In the year 1943 AD, the shaman in our village, rolled his eyes. His body shivered before going taut
In the year 1943 AD, the shaman in our village, rolled his eyes. His body shivered before going taut. He jumped to his feet and began to hop all over the place in the grips of fervid possession. "I have died a very violent death. I want an offering," the spirit shrieked. "You must marry off my daughter and settle all my debts or my spirit will find no rest. I will destroy this village, if I do not find rest," the spirit told his awe-struck elder brother.u00a0
Even as the lines were uttered, the 'dead man' made his way to the village square, his soldier's bedroll and old-fashioned tin trunk in hand. He had not died in the trenches of France. The army had sent the telegram to the wrong family.
Not one village raconteur has let me in on how the shaman reacted when the dead man, whose spirit was trying to network with his loved ones on this plane, came into view.
Years have passed, and as the adage goes, 'Everything changes and nothing does.' The babas continue to ply their wares. They are in the yellow pages; they are on Facebook. Some have email ids.
They are also in Mumbai's local trains, where a rash of posters advertising tantriks who promise solutions to travails like 'cot mater (court matter), 'santan prapti', 'videsh yatra', 'sautan samasya', 'prem vivah', 'karz mukti' and 'vashikaran.' My favourite is 'muth karni,' which has a very dirty ring to it if you know your Hindi. It, however, merely refers to the tantrik's ability to get someone to bend to your will without his or her conscious knowledge.
Last evening, I called Guru Moinji Samrat whose ads promise 'results within seven hours.'
The things I do for you. Really.
I chose him because Baba Samanji, whose posters were also stuck on the walls of the compartment, promised to solve the same problems in 11 hours. He did, however, promise a 'guarantee card.'
Neither ad carries an address. There are just telephone numbers. Baba Moinji assured me that he would promise the results on stamp paper. He was not ready, however, to share numbers of people he had helped with problems like mine. "Meet me, if you have faith I can't share numbers with you," he said. Fifteen minutes of incessant questioning, and the baba's voice took an exasperated tone. "Arre, yaar samajhte nahin. Aana hai toh aao. Koi zabardasti nahin. Miloge toh bataoonga," he said before disconnecting the line.
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