There was once a young man named Dhanonjoy who lived in the hills of Tripura. Life there moved quietly—guided by customs, seasons, and the kind of faith people didn’t question too much. After completing Chamaki Kamani, he decided to return to his village with his newlywed wife for Garia Puja.
They set out early. The plan was simple—cross the forest before sunset.
At first, the walk felt easy. The path was familiar. But as they went deeper, the forest changed. It grew thicker. Quieter. Even the light felt different.
And then, almost unexpectedly, something drifted through the air.
A fragrance.
Faint at first… then slowly stronger. Sweet, but not in a way they had known before.
His wife stopped. “Do you smell that?” she asked.
He nodded and pointed upward. High on a tree trunk, a cluster of pale flowers bloomed quietly, almost hidden.
“Kherengbar,” he said.
She kept looking at them. A little longer than necessary.
“Can I wear one?” she asked, almost casually.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at the flowers again, then back at her.
“You shouldn’t,” he said. “Those flowers… they’re not meant for us.”
Naturally, that only made her more curious.
“Why not?”
He took a moment before answering. “There’s a story,” he said. “An Apsara once brought them from heaven. She had been sent here as punishment, and she carried the seed with her. Since then, they’ve grown here—but not like other flowers. They don’t touch the soil. They take from trees… as if they don’t fully belong.”
She listened. Still, her eyes didn’t move away from the blossoms.
“And what happens if someone wears them?” she asked after a pause.
Dhanonjoy exhaled slowly. “I’ve heard things. A soothsayer once said that wearing them could change a person. Not just in spirit… in form. A kind of human to animal transformation.”
She let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something people say to keep others away.”
“Maybe,” he said. Then, after a second, “But not every warning is empty.”
After that, they walked on.
For a while, neither spoke. But silence doesn’t always settle the mind. Sometimes, it does the opposite.
Because slowly, without saying it out loud, forbidden desires began to take shape.
He could see it. That quiet pull in her expression.
And eventually, he gave in.
“I’ll get one for you,” he said.
He climbed the tree and plucked a few flowers. When he came down, he handed them to her carefully.
“Keep them,” he said. “Just… don’t wear them yet. We’ll ask in the village.”
She nodded.
But something had already shifted.
The moment the flowers touched her hands, everything else seemed to fall away. The warning. The story. Even him, for a second.
And then—almost without thinking—she placed them in her hair.
It didn’t take long.
Dhanonjoy’s hands stiffened against the tree. His body tensed. “Did you—?” he began, but the words didn’t finish.
She saw it happening.
The change.
Not all at once. But enough.
“No…” she whispered, pulling the flowers out, throwing them aside. “I didn’t mean to—”
But it was already done.
In front of her stood a gibbon.
Not entirely still. Not entirely calm. But no longer the man she had walked beside.
This wasn’t sudden magic. It felt heavier than that. Like something that had been waiting to happen.
A kind of spiritual punishment—quiet, but final.
She dropped to the ground. “Tell me there’s a way back… please…”
For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of the forest again.
Then, in a voice that barely sounded like his, he said, “Not in this life.”
There was no anger in it. Just… something else. Acceptance, maybe.
“I’ll stay here,” he added. “Maybe, in another life, we’ll meet again.”
It wasn’t comfort. But it was something.
Still, she couldn’t carry it.
The weight of that moment—of one decision—was too much. Before she could think any further, she struck her head against the tree.
And just like that, it ended.
Or at least, it should have.
But stories like this rarely end where we expect them to.
Time passed.
And somewhere in that cycle of rebirth and karma, she returned—not as a gibbon, but as a pangolin. Not what she might have wanted… but perhaps what remained of her choices.
There was still something there, though. A faint, unspoken past life connection. Not clear enough to understand. Not weak enough to disappear.
Meanwhile, Dhanonjoy stayed in the forest.
Every year, when those flowers bloomed again, he would call out—
“Hu… Hu… Hulok… Huta…”
At first, it sounded like just another animal cry. But if you listened carefully, it felt different.
Like memory trying to hold on.
Somewhere nearby, the pangolin would strike her tail against the ground. Not loudly. Not violently.
Just enough.
As if something inside her hadn’t settled.
A trace of unfulfilled desires that time couldn’t quite erase.
And eventually—perhaps out of mercy—the gods intervened.
They didn’t undo what had happened. That part remained.
But they took something else away.
The fragrance.
And that, people say, is why—even today—why do orchids have no smell.
If You Liked This Folk Tale…
If this story stayed with you—the quiet pull of forbidden desires, the weight of rebirth and karma, and the ache of a love that couldn’t be undone—you might find yourself thinking about another tale with a very different lesson, yet a familiar truth. Over here, pride takes the place of longing, and its consequences unfold just as deeply. Take a moment to read this folk tale from Goa—it’s a thoughtful contrast, and just as hard to forget.
Kalai is passionate about reading and reinterpreting folk tales from all over the country. Write to her at kalai.muse@gmail.com to know more about her.
Folk tale adapted and abridged from Tribal Folk Tales of Tripura by D.K. Tyagi.