To whom it may concern,

I am writing to log a formal grievance regarding my current working conditions in the Sundarbans. As the designated apex predator, and undisputed face of the local tourism board, I can safely report that the management has completely lost its mind. The board of directors, by which I mean human civilisation, is driving this entire operation straight into the ground.

Your coast is drowning, and your brilliant solution was to show up with a chainsaw. I signed up for a dense, endless fortress of Sundari trees and solid ground, not a disappearing act. Now? My territory is disappearing under my feet. I’m basically playing navigation roulette because whole islands pull a vanishing act the second the tide comes in. And the comedy of it all? You humans never shut up about how “vital” mangroves are for storm protection. Right now, the forest is doing all the hard work while you show up with saws and bad decisions. You cut away the root barriers that hold the mud together, then act surprised when the ocean reclaims your back garden.

Whoever turned my drinking water into a salt shaker needs to be fired immediately. What is the deal with this water? I am a tiger, not a sea turtle, but every time I cross a channel I get a mouthful of bitter brine. You locked all the sweet, fresh river water upstream behind your dams. Now my options are severe dehydration or stagnant mud. My digestive system is fighting for its life.

Nothing ruins a predator’s mood quite like getting run off the road by a cargo ship. I used to enjoy a quiet evening hunt through the mangroves. Now I am constantly interrupted by the heavy, noisy thumping of big iron ships barging through narrow waterways at all hours. Half the time, they leave a thick layer of black engine oil clinging to the mudbanks. Licking fuel off my paws after a swim was not written in the job description.

You built a giant, glowing smokestack right outside my bedroom window. The factory skyline at the edge of the forest is an awful touch. The dull, orange glare burning on the horizon completely ruins my night vision during a midnight hunt. Building massive, smoke-spewing power plants right at the edge of a protected forest makes no sense. You actively destroy the natural shield that stops deadly cyclones from flattening whole cities, all so you can plug in extra air conditioners.

Congratulations on replacing an ancient ecosystem with a giant bathtub for prawns. I recently walked into an area that used to be prime hunting ground, only to find the trees cleared for shrimp farms. You literally chopped down acres of protective forest to dig warm, muddy ponds for seafood. Turning a world-class storm barrier into a snack farm is top-tier human logic.
My hunting grounds are turning into a floating dump, and nobody is cleaning it up. Every single high tide delivers a fresh haul of rubbish straight from your city streets. Wrappers, plastic bottles, abandoned fishing nets, the whole bunch of it choked around the breathing roots. You know, the same roots keeping the land from dissolving under my paws?

If I wanted a crowd of screaming strangers recording my every breath, I’d take a job at a zoo. Instead, I get daily motorboats dumping off tourists with giant camera lenses, yelling the second my tail twitches. They treat these mangroves like a personal drive-through rubbish bin, all while demanding a wild spectacle on cue.

My love life is so non-existent even my own echo gets embarrassed to come back. I can trek across these mudbanks for days without picking up the scent of another tiger. I’ll let out a roar through the trees, and three seconds later it’s just me listening to my own voice bounce off a patch of chopped-down dirt. Between the shrinking land and the wire traps hidden in the grass by poachers, finding a partner around here takes a miracle.

I run this forest so your cities don’t end up underwater, but you keep trying to fire the staff. Don’t forget how the food chain works. I keep the deer population under control so they don’t eat all the young trees. The saplings grow into big trees that hold the mud together, stopping the ocean from washing your towns off the map. It is a very simple system, and I am the only one doing my job. You seem to think you can remove the top predator and tear out the trees without the whole place collapsing on your heads.

If you keep chopping away at my forest, choking my rivers, and pushing the ocean into my living room, I won’t be the only one out of a job. The forest will collapse, the ocean will roll in, and concrete walls will make a terrible replacement for a living mangrove shield.

Do better, or start learning how to swim.

Regards,
The Tiger You’re Supposedly Trying to Save
Chief Executive Officer of Your Favourite Mangrove Forest