Brahmaputra into the Padma and the Meghna. Known as ‘distributaries’, these sub-rivers then fork some more, creating a maze of broad brown bayous whose combined seaward meanderings define the area known as the Sundarbans. Here, in the world’s largest estuarine wilderness, expanses of glossy mangrove and thick muddy water cover an area as big as Belgium. Islands are indistinguishable from mainland; promising channels expire in stagnant creeks. In the several designated wildlife sanctuaries, amphibious adaptation proves the key to survival. Crocodiles loll along the tideline close-packed like sunbathers. Mudhoppers gawp and glisten in the slime and the local tigers swim as readily as they prowl.
With roads a rarity, the best way to get around the Sundarbans is by boat, perhaps with a bike aboard for excursions on terra firma. A guide is essential, the trails being few and the landmarks fewer. The rivers tug one way, the incoming tide another. Neither is consistent: salt water comes down on the ebb, fresh water is backed up by the flow. The logic of the currents is as hard to fathom as that of the international border which here separates India and Bangladesh. Maps show the border as a confident line bisecting islands and slicing through peninsulas as it ricochets from side to side down the broad Raimangal waterway. Its trajectory provides the region with its one feature of human geography. But on the ground – where there is ground – the border is scarcely to be seen. Shifting mudbanks and encroaching mangroves are no more conducive to frontier formalities than they are to cartographic precision. Apportioning the Sundarbans between India and what was then part of Pakistan must have been like trying to carve the gravy.
A game warden announces a sighting: ‘Changeable hawk-eagle.’ He points to a large raptor lodged in a dead tree.
‘It’s a darker version of the one in peninsular India.’
The bird is rooted to its perch and motionless. It could be stuffed, its taloned feet nailed to the branch, except that every now and then it moves its head ever so slightly, as if troubled by indecision. Choosing the behaviour appropriate to its species is problematic for a changeable hawk-eagle. Should it quarter low over India’s chunk of the Sundarbans or soar high above Bangladesh’s? Is this a hawk day or an eagle day? Or just another changeable day? The options make for great uncertainty.
‘So is that bit over there India or Bangladesh?’ I’m asking. Nothing seems one thing or another in this gooey wilderness.
‘Oh, that’s India. Bangladesh is over there. See? But it should be India. Khulna, that whole district, should have come to India at Partition. It had a Hindu majority.’
Khulna was not awarded to India because Murshidabad, a Muslim district to the north of Calcutta that straddles the Hooghly river, was preferred by Delhi on the grounds of strategic contiguity and economic convenience. Eastern Pakistan, as Bangladesh then was, got Khulna by way of exchange. Hence mainly Muslim Murshidabad went to mainly Hindu India, and mainly Hindu Khulna went to mainly Muslim Pakistan. So much for the fundamental principle on which British India was divided by 1947’s Great Partition – that contiguous areas where Indian Muslims were in a majority were to constitute Pakistan, and that areas where they were not in a majority were to constitute the new India.
Dividing the subcontinent had itself been a compromise, and proved a heavy price to pay for independence. Flying in the face of fifty years’ struggle for a single India and of a shared cultural and historical awareness that stretched back centuries, it had been dictated by three recent developments: most Indian Muslims had come round to the idea of a Muslim homeland of their own; most Indian nationalists were insisting on a successor state that was strong enough to resist such demands; and the British were desperate for a fast-track exit. Adopted only as a last-minute expedient, Partition was widely regretted at the time. And by all who hold life, livelihood and peace to be dear, it has been rued ever since.
‘These people here must be Indian then,’ I venture. Fishing boats and a gaggle of schoolchildren hint at a nearby village, but there is no mains electricity, no road and no phone line – and all this despite being within 150 kilometres of downtown Calcutta.
‘Well yes, now they’re mostly Indian. But many of them are actually from Bangladesh, some Hindu, some Muslim.’
In the Sundarbans the rivers and raptors are not the only changeable things. Decades after British-ruled India was partitioned into the republics of India, Pakistan and later Bangladesh, national identities in this part of the subcontinent remain as fluid as the wind-ruffled soup that passes for water. So, too, do patterns of migration and the terminology applied to them. Immediately after the Great Partition of 1947, people who crossed the border were known as ‘refugees’. In the 1960s they became ‘evacuees’, in the 1970s either ‘optees’ or ‘oustees’, in the 1980s ‘illegal immigrants’, and now ‘potential terrorists’. Like the reception afforded them in their chosen destination, their status has been declining. Not, though, their numbers. The exodus into India from that part of Pakistan which in 1971 became Bangladesh has always been difficult to quantify. Some say hundreds of thousands have crossed the border, some say millions. Urban India’s twenty-first-century construction boom draws heavily on Bangladeshi labour, much of it illegal. Locally there are migrants who traipse back and forth for seasonal work or even a daily wage. No one is sure who is a migrant worker and who a cross-border commuter. Throughout the delta, people still come and go largely undetected, like the tides and the tigers.
A thousand kilometres to the north, where the Bangladesh border squeezes the Indian state of West Bengal up against the Himalayas, the situation is further complicated by what must be the most eccentric frontier conformation on earth. Here territorial logic veers to the opposite extreme, that of over-definition. Communities lie trapped in time-warped pockets, their national identity determined by arcane landholding patterns and the inflexible notions of sovereignty so jealously entertained by modern nation states. With little regard to the religious affinities of the inhabitants, Partition here simply appropriated the piecemeal patterns of cultivation and proprietorship found in the extant land registers and then upgraded them into international borders.
Outside his house a man poses for the camera. His back is to the wall in the photo and his legs apart. He looks rather pleased with himself. The caption explains that he is standing with one foot in Bangladesh and the other in India, and that the wall behind him is part of an extension tacked onto his house so that it too straddles the international border. With a spare room in India he qualifies as an Indian resident and can avail himself of a connection to the Indian electricity grid. No one else in this bit of Bangladesh has electricity. Providing any social amenities here is problematic because the village is in fact a sovereign ‘enclave’.
An enclave is any atoll of territory wholly surrounded by the territory of another sovereign state, in this case India. Elsewhere there are bits of India stranded in Bangladesh. The border picks its way between these enclaves, and such is their complexity that most maps despair of showing them at all. But on the ground the formalities of international transfer are faithfully observed. Checkpoints bar the tiniest roads; flags are raised and lowered; papers are stamped, currency changed, sim cards traded and bribes disbursed. Cultivators setting off for their fields clutch passports; cross-border shopping trips may be construed as smuggling operations.
Willem van Schendel, Professor of Modern Asian History in the Netherlands (a country which has enclaves of its own in Belgian territory), estimates that there are 197 such sovereign pockets along this short section of the Indo–Bangladesh border west of the Tista river. Perhaps 100,000 people live in the enclaves, which cover a total area of about 120 square kilometres. It’s hard to be more precise, because enclaves may themselves have enclaves. The latter are known as ‘counter-enclaves’ and are, in effect, bits of India that lie within bits of Bangladesh that are themselves within India – or vice versa. In the Bhalapura Khagrabari complex of enclaves, the largest archipelago of Indian territory in Bangladesh, one such Bangladeshi counter-enclave contains a smaller counter-enclave of Indian territory. This is Dahala Khagrabari, which van Schendel calls ‘the world’s only counter-counter-enclave’. From here an Indian citizen wishing to reach India proper, a distance of around ten kilometres, has to cross the frontier four times – from India to Bangladesh, Bangladesh to India, India to Bangladesh and finally Bangladesh to the Indian ‘mainland’. Luckily Dahala Khagrabari comprises just 6.9 hectares