The Sundarbans breathed an ancient kind of silence—thick, heavy, alive. Leaves rustled with secrets, and even the birds seemed reluctant to call out, as if respecting something older and far more terrifying than them. The air was humid and dense, but Vansh moved through it with the ease of a man familiar with discomfort.
Vansh, A young, no more than twenty-five, with skin darkened by sun and wind, and eyes that darted often—scanning, calculating. He wore a simple kurta and trousers, muddied from travel, and carried with him a cloth satchel filled with little more than water, dry bread, and a small, curved hunting knife.
The year was 1932, and India lay restless under the weight of British rule and ancient myths. Vansh, however, walked alone for reasons of his own—ones he kept buried as deep as the roots of the mangroves around him.
That morning, the forest had been unusually still. Even the usual rustle of monkeys or splash of crocodiles in the creeks was absent. Something was wrong.
As he trudged through a narrow trail near a swampy bank, he spotted something—movement, just beyond a broken cluster of bamboo.
A man.
Old, torn, and bleeding.
Vansh rushed forward, dropping to his knees. The man was crumpled under a low tree, half-conscious. His skull had a big, gaping wound at the back, the skin torn like paper. One shoulder was mangled, as if chewed and spat out.
"Chacha!" Vansh whispered hoarsely, gently lifting the old man's head. "What happened? What are you doing here?"
The man groaned softly but didn’t speak. His eyes were glassy, unfocused lying upon the tree lines above.
The wounds… they weren’t from a blade or a fall. Vansh had seen animal attacks before, even helped skin a tiger once. These were unmistakable—a tiger’s doing. The back of the head... it was torn, and shredded. As if the tiger had struck the old man from behind.
He tore a strip from his kurta and tried to staunch the bleeding, pressing down firmly. "Stay with me, please. I’ll get you out."
But it was too late.
The man gave a final, shuddering breath—and went limp in Vansh's arms.
Vansh sat frozen, cradling the stranger’s body, stunned. Then he heard it.
A roar.
Low. Guttural. It echoed through the trees like a wave of ice down the spine. Not the roar of a tiger. No. Vansh had heard tigers before—this was something else entirely.
He turned slowly, blood chilling in his veins.
A dark shadow moved between the trees. Not walking. Gliding. It was massive, this beast was fast—unnaturally fast.
Then it lunged.
Vansh had no time to scream.
---
To Vansh's surprise, he got to open his eyes again, as if he had just fainted, the sun was still up—barely. The sky now bled orange through the trees, and the old man’s body was gone.
Vansh sat up slowly, dazed. He was alive. Not a scratch on him.
Breath trembling. His heart pounded, but his body was whole. Whatever had come for them—had left him.
Was he spared?
No. That wasn’t mercy. That was choice.
“One man was enough,” Vansh muttered, the thought forming like poison in his brain. He thought of the corpse that once laid beside him.
The creature had chosen. And left him.
He stumbled to his feet, wiping sweat from his brow, gripping the hunting knife tightly though it now felt laughable in defense.
There was no time to think. He had to move. The next village was seven kilometers west—if he ran, he could reach it before dark. Maybe.
Branches slapped at his face as he sprinted through underbrush. His breath came ragged, and every snapped twig behind him sounded like pursuit. The jungle was loud again, but not in the usual way. It was mocking him. Echoing the presence of something watching—always watching.
By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, Vansh could see the outline of smoke from cookfires ahead.
But his legs wouldn’t stop.
Even as he entered the village square, surrounded by children playing and the smell of dal bubbling in iron pots, Vansh kept glancing over his shoulder.
It hadn’t followed.
Not visibly.
But something in the air still clung to him. An unseen presence. A weight behind every breath.
And in the dense forests of Sundarbans, some shadows never truly leave.
Even when you run.
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This Concludes Vansh: The Mangled Man
Published By,
Fardeen Ali.
