In the third narrative, the places where the puri enchantment took place are named. From the perspective of the victim, the puri came from his ex-wife’s village, indicating that Kynsai (the victim) thought that the puri was “sent” to ensnare him and drive him to madness. Family conflicts seem to be ascribed to a supernatural cause.
Please note that place and clan names are changed in the narratives themselves to protect the tellers’ privacy.
—MARGARET LYNGDOH, University of Tartu, Estonia
About K——, the River Goddess Who Exists in Jaintia Hills1
A family narrative as told by an anonymous teller on October 10, 2012, in East Khasi Hills.
It was a long time ago that some members of our clan—you know how it was, our Tapang Clan2—just a few of our families, moved from Nongtapang village to Shynrai village3 in Jaintia Hills. It was from here that our family migrated to Shillong in search of better opportunities. But they tell a story about one faction of our family, about what happened long ago in Shynrai village and how it affects us even today. We don’t talk about it, we are afraid to. It was said long ago that our ancestor, a woman from our clan, held the responsibility of worshipping a deity—I will not name it here, for I am afraid to even speak her name. One day, our Tapang ancestor visited the weekly market at what is now Jowai. As she was making her purchases, she encountered a woman whom she met only on the market days and with whom she shared only a cursory relationship. This woman had a grudge against our ancestress—where our ancestress went in the market, she [this other woman] followed. Our ancestress selected a kilo of vegetables from a vendor at the market, and just as she was about to put it inside her bag, this woman came to the vendor and said, “Give me that portion, I will pay more,” and the vendor took the vegetables he was about to give to our ancestress and gave it to the other woman.
Our ancestress said nothing at this obvious slight. But this other woman was relentless and she followed our ancestress to every shop she went and repeated the slight. You see, it was an attempt to disrespect and dishonor her and you know, us Khasis, we believe very strongly in respect and honor.
Our ancestress said nothing, she did not even acknowledge the woman or rebuke her. Instead, she went back to Shynrai, her village, and she took a goat and went to the bank of this river, the River K——, and she sacrificed the goat and pleaded for justice from the K—— Deity. That evening, the husband of the woman who had dishonored our ancestress died. Next morning, her son died, and in evening, it was her daughter who died. It was then that this woman realized what had happened. She came to our ancestress to beg forgiveness and our ancestress relented. She went to the River and gave thanks, and said, “That is enough.” The deaths then stopped in the other woman’s family.
You see, when our great grandmother left Shynrai village to come to Shillong, she gave up the worship of this deity with the proper rites or rituals, and after her death, our grandmother dishonored K—— by eating beef. She suffered greatly, her neck turned around a hundred and eighty degrees. The ritual performer was able to heal her, but since then, we have paid the price of the dishonor. Our family is broken and there are always bad deaths, misfortunes, and sickness. This is the reason.
How Water Tied a Covenant with Man and the Divine Nature of Water1
As told by Marcus Lapang in Korstep Village, Ri Bhoi District, on November 2, 2005.
In the olden days, the true name of water was Niaring. Niaring was the older sister of air. In those day, Niaring was confined to one place by the Supreme Being. In her place of confinement, the sounds of her sorrow, of her crying, could be heard. Then a Council of the Supreme Being was convened, and in that Council it was decided that Niaring should be freed to flow into the earth. So the riew ramhah,2 appointed by the gods, began to clear the earth, thereby making channels for Niaring to flow into the world. These riew ramhah came into existence only to fulfill this task. Neither human nor spirit, they were never used by the Supreme Being again, and we do not know where they are today. The Khasi lands as we know them today are so hilly and uneven because Niaring had to be allowed to flow out into the world. After Niaring was freed, she tied a jutang, or covenant, whereby she agreed to help mankind in any way that she could, and to go wherever she was needed in the Khasi lands. Niaring promised that she would cleanse and purify the illnesses3 she shelters and nurtures. In return, mankind agreed not to be cruel or violate her. Water came before Lukhmi, the spirit of paddy (or rice grain).
When Niaring became free, the sounds of her sorrow turned into music and joy as she flowed over the rocks and mountains, which then became her musical instruments. Every water body is the road, the pathway of the ryngkew (guardian deity of a place in nature) and basa (the deity of water). We see the water flowing, but we never see it return; still, it returns, it goes back. There are thirty kinds of entities, including fish, that live within Niaring, and she offered to cleanse any human afflicted by any of these entities. The puri, or water nymph/spirit, is one of the entities belonging to Niaring. Niaring also harbors evil spirits inside her, and other nonhuman entities (ki ksuid ki khrei). This is the reason why Jhare4 magical practitioners use Niaring to heal illnesses caught from water. In times of necessity, a white hen or white nanny goat must be sacrificed to Niaring. But this sacrifice should only be performed when the Jhare practitioner tells you to do so.
About a Puri Enchantment1
A family narrative as told by an anonymous interlocutor in East Khasi Hills about an event that occurred in the autumn of 2009.
So Kynsai went fishing or for a picnic (don’t remember which) with his friends, and when they were driving back to Shillong, he asked his friends to stop near Um Tyngngar (a small stream near Mylliem in East Khasi Hills) to go pee. But he never came back. His friends searched for him everywhere but couldn’t find him. It was really late, and when they couldn’t find him, they came home and informed Kynsai’s family. The next day, he was found by the villagers near the river without any clothes on, completely naked. He kept saying that someone was calling for him to go toward the river. He couldn’t remember what had happened. He was awakened by the villagers and it was only then he realized he was naked. They covered him up and contacted his family to pick him up. Since then, he always gets possessed, even when he’s at home or drinking with friends. Like a split personality thing. He becomes super violent and he’s fighting the spirit. No names, please. It’s in the family so I don’t want to be named. Even Kynsai (the victim), for that matter, does not want to be named. Now I don’t know. But now, he is married to another lady and he has a son, so he’s not as conflicted and depressed as he was before. But alcohol still makes him a little crazy. And he keeps mentioning that the puri is from ——, the village of his first wife. But please do not mention the village name.
A MER-WIFE IN THE INDIAN OCEAN
This tale is from the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, a union territory of India that is part of an extensive archipelago in the Eastern Indian Ocean. According to Frederik Adolph de Roepstorff, a British officer stationed in the Nicobars for thirteen years in the late nineteenth century, he had once related a story to the Nicobarese, who later adopted and reshaped it. The result was “Shoān, a Nicobar Tale,” which de Roepstorff published in 1884. Because de Roepstorff does not offer the original story, we are unable to ascertain the extent to which the Nicobarese adapted it. Here, the King of Fishes, a whale, finds a human, Shoān, and gifts him to his daughter, Giri, a mermaid. While this story is similar to others in which a man falls in love with a mermaid, such as “The Mermaid of Kessock,” its ending differs strikingly. Tales of human-mermaid marriages often end unhappily, most often because the mermaid abandons her human husband to return to the sea, but in this account, it is the human husband who leaves behind a bereaved mermaid wife. The catalyst for their separation is not the man’s desire to abandon her, but a simple desire to procure a hand mirror for her so that she may see what his eyes behold every day
—her beautiful face.
Shoān, a Nicobar Tale1
Come all, Nicobarese and foreigners, old and young, men and women, boys and girls, youths and maidens, and listen to a story.
There was formerly a man by the name of Arang, whose wife had borne (him) three sons and three daughters.
He made himself a nice house, and possessed much property.
One day he went out on the sea with his eldest son, called Shoān. They wanted to fish with hook and line.
Strong wind got up and heavy sea sprung up.
Then it happened that one of the outriggers of the canoe broke and both sank into the sea. Arang was drowned, but the boy2 crawled up on the back of the canoe and cried.
“What shall I do, my father is dead, what am I to do!”
“Wish3—it is the whale arriving.”
“Why are you crying child?”
“Oh my father is dead, I cannot survive, how shall I get home (lit. there is no road), what am I to do, my father is dead!”
“Sit down on my back, I know the road,” said the whale. “Oh no, I will not!” said the boy. “I am afraid, I do not know the road, as my father is dead.”
But after a while Shoān did sit down on the back of the whale. Wish—off they were, quickly, swiftly.
The whale is a chief of the sea. At the sight of him all got afraid.
The flying fish flew in all directions, the turtle dived down suddenly, the shark sank down (below) his fin, the sea snake dug himself into the sand, the ilū4 danced along the sea, the dugong5 hugged her young one, the dolphins fled, for they were afraid of the whale.
Thus (sped) the two. Bye and bye they arrived at the country of the whale. It was a domed big stone-house. The walls were of red coral, the steps were made of tridachna.6 In the house they saw the daughter of the whale, whose name was Girī.
“Do you like this boy?” said the whale.
“All right, let him stay,” said Girī.
“Do you like to stay Shoān?”
“I am willing to stay here.”
Then Shoān became the servant of Girī.
Girī’s face was like that of a woman, below she was shaped with a fishtail, her breast was the colour of mother of pearl, her back like gold; her eyes were like stars, her hair like seaweed. Said Girī—“What work do you know?”
“I can collect cocoanuts in the jungle.”
“Never mind, we have no cocoanuts, but what other work do you know?”
“I can make boats.”
“We do not want boat, (but) what other work (do you know)?”
“I know how to spear fish.”
“Don’t! you must not do it, (for) we love the fish, my father is a chief among the fish. Never mind, comb my hair.”
Shoān remained, he combed her hair, they (used to) joke together and they married.
Said Shoān—“How is it wife that you do not possess a looking-glass, although your face is so nice.”
“I want a looking-glass, look out for one.”
“In my parent’s house in the village there is one looking-glass, (but) I do not know the road.”
“Never mind I know the road, sit on my back and I will bring you near the land.” “I cannot walk in your country, but do, (I pray you, return quickly.)”
“Certainly wife, you (had better) stop near the edge of the coral reef on this big stone, I will return quickly.”
Then Shoān returned to his village. He came to (lit. saw) his father’s house.
“Who is there?” (said his mother).
“It is I, Shoān.”
“No (you are not), Shoān died with his father on the sea.”
“Look at my face, I am Shoān, your son.”
He came up into the house. When they heard (about it), all the people (of the village) came. They asked many questions and Shoān answered. He told the story about the whale, and the story of his marriage with Girī. The people laughed and said he was telling lies. Shoān got sorry and angry, and he ran away with the looking-glass. The people went after him and speared him and thus died Shoān.
Girī stops in the sea near the coral banks and she sings and calls. In the night when the moon is high, fishermen hear like singing and crying of a woman. They ask other people (about it) and wonder, for they do not know (about) Girī. Girī will not return alone, (that is why) she sings and she calls out: “Come (back) Shoān, come (back) Shoān.”
A HAIRY CHINESE MERMAID
While powerful dragons overseeing seas and rivers are strongly associated with Chinese mythology, aquatic beings that are both fish and human are also mentioned in some ancient texts, and mermaids continue to have a strong hold on the Chinese imagination. Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid” has been extremely popular in China since its early-twentieth-century translations, influencing the development of children’s literature in the country, and in 2016 the movie The Mermaid broke a number of box-office records.1
Nicholas Belfield Dennys—a colonial settler in Beijing, Hong Kong, and Singapore in the latter half of the nineteenth century—drew on earlier Chinese works to describe the mermaids in his book The Folklore of China. Compared to European mermaid-wife counterparts such as Mélusine, the mermaid in the first account summarized below has no tail and no ability to speak human language; an aquatic humanoid, she is covered in silky, rainbow-colored hair. The couple remains happily married, and she returns to the sea only after her husband dies, presumably of natural causes. She is not described as a beauty, and neither is the mermaid in the second account, whose appearance is, however, more “conventional.”
Mermaids1
Some of my readers may perchance be interested to learn that the original home of the mermaid (Ch. sea-woman 海女 hai nü) is almost within sight of the room in which these notes are being written. The only specimen of a veritable mermaid I ever saw was Barnum’s celebrated purchase from Japan, which, so far as could be judged, consisted of a monkey’s body most artistically joined to a fish’s tail. But the author of a work entitled Yueh chung chieh wên, or “Jottings on the South of China,” compiled in 1801, narrates how a man of the district of Sin-an (locally Sin-on) captured a mermaid on the shore of Ta-yü-shan or Namtao Island. “Her features and limbs were in all respects human, except that her body was covered with fine hair of many beautiful colours. The fisherman took home his prize and married her, though she was unable to talk and could only smile. She however learned to wear clothes like ordinary mortals. When the fisherman died the sea-maiden was sent back to the spot where she was first found, and she disappeared beneath the waves.” The narrator quaintly adds, “This testifies that a man-fish does no injury to human beings,” and he moreover informs us that these creatures are frequently to be found near Yü-shan and the Ladrone Island—so that any adventurous Hongkong canoeist may still have a chance of making a novel acquaintance. Another case recorded by the same writer speaks of a mermaid of more conventional form than the lady already noticed. “The Cabinet Councillor Cha Tao being despatched on a mission to Corea, and lying at anchor in his ship at a bay upon the coast, saw a woman stretched upon the beach, with her face upwards, her hair short and streaming loose, and with webbed feet and hands. He recognised this being as a mermaid (or man fish) and gave orders that she should be carried to the sea. This being done, the creature clasped her hands with an expression of loving gratitude and sank beneath the waters.”
MERMAIDS FROM JAPAN
Ningyo, the Japanese word for mermaid, has no gender.1 Stories about mermaids have been part of the Japanese tradition for centuries, ranging from sightings of “strange” creatures to encounters with beautiful, white-skinned eroticized ningyo, even before illustrations of European merfolk made their way to Japan in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.2 That said, the “Japanese mermaids” that European and Americans lined up to see for a price in the early to mid-nin
eteenth century were of a different order.3
The following Japanese tale appeared in the English edition of the Kokumin-no-tomo (Nation’s Friend), a magazine published in Tokyo in the 1890s. The tale features a mermaid wife who, like her European counterpart Mélusine, must leave the human world once her husband breaks his promise and sees her hybrid shape while she is taking her weekly saltwater bath. Like the very popular Japanese animal-bride tale “The Crane Wife,”4 “The Mermaid” is a tale of gratitude, not of abduction, as in European selkie stories. But in all cases, the hybrid being is fully domesticated while in the husband’s home. In this Japanese mermaid story, the wife cooks fish delicacies; later, when she leaves, she offers blessings to her husband.
Hanashika, to whom this tale is attributed, refers to a professional storyteller, often a rakugo (comical stories) performer. This hanashika appends two morals, which are both somewhat sexist and tongue in cheek. Notably, the tale contains a reference to the belief—demonstrated in the tale that follows this one, “Yao Bikuni”—that consuming a mermaid’s flesh will grant immortality to humans.
The Penguin Book of Mermaids Page 20