Saltwater’s Silent Toll: The Sundarbans’ Ancient Pharmacy Fades Behind Rising Seas

Spanning 10,000 square kilometres across Bangladesh and India, the Sundarbans supports a remarkable ecosystem — from the Royal Bengal tiger and saltwater crocodile to over 300 plant species. Nearly 2.7 million people reside in the coastal districts surrounding the forest on the Bangladesh side alone.

For generations, local communities have relied on the forest for food, firewood, and medicine. Kabiraj — traditional healers — have long served rural populations where formal healthcare is scarce or prohibitively expensive.

Their treatments are derived from leaves, roots, and bark, with knowledge carefully handed down through the generations. A 2011 study on medicinal plants in Barisal Division revealed that nearly one-third of rural households in the coastal region sought treatment from kabiraj or similar practitioners.

Rising seas and increasingly frequent cyclones are driving saltwater deeper into coastal ecosystems. Between 2017 and 2021, salinity in tidal water climbed from 21 to 33 parts per thousand during the pre-monsoon season, while soil salinity surged by 31 percent.

Mangroves are naturally salt-tolerant, though that tolerance varies among species. The Sundari (Heritiera fomes) is in decline. Bain (Avicennia officinalis), a critical nectar source for bees, has ceased flowering in certain areas. The medicinal plants upon which kabiraj depend are likewise growing harder to locate.

For Suranjan, the proof lies in what has vanished.

As the tide floods the forest, fiddler crabs traverse the wet mud. He pauses beside a tree and deliberately slices away a section of bark with his knife.

“Between the wood and the bark lies a living layer. If that layer remains intact, the bark regenerates swiftly. If it is damaged, recovery slows considerably — sometimes the wound never closes at all,” he explains.

When gathering a vine, he never uproot the entire plant. He harvests only what is needed, allowing the rest to continue growing.

Yet meticulous harvesting cannot shield plants from the transformation of the water itself.

“Previously, when the tide came in, the forest never sank entirely. The higher ground remained dry,” he says. “Now the forest goes fully underwater, and the saltwater is killing many trees.”

He lists species that have become increasingly scarce: hogla, or Typha, whose fibres are traditionally applied to cuts and burns and whose roots feature in local remedies; and bain, whose bark and leaves serve medicinal purposes and whose flowers nourish bees.

“My father collected over 100 medicinal plants from across the country and cultivated them in our garden,” he says. “But after Cyclone Aila in 2009, saltwater surged in and destroyed everything — every plant died.”

Professor Md Abdur Rahim, chairman of the Department of Genetics and Plant Breeding at Sher-e-Bangla Agricultural University, describes a forest whose botanical equilibrium is steadily shifting.

“Salt is slowly rewriting the forest,” he says. “The hardiest trees may endure, but the plants that heal — the ones kabiraj depend on — are fading. As salinity climbs, the forest changes its face: salt-tolerant species spread while the delicate, medicinal ones disappear.”

A season without flowers

Nearby, a small tea stall lined with wooden benches sits beside the Shakbaria river. Inside, a television remains silent through the day; villagers congregate around it in the evening. Morning rain has left puddles on the road and heavy clouds hovering over the water.

Customers drink strong black tea sweetened with sugar, occasionally accompanied by biscuits.

Suranjan’s uncle, Chapal Raptan, a honey collector, sits on one of the benches.

Asked how much honey he harvested this season, Chapal, having shaken off his cold, shakes his head.

“This is the season for bain flowers,” he says. “But this year, not a single bain tree has bloomed. There is no bain honey whatsoever.”

Several men respond at once.

“We have never seen anything like this in our lives,” one says, and the others nod in agreement. “Not a single flower on the bain trees.”

For men who have spent their entire lives entering the forest, the absent blossom is more than a disappointing honey harvest. It signals an unsettling change in a landscape they believed they understood completely.

Suranjan names other medicinal plants he says are becoming increasingly difficult to find around Koyra: neem, ashwagandha, and haritaki.

Then he looks down at his hands.

“It is becoming harder to collect medicinal plants. Since my collection no longer holds everything that is needed, I cannot provide patients with what they require when they come to me,” he says.

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