The Complete Collection of Travel Literature

by Tahir Shah

  “This machine has the power to tell whether the patient will have a boy or a girl baby,” he explained. “I am applying an electrode to the stomach. Watch the screen carefully. You will see the unborn child!”

  The doctor’s contraption was an undersized ultrasound unit: a more common fixture in a hospital than in a playhouse-clinic. As he spoke, the first hazy images could be seen on the black and white screen. Instinctively, the audience lurched forward like cattle in a pen. They had paid good money for the sight. I made out the silhouette of the expecting mother’s abdomen through the lattice screen.

  Peering into the monitor as though it were a space-age crystal ball, the quack drew a deep breath. Then, screwing up his face, he looked out at the audience and shook his head from left to right.

  “Does that mean the baby’s sick?” I asked Bhalu.

  “No …” he responded. “It means she’s carrying a girl.”

  A wave of tense energy surged through the crowd. The pregnant woman broke down in tears. To hear she was expecting a daughter was the worst news she could have anticipated.

  “What happens now?”

  Bhalu wiped his nose.

  “She pays the doctor another fifty rupees for an abortion.”

  “The same man?”

  “Of course … but the audience don’t watch that part. They just like to hear whether it’s going to be a boy or a girl. Look at those men over there … they’re placing bets with the doctor’s sidekick.”

  Bhalu was right. At the far end of the tent four men were handing over their stakes to a fifth. Betting on the gender of a fetus was too low even for Bhalu.

  The next pregnant woman, aged no more than about fifteen, handed over her money and took her place on the couch. Without wasting time the doctor squirted a little Aquasonic® gel on to the girl’s belly and applied the transducer. Like the expectant mother before her, she must have been praying that the murky image on the monitor was that of a son.

  Ultrasound may have been designed to check for abnormalities in the unborn, but the apparatus has found a new and far more puissant role in India. Sex determination is now illegal across the nation, but it’s bigger business than ever. Worn out Western ultrasound units criss-cross the subcontinent, making a fortune for their untrained operators.

  Only a skilled gynecologist can accurately determine the gender of a fetus using ultrasound. So much of the time the quacks tell the patient that they’re expecting a daughter, even when they aren’t. This disposes of any embarrassment later, and secures them the lucrative bonus of performing the abortion.

  Ultrasound is just the latest weapon in the war against female children. But the concept is nothing new. Communities throughout India have long perfected their own ingenious methods of eliminating unwanted daughters. The Kallar tribe from Tamil Nadu, for instance, can only afford to pay the dowry of one daughter. So when a mother gives birth to a second, third or fourth girl, it’s fed milk laced with the white sap of the madder shrub. The baby soon expires from nausea and diarrhea. Other clans suffocate the infant, or feed it the juice of oleander berries, or the milk extracted from the erukkam flower.

  The use of the American-made ultrasound at Titlagarth was shocking. Its villainous operator had been no innocent illusionist. He was playing with a device so powerful as to affect the very balance of nature.

  Only later, when Bhalu and I were rambling our way towards Bhawanipatna, did the full horror of Indian child-killing become apparent. I was scribbling a report to Feroze, detailing my latest observations. As I wrote, I pondered what effect ultrasound would have on the society. I stared out across the parched fields of Kalahandi. Three boys were throwing stones at a dog; another group of lads were rolling their hoops in the dust. A father was showing off his new-born son to a neighbor. Then it hit me. The future – a land without little girls – had already arrived.

  I scouted about, urging Bhalu to ask fathers how many daughters each had. Grinning with calm satisfaction, most replied that they had only sons. There were virtually no daughters aged six years or below, anywhere. With time, perhaps the lack of women will turn the system on its head – with men paying women for the privilege of their hand. But as it stands now, the problem of dowries has led to a stripping-down of the system. The warped logic is clear: dowries are paid by the bride’s family to the groom’s … Instead of doing away with dowries, why not do away with women?

  * * * *

  Hoping to refocus my attention, Bhalu suggested we travel to a village near Nandul. He wouldn’t say why the diversion was necessary. But I had a hunch the boy was on to something. How my traveling companion maintained his source of precious information, I had no idea. Names of significant places, contacts of key importance, little-known data and fascinating lore … it all just came to him. Bhalu’s education on Calcutta’s streets had provided him with a sixth sense for survival. His knack for navigation, and luck at bumping into the right contacts, was more than merely impressive. It was uncanny.

  We traveled by ox-cart, rode pillion on passing bicycles, and hitched lifts on the ever less frequent supply of tangerine-orange Ashok Leyland trucks. The roads went from rough, to rougher, to almost impassable. As we crossed spectacular expanses of open country, Bhalu swore he would never return to Calcutta. Despite being gripped by his city, I agreed that its pollution and frenetic pace of life was no match for the wilds of the Orissan country.

  At the town of Sargigora a man with a red shoe on his left foot and a green one on his right told of a seer working at Nandul. The man’s clothing was a jumble of New York City’s hippest costume and Hawaiian beachwear. He seemed very contented with the look. From the unusual combination, it was evident he had been fitted out with clothes donated to a Western charity. He spoke of Nandul as if it were a great city.

  By the time we arrived at the town, the Trickster and I had guessed that the odd-shoe man had never been there himself. Rather, he had been weaned on the exaggerated rumors. Located on a small river, Nandul was a drowsy agricultural community, affected by relentless drought. India’s great industrial cities may be raging hotspots of activity; but the country towns are the complete antithesis. For a start, they’re virtually silent. The din of rickshaws, generators and clapped-out buses is replaced by bicycles, paraffin lamps and people walking on foot. Yet the most overwhelming difference is the sense of innocence. The streets of Nandul were teeming with incorruptible souls. In contrast, take any street comer in Calcutta and examine it closely. Lurking in the shadows there’ll be three or four agents of the underworld; a baby-renting beggar; a pickpocket; a couple of bootleggers; and half a dozen others touting anything from second-hand skeletons to fire-engine bells.

  Bhalu took up the trail for the godman supposedly working nearby. Some locals pointed left; others indicated right. One man roped in a lame friend to help, who coaxed another to assist. That man and his associates became involved. Then all their friends turned up. Before we knew it, a teeming concourse had gathered to debate the directions. Teasellers, fruit merchants, a palm-reader, a brocade-seller, and a man with a tray of paan balanced on his head all hurried over to take advantage of the impromptu audience. Every manner of question was asked. Where were we staying? Were we the police? What were our names? Was I related to Mr. Harshad Shah of Mohammed Ali Road, Mumbai? How were we enjoying our visit to Nandul? Where had we come from? Where were we going? Would we be needing a taxi? Why didn’t we hitch up in town for a few days? The more questions that were asked, the more people came. And the more people who came, the more were drawn. Like a snowball careering down a mountainside, the gathering soon grew from two men and a dog into an entire caravanserai.

  A boy of about eight who had a pet mongoose in a cage, pushed his way to the front and befriended Bhalu. He seemed to regard the Calcutta-born Trickster as some kind of god. Widening his eyes in awe as Bhalu lit a biri, he told us that the seer moved from one community to another. The boy had seen the mystic at a nearby village two days before. He wou
ld take us at once … as long as we would buy a handful of meat to feed to the mongoose.

  Three hours later, Bhalu and I were crouching at the front of a large audience, assembled in the open air. About two hundred villagers had gathered to watch the godman perform miracles. For such an under populated village, the turn-out was impressively high. Bhalu’s young confidant concluded that the drought had boosted the godman’s standing. For he, and only he, had the power to ease the suffering … and to bring rain.

  Like a stand-up comedian stepping from the wings, the magician appeared from a thatched mud-brick house to begin his show. He announced his name, Narashima; but everyone present already knew who he was and why he had come. They were growing impatient for the magic. As he took up his position at the center of a tattered drugget rug, I caught my first sight of the godman. One glimpse and it became obvious why the villagers were so keen to place their faith in him. Unlike theirs, the magician’s skin was not dark brown. It wasn’t even light brown. Rather, it was frosty white, the color of chalk. His hair was not black, but platinum. And he blinked through watery eyes, devoid of pigment. The seer was an albino.

  Before the sorcery could begin, the populace was expected to endure an hour of theological ranting. They waited patiently for the sermon to end, and the miracles to start. Like worshipers the world over, they preferred the worthless mumbo-jumbo to the real message. At last, perhaps sensing that his congregation could not bear much more of the exhortation, the sage announced that, to prove his powers, he would perform a series of miracles. An anxious ripple of electric excitement ran through the audience.

  Miracles are more common in Hinduism than in almost any other religion. Indians, I noticed, are far better accustomed to accepting the miraculous in everyday life. Other religions, like Christianity, do put faith in the unexplainable, but their miracles are few and far between.

  First, the godman announced that through mental powers he would cook a pot of rice. He decreed that any young woman who swallowed a single grain of the rice would give birth to a son. Unlike the rest of us, the albino had no need for a stove. A large urn was placed on a straw mat before him. Chanting incantations, and swirling the hem of his robe in a figure of eight, he circled the blackened pot of rice seven times. A sinister, unnerving hush had fallen across the audience. They focused on the pot. A few minutes went by. A single wisp of steam spiraled from the vessel. Then the godman began convulsing. All around, the spectators watched in wonderment as their prophet writhed about. The more he squirmed, the more vapor rose up from the pot. Fifteen minutes passed. Then, emerging from his trance, the godman returned to the pot. He fished out a ladle of rice. It was fully cooked.

  Next, the magician gathered several brown coconuts from his box of props. Five volunteers were called out from the crowd. The lucky spectators were each handed a coconut and told to break it open. They obeyed, smashing the nuts on a stone. Examining the pieces, they fell back in wonderment. The coconuts were filled with jasmine flowers.

  Delighted by the stir his second miracle had caused, the holy man moved on to his next trick. He asked a member of the audience to loan him a banknote. The spectators appeared sheepish. None had any money. In any case few, I suspected, would have volunteered their precious savings to assist a godman; even one of the albino’s caliber. The visionary called again for a single note of any denomination. Bhalu stepped forward and handed him a ten-rupee note. The audience breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing they wanted was to enrage the magician.

  The serial numbers of the bill were called out. The guru’s assistant – a young boy with a straying eye – etched the numbers into the soil with the end of a stick. Next, the godman set fire to the banknote. Soon it was nothing but ash. Calling out to the spectators theatrically, he added the ashes to a cup of water, stirred them in, and gulped the mixture down. The assembly was severely agitated by the demonstration. Ten rupees is a lot of money, especially in the uncertainty of drought. But before anyone could protest, the albino tensed his stomach, retched four times, and pulled the crisp banknote from his mouth. The serial number was identical to that of Bhalu’s own ten-rupee note.

  With his repertoire of miracles apparently exhausted, the magician asked the villagers what problems were troubling them. They stared at him in disbelief. Surely it was obvious. Their lands were as dry as parchment. Most of their animals had already perished. Forest fires had consumed the little available firewood. Without heavy rain they would soon starve to death. Just as the godman must have known the problem well, he would have anticipated the answer. Clambering back to his position on the rug, he fell into a trance again. For forty minutes he chanted mantras. The audience peered on, open-mouthed and trustful. They genuinely hoped that he could bring rain.

  The albino’s assistant scurried away, while his master opened his eyes and addressed the audience:

  “An evil spirit has come to this village,” he shouted out. “That spirit has chased away the rains. I can feel the force of evil all around me! Have none of you witnessed phantoms as well?”

  The villagers nodded enthusiastically. They had observed many recent signs of evil. Some had seen flames shooting out from the ground on the outskirts of the village. Another said her neighbor’s laundry had caught fire while it hung to dry.

  The avatar raised his arms in the air. He called to the villagers to put their faith in him. He would demonstrate that he could bring the rain. But first, everyone would have to focus their eyes upon him. His power would only be activated if everyone stared directly at his solar plexus. Four hundred eyes converged on the mystic, who had begun to chant mantras once more.

  Five minutes slipped by. The spectators’ concentration didn’t waver. As they gawked towards the seer’s chest, almost hypnotized, a remarkable thing happened. It began to rain.

  The dust beneath our feet smelt fresh and clean as the spray of minute droplets touched it. I breathed in deep. That haunting smell – of the first rain – can only be understood by one who has encountered it. Some of the villagers, many screaming, licked their arms; others danced about. Their fantasy had come true. But as quickly as it had begun, it stopped.

  The sadhu announced that he could bring further rains. He, and he alone, could restore water to their arid fields. But the villagers would have to contribute to the procedure … which, as most had already grasped, wouldn’t come cheap.

  As the godman’s assistant made ready to collect a donation from all those present, a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped from the back of the audience. Without removing his shoes, he paced over and stood on the magician’s hallowed carpet. A shudder of fear undulated through the crowd. Who was this man? Who dared be so disrespectful to the rainmaker?

  Before the seer, his aide, or the assembly could question his motives, the newcomer called out to the throng. Bhalu gave me a running translation of his words.

  “This man is a hoaxer!” he cried. “You must not trust him, and I will show you why!”

  Claiming to be a member of India’s ever more popular Rationalist Movement, he jeered at the holy man, ordering him to step aside. I was surprised that the Rationalists were targeting such unimportant godmen, deep in Orissa’s hinterland.

  An instant later, three more Rationalists were beside the first. They too dared to stand on the sacred rug. In unison they declared they would expose the albino’s miracles. He was, they said, nothing but a con man.

  First, they showed how the godman had secretly slipped a cup of quick-lime into the aluminum pot of rice. When the lime – taken from a kiln – had come in contact with the water, it had started a chemical reaction. The result was enough heat to boil the liquid, and cook the rice. Then, while the seer proclaimed that it was the Rationalists who were corrupt, not he, more miracles were exposed.

  The coconuts had had their milk drained through the eyes at the top. The night before the demonstration, jasmine buds had been pushed through the holes into the nuts’ cavities. Given a little time, they blossomed in
the dampness. As for the ten-rupee note: it was nothing more than simple sleight-of-hand.

  By this point, tempers were fraying. The pandit was incensed that his livelihood was being attacked by the merciless band of Rationalists. To them, the illusionist was just another target on their National Miracle Exposure Campaign. Surprisingly, the villagers showed little interest in the public debunking. As far as they were concerned, the godman was a miracle-worker of the highest caliber. He had made it rain and would, surely, do so again.

  As the slanging match continued, the Rationalists unveiled yet more trickery. The flames which had been seen in the night fields were no poltergeist, they said. They were created by the magician, lying in a ditch, spitting kerosene on to a burning torch. And the spontaneous combustion of laundry? The godman’s assistant had, no doubt, dabbed the clothing with a solution of phosphorous and carbon disulphide.

  To a Westerner, it may sound dubious that a tantrik like Narashima would have a ready supply of such potent chemicals. But trawl any Indian small-town bazaar … caustic acids, all types of poison, base chemicals and experimental solvents are all available cheaply over the counter. For India is a land untouched by the West’s preoccupation with safety.

  Meanwhile, the Rationalists moved on to their coup de maitre: debunking the rain. Simple enough, they said: the godman’s helper had sprayed the audience from behind with a fine jet of water, using a modified bicycle pump.

  The albino was not going to be put off by a few allegations of chicanery. He had gathered up his props and was busy setting up his clinic at the other end of the village. He had a mission – to breathe new life into his livelihood.

  Godmen who work in small towns and villages are, for the first part, entertainers. They have little in common with the affluent jet-set mystics, with their Western devotees, Rolls-Royces and penthouse apartments. Holy men like Narashima are largely harmless performers, employing simple illusions – about as sophisticated as those used at the time of Houdini. Indeed, I realized that the majority of the tricks regularly performed in India were of Houdini’s vintage. Many of the feats of swallowing objects, the sleights-of-hand, and the chemical illusions were developed by the great American conjuror himself. Of course there’s one key difference: like all Western “magicians,” Houdini claimed to be nothing more than an illusionist. But here, in India, godmen have taken the feats a stage further: they are passing them off as actual magic.