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Echoes of the Hulhule' Bodu Meeha: Revisioning of a Maldivian Folk Tale

String Travel

Join us on this Halloween as String Travel invites you to delve into the haunting legend of the Bodu Meeha, a fresh take on a captivating Maldivian folk tale that has echoed through time.



During the early 1960s, the Maldives began a bold project: transforming Hulhule', a quiet, uninhabited island, into the future site of Velana International Airport. The project had an air of excitement and determination, but also one of dread, a sense that some forces on the island did not want this change.


Rasheed, a seasoned foreman, had been assigned to oversee the project’s day-to-day tasks. He’d come from Malé with a crew of young men who shared his conviction that this airport could connect the isolated nation to the world. They arrived at Hulhule with spirits high, ready to clear trees and level the land.


As they worked, the crew began to notice things: strange patterns in the sand, like footprints but much too large to be human. The island was also far from silent; strange groans and rumbling sounds echoed at night, especially near a rocky outcrop toward the island's north end. Rasheed dismissed it as the noises of an unsettled island. But as the days went on, the noises grew louder and stranger, sometimes sounding almost like a low growl. His workers spoke of an old legend about Hulhule’s Bodu Meeha, the hulking spirit that was said to roam the island. They claimed he was disturbed by the construction, though Rasheed waved them off.


One morning, when the mist still clung to the trees, Rasheed ventured into a part of the island marked for clearing. As he walked, he spotted something unnatural on the ground. Moving closer, he froze, his heart pounding. There, tangled in the underbrush, lay a mangled body. The face was barely recognizable, twisted in a grimace of terror, the body bruised and brutalised as if crushed by an enormous hand. Stumbling backward, he found another body, and another, each worse than the last, each bearing the same grim injuries. Rasheed’s stomach turned. They were construction workers, ones who hadn’t reported for duty that morning.


The camp descended into chaos when word of the discovery spread. Some workers packed up immediately, heading back to Malé on the next boat, terrified of the cursed island. Those who remained were gripped by fear and an unspoken question: Was this the work of a vengeful Bodu Meeha?


Rasheed became consumed by a grim obsession. He couldn't abandon the project, but he also couldn’t ignore the mystery of what had happened to his men. At night, he would sit alone, the dim lantern casting his shadow over the encampment as he mulled over the island’s stories, piecing together whatever folklore he remembered from his childhood.


Then, late one evening, he was visited by a young islander named Faiyaz, who worked as a cook. Faiyaz approached cautiously, eyes darting to the shadows around them. “There is a reason this island has always been left alone, Rasheed,” he whispered. Faiyaz’s grandfather had often warned him about Hulhule’s Bodu Meeha, a giant who had once protected the island fiercely, but who had also kept it as his own, disallowing anyone to live there or harm it. Faiyaz told him of how villagers used to leave offerings on the shore for peace, but that had been decades ago. “If you disturb him,” Faiyaz warned, “then god help you.”


Rasheed felt torn. He was a man of pragmatism and had always dismissed spirits as relics of the old ways. But his men were dead. He couldn’t deny the brutality he’d seen or the deep sense of unrest that had settled over the island.


One night, as a storm brewed, Rasheed ventured to the northern outcrop alone, hoping to find answers. He called out, his voice breaking in the wind. He offered apologies and pleaded, promising to leave part of the island untouched. Silence fell; the wind died down. For a brief moment, Rasheed felt as if he were alone in the world, suspended in an uneasy calm.


Then, something moved. A shadow too large to be human rose from the dark, two eyes gleaming from the shadows. The figure stood tall, its massive form outlined against the stormy sky, and as it spoke, the voice rumbled, deep and ancient. The Bodu Meeha spoke of his home, of his solitude, and his fury at the destruction wrought by men who had intruded without respect.


Rasheed realised, in that fearful moment, that the Bodu Meeha was not merely angry; he was defending his existence, his connection to the land that had been his for centuries. In a desperate attempt at diplomacy, Rasheed offered a part of the island, a promise to preserve a sacred grove, untouched and revered. The giant stared down at him, a deep sadness in his eyes.


Days later, the workers returned, surprised to find Rasheed alive and apparently undeterred. He ordered a halt to clearing the northern part of the island, declaring it off-limits and sacred. From then on, they worked in harmony with the island, leaving the untouched land as a silent monument to the Bodu Meeha. The dread faded, and Hulhule began to accept them.


Years later, the airport opened to the world. But locals would tell visitors the tale of Hulhule’s Bodu Meeha, a spirit whose wrath had forced the workers to remember that even in progress, respect for the land must remain.


And Rasheed? He left the project a changed man, forever haunted by those mangled bodies, reminders of what happens when the balance between man and nature is broken.


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