Tree of Shaitan in Bangladesh

The Mysterious Shaitan Nir Gach: A Paranormal Tale from Bangladesh’s Heartlands

 

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 with 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.

Ghost in Bangladesh

The Ghostly Longboat of Shaharpara: A Journey That Haunts the Living

 

Some stories are so chilling, so surreal, that they refuse to be forgotten. They seep into the very fabric of your mind like shadows creeping through the cracks of reality. The story of the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara, Bangladesh, is one such tale—a story that keeps the village awake at night, haunted by a spirit that refuses to rest. If you dare to listen, you might just hear its eerie journey through the floodwaters—and feel the cold shiver of its touch.

 

The Abandoned School of Shaharpara: A Hollow Memory

 

In the historical village of Shaharpara, nestled in the Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad of 

Jagannathpur Upazila in the Sunamganj District, there once stood a school. It wasn’t just any school—it was the primary model school. A one-storey building with four classrooms, one of which was partitioned into two, the school was alive with children’s laughter, the clatter of wooden benches, and the rhythmic hum of teachers’ lessons.

 

But like all things in life, the school was eventually left behind, abandoned. The place that once thrived with youthful energy became a hollow shell, devoid of furniture, wooden windows, doors, or any trace of life. By the early ’90s, it had deteriorated into little more than a decaying structure. The old primary school had been transformed into a high school in the early ’80s, but when a new primary school was built to the west and a new high school erected nearby, the once-vibrant building succumbed to neglect and ruin.

 

What happened to the school after that? It was left to rot in silence. The village moved on. But the school… the school never forgot.

 

A Midnight Walk Into Darkness

 

In 1993, during the midst of the flood season when the rains began to retreat and the land soaked in its heavyweight, I found myself walking home along the main dirt road of Shaharpara—a now-paved road that runs through the village, past the desolate remains of the abandoned high school. It was around midnight, the moon hanging full and heavy in the sky, casting its silver glow over the land. The air was still, the kind of stillness that made everything feel too quiet. No sounds of voices, no distant chatter—just the echo of my footsteps in the night.

 

The school was on my left, an empty shell of a building. I had walked past it countless times, but tonight… tonight was different. Tonight, I saw something that would forever change the way I viewed the supernatural.

 

The Longboat of Terror

 

Beneath the sprawling canopy of an ancient jujube tree (Boroi Gach), my gaze settled on something intriguing—a longboat anchored nearby. But this was no ordinary boat. It was a traditional Fatami Nauw, an imposing vessel once relied upon by locals to ferry heavy loads—goods, livestock, and all manner of animal feed, including water hyacinth. Its dark, hulking form lay in eerie stillness, steeped in quiet mystery as if holding the secrets of many journeys past.

As I drew closer, I noticed something that made my heart race. The boat was loaded—loaded with school furniture. Benches, tables, and chairs—all the furniture that had once filled the abandoned school. How could they have gotten there? Where had they come from? Who had brought them?

 

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was what stood on the boat.

 

A figure—a ghostly apparition—stood at the northern fore of the boat, a place unanchored to the ground, while the southern fore remained firmly tethered. A man? No, not quite. The figure transcended humanity, beyond flesh and bone. It was unnatural, a silhouette, holding a long bamboo rowing stick in hand, standing motionless, staring southward at me while I faced north, exactly opposite. The ghostly figure lingered at the edge of the harboured boat, its presence unnerving, as if waiting for something—or someone.

 

My breath caught in my throat. I was alone. No one was around. The boat should have been still—no one was there to push it, and neither was the ghost steering the boat with the bamboo pole. But still, the figure stood. Unmoving. In stillness.

 

The Ghost’s Silent Task

 

The scene was like something out of a nightmare, and yet, I knew I wasn’t dreaming. I was awake. And I couldn’t look away. The boat, despite being laden with heavy school furniture, remained stuck under the jujube tree. The main dirt road of Shaharpara was obstructed on its southern course, leaving it with no option but to turn back northward and then veer either east or west.

 

The figure stood there, waiting. Silent. Eternal.

 

My heart pounded in my chest, and a cold shiver ran down my spine. I wanted to scream. To turn and run. But I was rooted to the spot, paralysed by the overwhelming sense of terror that gripped me.

 

The ghost didn’t speak, didn’t move. It seemed locked in time, carrying out an unfinished task—something that could never be completed. Why? What was it waiting for? Why had the school furniture been loaded onto the boat? Why was the ghost there, standing at the helm, unable to move forward or back? What was its purpose?

Was the ghost waiting for another ghost to come and unload the furniture that had long been missing from the school, or was it waiting for another spirit to come and turn the boat in the northern direction, toward the west Tilak football pitch or Shahjir Bari Bottiya—the empty ground where children play in the dry season and where livestock gather before going to pastureland? Had the furniture somehow been meant to leave the school but was trapped, forever caught in a limbo of unfinished business?

 

The Local Legend: A Journey of Unfinished Business

 

Over the years, I learned from the villagers that this was not a one-time occurrence. The ghost of Shaharpara had appeared to many others before me and to many after me. Locals spoke of ghostly voices and strange lights flickering inside the abandoned school. Some even reported hearing strange noises—echoes of the past, unwilling to fade.

 

The most chilling part of it all was the belief that the ghost was tethered to the furniture it carried. The school furniture, the benches, the desks, the chairs—these were not just objects. They were symbols of an unfinished journey, a task that had never been completed. The ghost, some said, was that of a teacher, whose life had been tragically cut short, or perhaps it was the spirit of a student, interrupted by an untimely death.

 

Some even whispered that the spirit was bound to the school itself, cursed to carry out an eternal task. The furniture was never meant to be abandoned. The school, though it seemed forgotten by all and still held a presence, still required something—some act to be completed, some closure to be achieved. And until that was done, the ghost would remain, forever trying to finish what it had started.

 

The Spirit of Revenge or Vengeance?

 

Many cultures around the world speak of restless spirits—souls who cannot move on until they have avenged a wrong, completed a task, or fulfilled a mission. Could this ghost be seeking revenge? Was it trying to avenge the abandonment of the school, the death of a teacher or student, or perhaps the destruction of a once-thriving institution?

 

The villagers’ tales suggest that the ghost didn’t just haunt. It roamed. It travelled. During the flood season, it embarked on a journey, crossing the canals and waterways, carrying the school furniture in its boat. And in the dry season, strange voices would drift on the wind—voices that didn’t belong to anyone alive.

 

A Restless Spirit, Forever Bound

 

I have never forgotten that night. The moonlight, the boat, the ghost. The figure on the boat never moved. It was frozen in time, just as the school was. Stuck. Trapped. Bound to the past. I could only guess what it was waiting for, but I knew one thing for sure: the ghost of Shaharpara would never find peace.

 

Maybe, just maybe, when the last piece of school furniture is finally returned to the abandoned building, the spirit will rest. But until then, the ghostly longboat of Shaharpara will continue its eternal journey—a journey of revenge, of unfinished business, and of a spirit that can never let go.

 

And if you ever find yourself walking the road past that old school, with the moon high above and the chill of the night settling in, beware. For you may just see the ghost of Shaharpara, standing silently on its boat, waiting to complete its final voyage. 

Brick Lane

Ex-terrestrial Light

A Night of Mystery and the Ex-Terrestrial Light: An Unforgettable Experience

 

On a crisp, moonlit night in February 1993, I found myself walking toward a musical gathering in the tranquil countryside of Bangladesh. The air was still, charged with a quiet anticipation, and the path we tread was clear under the full moon’s silvery light. It was around 10 PM, and we made our way through Gupat or Gobat (Cattle tracks served as pathways for livestock heading to pasturelands for grazing, accommodated bullock carts during the dry season, and transformed into waterways for boats during the flood months), from Narainpur to Buraiya. There was no need for torches as the moonlight illuminated the road ahead.

 

Our journey led us past Abu Khali, the cobbler’s house and along the canal banks, where unpaved roads stretched between the humble dwellings of farmers. Though rough and untamed, the path was deeply familiar, drawing me back to the roots of my family. This very land once belonged to my ancestors, who laboured upon its fertile soil—first with plough cows and buffaloes and later with the power of a tractor. Yet, our legacy in this village was not merely one of ownership but of enduring kinship and unwavering ties to the community.

 

As we neared the cobbler’s house, I was accompanied by my maternal nephew, Mukit from Paschim Bari in Narainpur, who belongs to the respected Sheikh Bari clan, alongside the late Choto Miah of the esteemed Shahjir family; Amir Uddin of Syedpur, who had married into the distinguished Chowdhury Bari of Narainpur; and the late Salim of Narainpur, who served as Mukit's bodyguard. It was Mukit who had meticulously arranged this musical gathering in my honour, ensuring that it would be a joyous occasion—one filled with melody, celebration, and cherished camaraderie.

 

When we reached Abu Khali, the cobbler, noticing our presence, asked Mukit where we were heading. "Buraiya," came the reply. It was then that I realised that they had kept the destination a surprise. I asked Mukit, "What’s my connection there?" After all, Buraiya was a place well-known to my family, and the people there were familiar with our history.

 

The Shaharpara School Bari—the "schoolhouse"—had once owned a substantial portion of land in Buraiya, the very land upon which we now walked. I was reminded of the land's history, how it had been passed down through generations, from my ancestors who had cultivated it with plough cows and later tractors. Some of the land had been purchased from Nondho Babu of Patkura, the zamindar of the area. My family had also been involved in a difficult period of local unrest in 1978, after the death of my younger uncle, Mohammad Abdur Rouf Kamali. 

 

My elder cousin, Ashraf Hussain Kamali, fired two successive rounds of pellet ammunition, injuring four policemen of Jagannathpur and one bandit from Chunarughat of Habiganj. Wounded and overpowered, they had no choice but to surrender. The cartridges used were designed for bird hunting, meant to injure rather than kill. Alongside my paternal cousin Ashraf, Alta Hussain Kamali was also present at the scene. He was both my maternal cousin through my aunt and my paternal relative, as we shared the same great-grandfather—Shah Hajir Mohammad, the only son of Shah Mohammad Fazil. 

 

As the sound of gunfire echoed through the night, villagers and people from the nearby Shaharpara Bazar rushed to the scene. The injured men were taken hostage by the enraged crowd, who administered basic first aid while deciding their fate.

 

At that time, under the martial law of President Ziaur Rahman, banditry was rampant, often orchestrated in collusion with corrupt policemen. This was the first instance where such criminals were caught red-handed just past midnight. The villagers, long tormented by the police-bandit alliance, were so consumed with fury that some even proposed forcing them to drink their own urine as a lesson in humiliation. When reinforcements arrived, the police attempted to reclaim their wounded men, but the villagers refused to hand them over.

 

The situation grew more complicated when it was revealed that the gun used belonged to my uncle, Abdur Rouf Kamali, though it had been fired by his elder son, Ashraf Hussain Kamali. My uncle passed away on the 2nd of February 1978, and a Shinni (a traditional feast) was planned to commemorate the 40th day of his passing. However, unforeseen events completely overshadowed the occasion. Mohammad Abdur Rouf Kamali (10 August 1913- 2 February 1978) was a former chairman of Syedpur Shaharpara Union Parishad during the end of East Pakistan rule.

 

Eventually, with the intervention of mediators and influential bureaucrats, the police managed to retrieve their men. However, as an immediate repercussion, they confiscated the gun from my uncle’s residence. In an attempt to shield Ashraf Hussain Kamali—who was a British citizen and the family’s primary financial supporter—the family strategically shifted responsibility onto Rafique Hussain Kamali (Manik), the second son of the chairman. Although he had not fired the weapon, a case was filed against him instead. The fear was that if Ashraf were prosecuted, the border authorities would revoke his travel rights, and the government might seize his passport pending trial.

This is how the story surrounding Rafiqul Hussain Kamali became widely known. In reality, the police records listed him as the third accused. His nickname, Manik, was used only by his respected father during his lifetime. Later, he was driven into internal exile, living in different parts of his own country before leaving for abroad. He travelled extensively through India, Burma (now Myanmar), Thailand, Malaysia, and Indonesia. Among these countries, he spent the longest period in Malaysia, while his time in Indonesia consisted of shorter visits. He eventually settled in Sweden, where he became widely known as Manique and was granted permanent residence.

 

According to the police records, the accused were:

 

1. Altaf Hussain Kamali
2. Ashraf Hussain Kamali
3. Rafiqul Hussain Kamali (Manik)

Enraged by their humiliation, the police harboured a deep-seated grudge against School Bari (the family homestead) and the people of Shaharpara. A campaign of harassment ensued, forcing villagers into hiding at the homes of relatives. Meanwhile, amid the turmoil, peasant families seized the opportunity to move into Buraiya, claiming land for settlement. My father, my uncle, and my paternal aunt—the mother of Altaf Hussain Kamali and Al-Haq Hussain Kamaly—had constructed three raised housing foundation areas near their paddy fields in the west to accommodate cattle, buffaloes, and farmworkers. These raised grounds were soon occupied by landless peasants who settled there permanently.

 

Recognising their hardship, my family later decided not to claim ownership of the land, including the adjacent paddy fields. Today, their descendants continue to live there peacefully. The esteemed School Bari family of Rasulpur Mouza, Greater Shaharpara, and West Tilak Master Bari never sought to reclaim the land, understanding that these peasant families had nowhere else to go. It was an unspoken act of generosity—one that ensured their survival and granted them the dignity of a home.

But as I walked that night, I couldn’t help but reflect on the past, on the pride my family once had in their land, now far removed from the present moment. Mukit, perhaps sensing my thoughts, responded to my question about my identity in Buraiya with a simple reply, "You must be from Nayabandar, working in Chittagong, here for vacation." It was an odd feeling, hiding the true extent of my connection to the land and people around me.

 

Suddenly, as we were in the middle of the paddy fields of Pifrabon, something extraordinary happened. A mysterious light appeared on the unpaved road beside the canal, tracing my every movement. It was the size of a standard tube light, glowing faintly yet distinctly while maintaining its unusual shape—resembling an inverted capital “U” lying on the ground. The rounded part of the “U” was positioned at the top, while the open gap faced downward, mirroring an upside-down letter “U.” The light only illuminated the tube itself, casting no glow beyond its confines. This was no trick of moonlight reflecting off my clothing, nor was it a mere illusion. It was real—an otherworldly light, moving with uncanny precision, as if guided by an unseen force.

 

I wasn’t sure if anyone else could see it, but Mukit’s voice broke the silence: ‘Stop. The light is following us.’ We all paused, and Mukit asked each companion to move accordingly. As everyone did, the light stayed with us. When I resumed walking cautiously, everyone noticed that the light moved with me—perfectly in sync, as if connected by some invisible force. When I jumped, it jumped; when I ran, it ran with me; when I stretched my arms or legs, it mimicked me, keeping me at its core. Whether I moved faster or slower, it did the same, perfectly in sync with every shift. It was as if the light had taken the shape of a U, glowing white on the ground beneath me—an ethereal presence that was both wondrous and unnerving.

 

I tried to touch it, but no matter how close I came, I couldn’t. The light remained just inches beyond my reach, precise in its movements, staying focused on me as though it had a mind of its own. Mukit and the others attempted to approach, but as they did, the light fell upon their bodies, the size of a normal tube light, otherwise remaining on the ground, keeping me at its centre. The light seemed to originate from a celestial body, for when Mukit and his guard neared me, it cast itself upon them. I thought of my grave and felt trapped in a two-dimensional cage of light, but it didn’t feel threatening—only mysterious. 

 

It held me in the centre—

not with hands, not with force,

but with an invisible tether that bound it to my being.

With each step I took, it mirrored me—flawlessly, eerily—

as though it were reading my breath,

echoing my very pulse.

It made no sound, cast no shadow,

yet its presence was undeniable—

a silent sentinel of light,

gliding beside me as if it had known me long before that night.

Seamless. Sentient. Unbound by anything earthly.

It didn’t simply follow me—

it claimed me,

without words,

without permission,

without leaving a trace.

Time seemed to stretch as I stood in the midst of this strange, otherworldly light. The light continued to follow my every move, its shape a rounded arch, like the top of a double door. I was surrounded by it, yet unable to touch it—an experience both captivating and disorienting. Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the light vanished. We were nearing our destination, the party in Buraiya, and in the blink of an eye, the light was gone. No fading, no trace—it simply ceased to exist. The extraterrestrial light stayed with me for more than ten minutes, and I enjoyed its presence without fear, knowing that I was surrounded by my companions.

 

The rest of the evening passed without incident, but that encounter with the extraterrestrial light lingered in my mind, unanswered and mysterious. Was it a visitation from another world? A natural phenomenon? Or something far more profound, an experience beyond our understanding? Even now, as the years pass, the memory of that night continues to puzzle and fascinate me.

 

Some mysteries, I have come to realise, are meant to remain unsolved. The ex-terrestrial light that followed me that night serves as a reminder that there are forces in the universe beyond our comprehension—mysteries that exist not only beyond our understanding but also beyond the very limits of our perception. 

 

The villagers often spoke of encounters with such lights near the fields, where they worked long hours before returning home in the moonlight. Some believed these lights were spirits watching over their land, their lineage.

 

But why me? Why on that night?

 

Had my ancestors from School Bari of Shaharpara or Master Bari of West Tilak returned in some unknown form? Had the land itself—once cultivated by my family—responded to my presence, revealing a glimpse of something beyond human sight?

 

Or was it, perhaps, a test?

 

Many folktales speak of travellers encountering supernatural lights that react to their emotions—those who panic may be lost forever, while those who remain calm might receive hidden knowledge or, at the very least, be left unharmed. I had not run. I had not feared it. I had observed it, and it had mirrored me, then disappeared.

 

Even today, when I think of that moment, I feel a strange connection—not just to that mysterious light, but to the countless generations before me who may have witnessed the same phenomenon in silence, accepting it as part of the great unknown.

Eyewitness Parallels: Historical Accounts of Mysterious Moving Lights

 

What I experienced that night was not unique. Throughout history and across cultures, others have witnessed similar phenomena—lights that moved in impossible ways, lights that seemed to possess intelligence.

 

1. The "Companion Light" of Bengal (1905)  

In a remote village in East Bengal (now Bangladesh), a farmer named Hafizuddin Ahmed recounted seeing a glowing arch-like light on a dirt path at midnight as he returned from his fields. The light moved with him, staying precisely in the centre of his movements. His fellow villagers called it "Shondhya Dhor"—the Twilight Companion, a spirit that guided or tested travellers.

 

2. The Moving Light of Rendlesham Forest (1980) 

During the famous Rendlesham Forest UFO incident, U.S. Air Force personnel encountered a floating metallic light that reacted to their movements. One soldier, Jim Penniston, reported that the light mimicked his steps and even pulsed in response to his breathing. His account closely mirrors my experience with the U-shaped light that followed me with absolute precision.

3. Extraterrestrial or Paranormal Connection

Many UFO or extraterrestrial light sightings report structured, metallic-looking glowing objects—sometimes forming U-shaped or arch-like patterns on the ground. This closely mirrors my own experience, as I observed similar U-shaped or arch-like patterns on the ground and found myself precisely in the centre of them. Whenever I moved, the pattern seemed to move with me, continuously keeping me in the middle.

 

4. The Mexican Desert Incident (1954)  

A traveller crossing the desert near Chihuahua, Mexico, saw an arch of light materialise around him. When he walked, it moved; when he ran, it ran. He described it as “a tunnel of light that seemed to carry me with it, as if I had become weightless.” He later discovered strange burn marks on the ground where the light had been.

5.⁠ ⁠The Djinn’s Arch (Middle Eastern Mythology)

In Islamic and Middle Eastern traditions, Djinn are often believed to be beings made of smokeless fire, capable of influencing the world in ways unseen by humans. The glowing U-shaped or arch-like lights are sometimes seen as physical manifestations of their presence, serving as gateways or portals. These lights might be viewed as temporary bridges between different realms or dimensions, allowing the Djinn to travel or communicate. Such lights are often described as fleeting, appearing just long enough to suggest a powerful and mysterious force at work.

 

6.⁠ ⁠The Sky Ladder (Native American & Mesoamerican Mythology)

In Native American and Mesoamerican belief systems, celestial bridges made of light are often seen as pathways connecting the spiritual and physical worlds. These glowing archways or ladders are symbolic of access to higher realms or divine beings, often appearing in moments of spiritual significance or preparation for a vision quest. These lights are typically seen before important journeys or contact with ancestors, gods, or celestial beings, marking them as sacred and transformative experiences.

 

Scientific or Supernatural? Possible Theories

 

Could the U-shaped light that followed me be explained by science? Or was it something beyond human comprehension?

 

1. A Natural Electromagnetic Anomaly?  

Some researchers speculate that such lights could be the result of geophysical energy fields reacting to human bioelectric activity. Certain locations, particularly near underground metal deposits or tectonic faults, are known to emit plasma-like energy fields. Could this have been an interaction between my body’s electrical signals and a natural energy formation?

 

2. A Conscious Entity?  

The way the light moved with me, adjusting to my actions, suggests it wasn’t a random energy field. It reacted too precisely, almost as though it possessed intelligence—or was at least programmed to behave in a particular manner. Could it have been a presence, an unknown force observing or testing me?

 

3. An Interdimensional Glitch?  

Some theorists propose that such lights are glimpses into alternate dimensions or parallel realities. What if the U-shaped glow was a temporary overlap between two realms, with me unknowingly trapped at its centre?

 

The Moment It Vanished

 

And then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, it was gone.

 

As we neared our destination—Buraiya village, where the musical gathering awaited us—the U-shaped light disappeared in the blink of an eye. No fading. No gradual dissipation. One second, it was there—moving with me, surrounding me—and the next, it ceased to exist.

 

Had I stepped out of its influence?  

Had it been watching me, waiting for a sign?  

Had I unknowingly passed some kind of cosmic test?

 

To this day, I don’t know.

 

Final Thoughts: A Mystery That Remains Unsolved

 

This U-shaped light that moved with me defied all logic and explanation. It was not merely a passive phenomenon—it engaged with me, responding to my movements in a manner no ordinary occurrence should.

 

I have carried this mystery with me for years. I have searched for answers in folklore, science, and the paranormal, yet the truth remains elusive.

 

Perhaps some things are simply not meant to be explained.

 

Perhaps this experience was a glimpse into something beyond our understanding—something waiting just beyond the veil of reality.

 

And perhaps, one day, the U-shaped light will return.

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