The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  “The policeman’s brother owed a lot of money to a money-lender, the boy went on. “As he didn’t have the money to repay the loan, he sold me in exchange for his debt. Then the money-lender sold me to the brickmaker.”

  I found the situation almost unbelievable. When I told Bhalu that in the West people had no idea that bonded labor still exists, his usual jocund approach to life disappeared.

  “This is slavery,” he said. “There’s little hope for these people. None of them will ever pay off the interest owed to the master. Laborers like these end up selling a kidney or an eye to pay back what started off as a tiny debt.”

  Like me, the Trickster was moved by the laborers on the Patnagarh road. I forced them to take some money; and Bhalu handed them each a miniature bar of hotel soap. In a place in which there was little water to drink, let alone wash, the gift was an odd one. But it was the gesture that mattered.

  After a second night sleeping rough, bartering soap bars for food, we finally arrived at the witch’s village. The journey had led us through half a dozen other villages and hamlets, most of which were all but deserted. As we persevered on foot, hiking north of the Patnagarh road, the Trickster asked an assortment of farmers, laborers, and woolgathering girls if they had heard of the witch. Invariably, they greeted us with bewilderment, waving a hand ahead.

  Each mile brought new signs of famine. All the rivers in this once lush basin had run dry. The parched trees were being felled by those who had not yet left their ancestral lands. Once they had chopped up the timber they, too, would be away, hauling it to Bolangir for a sure sale. Orissa is well known for its famine. Eighty per cent of its people live below the poverty line. Disturb their finely-tuned existence by a fraction, and they cannot survive.

  No one Bhalu spoke to could remember a drought such as this. In one hamlet we met a widow who had refused to accompany her entire family on their migration to the city. Her skin was creased and swollen with sores. She had not left her home since her marriage, decades before. Even now, in the face of certain death, she had decided to stay behind.

  At another village we heard that a young mother had sold her infant daughter. With six other children to feed, she had resorted to the most drastic measure conceivable. Four other women, supporting the first – who was too ashamed to show her face – declared that they, too, would give their daughters away if they had a chance. We continued on, more depressed with every step. And as I entreated Bhalu to give up the search and lead me back to the main road, we reached the witch’s village.

  Surrounded on all sides by dusty ancestral fields, the community could never have housed more than fifty farmers and their families. Most of the simple mud houses were empty. Their owners had already left. Some of the buildings had begun to collapse, their walls crumbling like dry Oxo cubes. The few villagers who had stayed were loath to admit their community was home to a witch. After prolonged negotiations, Bhalu discovered the wattle-and-daub dwelling in which the woman, an aged widow, was held.

  With great unwillingness, the self-appointed head man related the case.

  The widow’s children had fled the village some two months before, journeying to Cuttack in search of secure jobs. The old woman had always acted strangely, but only when her sons departed did she resort to actual witchcraft. For two years in a row the village’s crops of jute and groundnuts had failed. The widow had been seen pacing the fields at night, soliciting evil forces. A neighbor said she observed her transform into a wild dog. Someone else noticed that some seeds she had planted had actually grown in the parched soil. Another purported that the ancient had turned a tank of water sour merely by glancing at it. A fourth claimed she had made three eggs disappear into thin air. The remaining villagers had gathered together to decide a course of action.

  Fortunately for the widow, many of her neighbors had departed the village for nearby towns. Had there been a full turn-out, the general state of mass hysteria would certainly have found her guilty without even the most simplistic of trials. In Orissa, a woman condemned as a witch is customarily stoned to death on the spot. Whereas a man – or even a younger woman – accused of sorcery might use it to his advantage, claiming to be a godman, a widow with magical powers is invariably considered to be a witch.

  Fortunately for her, the lack of senior villagers had led to indecision. Now that the sorceress had been arrested, no one was quite sure what to do next. The hesitation proved the extraordinary force of mass hysteria. An enraged mob of amateur witch-hunters spontaneously derives solutions.

  With no need for me to prompt him, Bhalu instructed the head man that we had been sent to decide the fate of the witch. The arrival of a twelve-year-old boy and a foreigner, both ready to adjudicate, must have seemed implausible. But surprisingly, the head man nodded once and opened the door to the communal store-room where the witch was being held.

  Blinded by the daylight, and cringing as if she were about to be guillotined, the widow was pulled out and thrown on the ground. Her head was shaven, her lips were caked in dried white foam, her arms were covered in putrescent lesions, and her torn sari was stained with blood.

  The woman was as fearful of me as the head man was. She appeared not to have set eyes upon a foreigner before. Bhalu tried to explain that we had come to judge her case. We would listen to the evidence against her a point at a time.

  The first witness was called.

  A man in his fifties, he had spied the witch strolling in the fields beneath a full moon. She had been speaking to hidden spirits.

  “Bhalu,” I said, “please ask the widow why she was in the field at night, talking to herself.”

  The Trickster translated my question and, with distinct difficulty, her reply.

  “She says she had been unable to sleep. Her sons had left her all alone. She was miserable because the family’s crop of jute had not grown. So she went out into the field and asked Varuna to bring rain.”

  “There’s no witchcraft in that,” I said. “Move on to the next point. Ask her if she turned into a wild dog.”

  The scam-artist inquired if the widow had indeed transformed herself into a “werewolf”. Ducking her head to veil her face with the hem of her white sari, the woman mimed out an answer.

  “Bhalu, can you understand what she’s saying?”

  “Yes … she says the whole village knows the problem of wild dogs. Last year two children were killed and eaten by the hounds. But on both occasions, she was with her neighbors in the village.”

  “Ask the head man if this is true.”

  Bhalu interpreted the question and, grudgingly, the chief villager nodded.

  “Next point … tell her to take us to the place where her seeds grew.”

  Bhalu helped the widow to her feet. Stumbling forward, she led us, and the frantic crowd which had gathered, to a spot at the eastern edge of the village. As her shadow fell over a row of limp green shoots, the woman pointed to the bed of cultivated soil. Curiously, the area of ground was damp. Yet the surrounding earth was cracked and dry. I was about to ask Bhalu for his opinion when he pointed to a pair of water drums at the back of a nearby hut. Without saying a word, the Trickster went over and lifted the edge of the barrel. The soil beneath it was dark with moisture.

  “It’s got a slow leak,” he said, calling us over. “The ground over there’s wet because of this barrel of stagnant water.”

  Accepting this as a plausible explanation, the head man asked the huddle of villagers for their opinion. Most remained silent. They were obviously fueled by jealousy: the widow had succeeded in germinating a few seeds while all the other village crops had withered.

  “If she’s a witch,” I said, “why didn’t she make her family’s field prosper instead of this pathetic patch of waste ground?”

  The villagers stared at their leader and shuffled their feet. They had hunted and caught the witch and now wanted the satisfaction of punishing her.

  A man called out from the back of the group.

 
“What’s he saying, Bhalu?”

  The Trickster listened to the man’s protest; which was repeated several times in a loud, heckling voice.

  “He says that you can explain why the seeds grew, but he wants to know why the village water soured when the witch looked at it.”

  “Take us to the tank of undrinkable water.”

  The inquisition crossed the village in silence.

  A group of young women, each with large silver bangles on their wrists, were taking it in turns digging a well-shaft at the other side of the settlement. Their scant frames were, we were told, best suited to clambering down the narrow well-shaft. As the women ferried away dishes of the parched Orissan earth on their heads, we approached a large free-standing water tank next to the well.

  “Is this the cistern of sour water?”

  The chief villager and the heckler agreed that it was.

  Bhalu removed the heap of chipped bricks holding down the water tank’s cover. He signaled to three men in the mob, who helped him heave away the steel lid. As soon as I set eyes on the brackish water, I understood why it was the source of numerous afflictions. The swollen bodies of seven gray-backed bandicoot rats were floating on the surface.

  At that moment a man with a club-foot hobbled over to where Bhalu, the head man and I were standing. One hand was straining to manage a crutch. In the other was an enameled mug, filled to the brim with water. The liquid was crystal clear; the chipped mug identical to that which had hung from Feroze’s belt. The drink was as translucent as water from a mountain stream. When it was offered to him, I noticed that the Trickster refused courteously. Touched by the club-footed man’s kindness, and parched with thirst, I took a long, satisfying draft.

  Bhalu explained to the rabble that the rats had soured the water, not the widow’s glance. The facts were all well and good, but the villagers were eager for a less scientific trial. The heckler called for the old woman to be subjected to the traditional tests which would prove her guilt.

  Orissa is well known for its witch trials. The procedure is usually the same. A local Jan-guru, a witch-hunter and amateur exorcist, is summoned. Often he starts by shaving the sorceress’ head to eliminate her evil powers. Then, when the entire village has assembled, the testing begins.

  Isolated from the outside world, officials find it near-impossible to regulate the trials. In any case, the authorities regard trial by ordeal as crude entertainment, and as a way for a solitary community to vent its emotions.

  Before starting his elaborate inquisition, the Jan-guru whips up the wrath of the mob. Like hounds frenzied before a hunt, they long for the kill. The exorcist shouts the order, and the suspected witch is brought out.

  Any number of tests follow. To go free the witch must pass each one. First, she may be given a talwaar, sword, to hold out in front of her. If the blade wavers, she’s definitely a witch. Next, her mouth may be filled with dry white rice. If it’s still dry when she spits it out, she’s guilty. The crowd tend to overlook the fact that one’s mouth is likely to dry up in the face of death.

  Back in the village, the heckler was again jeering from the rear of the crowd. He was asking for the disappearing eggs to be explained.

  I asked Bhalu to take a poll. If I could explain how three ordinary eggs could disappear, would they pledge a solemn oath, permitting the widow go free? The mob fell silent. At first they seemed uneasy. What if I, too, was a witch – who had come to save my fellow sorcerer? This, the unthinkable, was brushed aside. A whispered undertone rose above the hush. The head man asked his fellow villagers for their decision. Enthused at the prospect of testing me, they agreed.

  Three fresh hen’s eggs were brought forward by a young child. The audience gathered in an arc and watched my fingers. Some sat down, others shaded their eyes from the sun. The heckler pushed his way to the front. Beside him stood the Trickster, who wished me luck. Like the villagers he, too, fell silent. I waited for the moment. Fifty pairs of eyes gazed at me as I remembered all those hours in the Master’s study. We had performed sleights so many times. Three eggs was a breeze for someone hardened by swallowing stones almost as large. I sensed Feroze watching the spectacle from a great height. Beside him, I imagined Hafiz Jan peering down at me in the center of that dusty Orissan village. The Master was betting the Pashtun that I would fail. “Go on!” I seemed to hear Hafiz Jan command. “Do it for Jan Fishan Khan!”

  A pye dog hobbled from the shadows of one of the houses. It was obviously concerned why the entire village was lined up. Taking advantage of the situation, the dog meandered over to a child on the extreme left of the arc and sank its fangs into the infant’s arm. The boy let out a piercing cry. The murderous rabble lost concentration as they turned in unison to behold the child’s injuries. Seizing the moment, I flung my arms backwards and dropped the eggs down my collar. A split second later, the mob’s gaze was on me again. But the eggs were nowhere to be seen.

  SIXTEEN

  No Little Girls

  Only a madman would have ingenuously accepted a mug of drinking water in a drought-stricken Orissan village. Without pausing to question from where the thirst-quenching liquid had come, I had gulped it down. Now that I think of it, the refreshing water had been flavored with that certain je ne sais quoi, otherwise known as the tang of gray-backed bandicoot.

  But by the time my alarm systems were activated, it was too late.

  Bhalu and I were waiting for an Ashok Leyland to ferry us back to Bolangir when I collapsed. Somehow, the Trickster managed to transport me to one of Bolangir’s more sordid rest-houses, hidden down an unlit alley. For ten days I lay on a charpoy, weak and dehydrated. I must have dreamt every dream in the world. Yet the only dreams I can remember were of elephants. No longer were the tuskers swigging tequila from the bottle. This time, they were in ancient Egypt.

  A cohort of elephant slaves hauled great slabs of stone to the crack of a tyrant’s whip. One by one, the massive honey-colored blocks were piled high on each other, forming a mighty pyramid. Not far away, in a lustrous palace whose walls were bedecked with hieroglyphs, the Queen of all Elephants lay on her back, while an elephant maid servant dropped peeled grapes into her open mouth. Two tuskers stood guard at the door. A dozen infant calves scurried about with urns of fresh buffalo milk for the royal bath. As the team of servants hastened to and fro, the sweet melody of a lone minstrel elephant radiated out from behind a filigree screen.

  As I drifted in and out of consciousness, I could make out the young street lad’s face. He left my side only to fetch medicine and mineral water with which to restore my health.

  On the eleventh day, after a night of unprecedented sweating, I found myself sitting bolt upright, wide awake. I knew the illness had come to an end. Bhalu was squatting on the edge of the charpoy, his Charlie Chaplin smile leering at me, a bottle of sterilized water in his hand.

  “Why did you look after me?” I rasped once the strength had returned to me. “What’s your reason? You’re not my guardian angel … are you?”

  The Trickster smiled broadly, like a Cheshire cat, telling me to lie still and rest.

  A week later and we were on the road once again, heading south in the general direction of Tirupati. I was almost back to normal, except for the occasional spasm of stomach muscle. Our route passed some of the most spectacular scenery I had come across in eastern India. Dense forests gave way to wide vistas. Yet still everything was tinder dry. One carelessly discarded match would surely have set the entire region ablaze.

  We stopped at the quiet town of Titlagarth to wait out the heat of early afternoon. Recognizing my continued weakness, Bhalu insisted that I took no chances. Our pace had slowed to a crawl. Indeed, with my prolonged recuperation at Bolangir, there was a danger that I would not make it to Hyderabad in time for the asthma cure.

  * * * *

  It was Bhalu who first noticed the wide, sagging canopy, suspended between two sal trees. Pointing to the makeshift tent, he wondered aloud why it was attracting
such a crowd. Dozens of men and women were turning up. They would hand a single rupee coin to a grubby-looking man standing guard, and disappear into the hessian tent. The doorman had one leg shorter than the other, leading to a cringing gait. His face sneered at the world like a gargoyle, his lengthy neck drooping with vulturine conspiracy.

  At first I thought the tent must be a traveling cinema. Judging by the abundance of high-spirited customers, the playhouse was screening a gem of a show. But as we approached the unctuous man on the door and paid our money, I perceived that this was no cinema.

  A hundred or so people were pressed up inside the tent like sheep before the dip. Some sitting, others standing, all were focused on a mysterious contraption at the front of the room.

  The machine was resting on a collapsible table. It consisted of an electronic casing, a transducer, an undersized QUERTY keyboard and a viewing monitor. Beside it stood a low-quality hospital couch. Casting an eye around the tent, I noticed a row of seven or eight women crouching on the ground. Two were visibly pregnant. I suspected that the others were also expecting.

  The filthy man who had been collecting the entrance fees moved over to the sophisticated apparatus. He flicked a couple of switches, turned a dial, and pulled the recoil cord of a small generator. As the tent filled with dense diesel exhaust fumes, the man raised his voice above the noise of the engine.

  “What’s he saying, Bhalu?”

  “He’s welcoming everyone … and now he’s calling for the first patient.”

  “What patient?”

  Before the Trickster could answer, the first pregnant woman stepped forward. She greeted the man – who appeared to be some sort of physician – and slipped him a wad of rupee notes. Only when the money had been counted, and each bill had been checked for perforations, did the clinic begin.

  The woman was assisted on to the couch. A lattice screen was then pulled in front of her abdomen, and the machine’s monitor was tilted towards the audience. The doctor described what he was doing.