Ghost in Bengal

The Ghosts Beneath the Full Moon: A Terrifying Encounter with Jinn at the Culvert Bridge

 

In the sweltering summer of 1993, I found myself back in my birthplace—West Tilak, a remote village in Shaharpara, Jagannathpur, Sunamganj, Bangladesh. This place, where the air is thick with humidity and time feels suspended, has a quiet, eerie charm. The electricity that modern cities take for granted had not yet reached our village, and so, the nights were a canvas painted only with the pale light of the moon and the flickering of distant stars. 

 

The heat inside the concrete-roofed houses was unbearable during the day, the walls absorbing the brutal sun’s rays and trapping the warmth inside. For those of us used to cooler climates, like me, sleep was a distant dream. The oppressive heat left me restless until the cool embrace of the night offered a respite. On such nights, when the air was thick with the smell of wet earth and vegetation, I’d often walk beneath the tall trees around the house or take a canoe ride on the still waters of the nearby fields to cool down before returning home to sleep.

 

One such night, I decided to take a walk with my younger cousin, Razik Miah, to catch the night breeze. The weather was perfectly calm, with a moderate temperature, and the night sky above us was ablaze with twinkling stars. The moonlight reflected off the floodwaters, giving the fields an ethereal, almost magical glow. It was as if the land itself had come alive under the moon’s gaze. 

 

We walked through Shaharpara Bazar and along the dirt tracks toward Novagaon, far beyond the boundaries of our village. The serenity of the landscape was almost surreal, and neither of us realised how far we’d strayed from home until it was well past midnight.

 

Before we entered Novagaon, we passed a tree—the Diospyros malabarica, known locally as the Gaab tree. I had heard countless stories about this tree—how it was said to be haunted, its dark, twisted branches stretching out like fingers, reaching for anyone who dared to venture too close at night. But tonight, I was more focused on the cool breeze and the tranquillity of the moment.

As we approached the first culvert bridge over Dorarair Khal, a canal that wound its way through the fields, something strange happened. We sat on the southern side of the bridge’s railing, just taking in the silence of the night. It was then that we saw them.

 

A group of dogs, emerging from the shadows of the Gaab tree, appeared on the dirt track. They moved in unison, like an army on a mission, their eyes fixed on us. They didn’t bark. They didn’t growl. They just marched silently toward us, lined up in rows, as if they were gathering for some unspoken purpose. The way they moved was unnerving. As they crossed the bridge, they sat down in front of us, almost as if they were an audience at some dark performance, staring at us with eyes that seemed to bore into our very souls.

 

There were about twelve dogs in total. Their fur was pristine, not a speck of dirt or mud on them—odd, considering we had just walked through mud and water to get here. Real dogs, especially wild ones, would have been filthy by now. We had crossed submerged parts of the dirt track and had to wade through water and thick mud. But these dogs—they were immaculate.

 

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest. Razik and I instinctively grasped each other’s hands, our eyes fixed on the group of dogs as we sat frozen on the bridge. I tried to reassure him, whispering, "Don’t worry, they’re just dogs. They can’t hurt us." But even as I spoke, a creeping unease began to take root. In my head, I knew these were not dogs; in fact, these are the jinns. I wanted to show we were not scared of them and to encourage my cousin not to fear them. 

 

The dogs were watching us—really watching us—without any sign of fear. Their gaze was penetrating, almost intelligent, and there was something deeply unsettling about the way they sat in perfect formation, their eyes locked on ours. I could feel the cold sweat running down my back. My mind raced, trying to make sense of what was happening. Razik’s voice trembled in the silence: "It’s almost midnight, and it’s the flood season. Why are there so many dogs together at this hour? They don’t even bark… Look at their eyes. They’re creepy—demonic."

 

We continued to sit, terrified, afraid to make a sudden move. My grip tightened around the torchlight I held, the faint beam trembling in my hand. The dogs didn’t move. They didn’t make a sound. They just sat there, staring at us with those dreadful, evil eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. It felt as if those eyes were pulling me in, holding me hostage at that moment.

 

It was then that Razik spoke again, his voice barely a whisper: "These dogs didn’t come from any village house. We know there aren’t this many stray dogs around here. They would have been covered in mud if they were real dogs, and wild dogs never come this close to people. Something is wrong with this."

 

We both knew it, deep down. These were not just stray dogs. They were something else—something far darker.

 

The dogs didn’t move for what seemed like an eternity. They were so still, so composed, as if they were waiting for us to make a mistake. The oppressive silence was broken only by the faint rustling of leaves in the wind. Then, without warning, the dogs stood up, turned, and marched silently back the way they had come—toward the Gaab tree. Their departure was just as eerie as their arrival: quiet, deliberate, and unsettling.

We sat there, paralysed with fear, the weight of what had just happened settling over us. It wasn’t until they had vanished into the darkness that we dared to breathe again. We stood up and ran—faster than I’ve ever run in my life—back toward home. But no matter how fast we ran, the feeling of their eyes watching us from the darkness stayed with me.

 

It wasn’t until later, when we spoke to the elders of the village, that we learned the horrifying truth: what we had encountered on that bridge were not wild dogs, but jinn—shape-shifting spirits made of fire and air. The jinn are known to take on the forms of animals—dogs, serpents, even humans—but their true nature is always one of deception and malice. 

 

The Gaab tree, we were told, was a place where spirits gathered. It was said to be cursed, haunted by the restless souls of those who had died in battle—soldiers from a long-forgotten war, perhaps the battle of Vijayanagar. These spirits had been twisted over time; their forms corrupted by the power of the jinn.

 

The jinn are not simply ghosts. They are ancient beings, neither good nor evil, who can shape-shift at will. In their true form, they are terrifying—nearly impossible to comprehend. And on that moonlit night, Razik and I had come face-to-face with them.

 

I can’t say for sure what we saw that night. I still don’t understand why they chose to reveal themselves to us, or why they let us go. But one thing is certain: the jinn are real. And they are watching.

 

So, if you ever find yourself walking along a moonlit road, especially near a cursed tree or an ancient battle site, take care. For you may just find that the eyes watching you from the darkness are not those of a harmless animal, but something far older, far darker, and far more dangerous.

 

The jinn are always nearby. And sometimes, they choose to show themselves.

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.