them.
Centuries ago, the Bengalis of the delta region navigated these waters using dugout canoes, known as a " danga " in Bengali—boats hollowed from a single tree trunk. These ancient crafts were once common in our region, but over time, they have been replaced by bow-shaped boats, which have been in use for many centuries now.
And yet, those Shaitans—the two shadowy figures in the dugout canoe—were still using the ancient monoxylon.
This could only mean one thing—they were old. Very old.
Perhaps they had been here for centuries, haunting these waters since the medieval period, their dugout canoes a relic of a bygone era.
The Power of a Saint’s Name
And then, I remembered something.
When I had invoked the name of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)—also known as Hazrat Shah Kamal Quhafa (RA)—those Shaitans vanished instantly.
Just like that.
Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) was a great Sufi saint, a disciple of Hazrat Shah Jalal (RA)—the patron saint of Sylhet- who had arrived in the early 14th century.
I am a descendant of Shah Jamaluddin Qureshi, the second and most beloved son of Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA) from Baglar Bari in Shaharpara proper.
The Shaitan Nir Gach, the Tree of Shaitan, had long been infamous as the asylum of these restless spirits. For generations, people from Daulahbon and Hapatibon have reported getting lost at night, wandering aimlessly until Fajr, unable to find their way home.
And now, we have become part of that legend.
We had witnessed the paranormal—the Shaitans of Daulahbon had tried to mislead us, but by the grace of our ancestors, we had found our way back.
