“I used everything available,” Kakababu corrected, his eyes twinkling. “That is the first rule of field archaeology, Santu. Now help me up. We have a boat to catch before the tiger claims this bunker as his own.”
“Kakababu, this is insane,” Santu whispered, clutching a heavy rucksack. “The tide will drown this path in an hour, and those men have guns.”
As they limped toward the shore, the full moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the Sundarbans like a silver ghost. Behind them, the shouts of the thieves faded into the croak of frogs and the distant, coughing roar of a Royal Bengal. Kakababu O Santu
They stopped inside a crumbling bunker, left over from the war. Kakababu leaned against the wall, breath ragged, but triumphant.
Santu squinted. “It’s… darker. Like it was dug up recently.” We have a boat to catch before the
Santu stared, then burst into a disbelieving laugh. “You used a wasp nest. And a fake treasure. And your own nephew as bait.”
Kakababu reached under his own gamchha and pulled out a wax-cloth parcel. “I dug it up yesterday morning, before they even arrived. What those fools chased tonight was a decoy—a brick wrapped in old newspaper.” They stopped inside a crumbling bunker, left over
“Now, Santu! Run! ”