When Churchyards Yawn
"'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn
and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world." Shakespeare
1
Bihar State, India, 2011
The jungle closes in. It bears down on the rural Indian village with the full weight of its suffocating heat. Banana leaves and massive creepers choke off the daylight. At night, green-eyed leopards prowl through the undergrowth, ravenous for fresh meat. Spiders, the size of a human face, search for blood. Snakes slither and spit and squeeze and devour.
There is no electricity. No safe drinking water. No roads in, no easy way out. The police never come. Neither do the doctors. The gravely ill are transported to understaffed clinics miles away by handcart or bicycle, bumping along rutted trails through dense bamboo groves and forests. Many die en route. Those who can't afford medical care take their chances at home, surrendering their fate to the village ojha, or sorcerer. A few herbs, some mantras and the ideal planetary alignment might quiet a colicky child, ease an aching back, banish a throbbing headache,. Some ojhas claim to hold the remedies for jaundice and poisonous snakebite. For a price. In exchange for a goat, some chickens, or a supply of rice beer, a cure can be bought. Some ojhas live quite well indeed.
An ojha's life is not without its challenges. In this remote corner of Bihar state, a dozen villagers complain of nausea, sore muscles. They refuse to eat. They burn up with fever then feel chilled. For the malaria that is gripping the people, the ojha has no cure. This he will not admit.
Many of the Adivasi villagers are illiterate. Superstitious. Terrified.
And gullible.
On the outskirts of the village, Somra Kumari lives alone, her late husband's land confiscated by her son-in-law. The widow has spent the day repairing the roof of her mud-thatched hut, a tribal taboo. Roof repair is the work of men, but none had been willing to help her. After a simple supper using edible roots from her kitchen garden she retires, exhausted. In the hushed quiet of deepest night, the villagers creep stealthily closer.
Then chaos. A frenzied chorus of cries, the crowd fueled by alcohol and ignorance.
"Daayan! Daayan!"
Witch. Witch.
Hands are upon her. Six Eight. Impossible to count. Somra screams. Pleads. Denies their accusations. They strip her, taunt her, beat her. In the mercy of darkness, she cannot see the glint of the machete's blade.
They drag her, half dead already, blood streaming from the gaping hole where her right breast had once been, into the center of the village. A mob had already gathered near a sandalwood tree;circling the tree's base is a network of twigs. By the time her son-in-law strikes the match, Somra has stopped screaming.
In the midst of the wild-eyed throng, Dr. Gideon Blake watches as the pyre consumes it latest victim, the rank smell of burning flesh seeping down his throat, cling to his clothes. The witch has been routed out, her dark powers destroyed. The anopheles mosquito, the true villain in the malaria outbreak, has gotten off scot-free.
Irony of ironies, in the pocket of his jacket, Blake has enough quinine to administer to the sick. Tomorrow he will do just that, create a medical miracle.
The ojha's wisom will be proven correct. The revered sorcerer has spotted the witch, all right. For the ojha, this is a two-goat night.
For Blake, it is much more.
In Jharkhand, Uttar Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Orissa, it is the same. Tales of beatings, rape, throats slit with sickles and families being hacked to death make the papers, the perpetrators rarely brought to justice, the witnesses to the crimes as guilty as the executioners.
Everywhere, the threat of torture hangs in the fetid air, death as close as the next breath.
Yes, rural India is a most suitable playground. Next weekend, Blake will visit Jharkhand.
"'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn
and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world." Shakespeare
1
Bihar State, India, 2011
The jungle closes in. It bears down on the rural Indian village with the full weight of its suffocating heat. Banana leaves and massive creepers choke off the daylight. At night, green-eyed leopards prowl through the undergrowth, ravenous for fresh meat. Spiders, the size of a human face, search for blood. Snakes slither and spit and squeeze and devour.
There is no electricity. No safe drinking water. No roads in, no easy way out. The police never come. Neither do the doctors. The gravely ill are transported to understaffed clinics miles away by handcart or bicycle, bumping along rutted trails through dense bamboo groves and forests. Many die en route. Those who can't afford medical care take their chances at home, surrendering their fate to the village ojha, or sorcerer. A few herbs, some mantras and the ideal planetary alignment might quiet a colicky child, ease an aching back, banish a throbbing headache,. Some ojhas claim to hold the remedies for jaundice and poisonous snakebite. For a price. In exchange for a goat, some chickens, or a supply of rice beer, a cure can be bought. Some ojhas live quite well indeed.
An ojha's life is not without its challenges. In this remote corner of Bihar state, a dozen villagers complain of nausea, sore muscles. They refuse to eat. They burn up with fever then feel chilled. For the malaria that is gripping the people, the ojha has no cure. This he will not admit.
Many of the Adivasi villagers are illiterate. Superstitious. Terrified.
And gullible.
On the outskirts of the village, Somra Kumari lives alone, her late husband's land confiscated by her son-in-law. The widow has spent the day repairing the roof of her mud-thatched hut, a tribal taboo. Roof repair is the work of men, but none had been willing to help her. After a simple supper using edible roots from her kitchen garden she retires, exhausted. In the hushed quiet of deepest night, the villagers creep stealthily closer.
Then chaos. A frenzied chorus of cries, the crowd fueled by alcohol and ignorance.
"Daayan! Daayan!"
Witch. Witch.
Hands are upon her. Six Eight. Impossible to count. Somra screams. Pleads. Denies their accusations. They strip her, taunt her, beat her. In the mercy of darkness, she cannot see the glint of the machete's blade.
They drag her, half dead already, blood streaming from the gaping hole where her right breast had once been, into the center of the village. A mob had already gathered near a sandalwood tree;circling the tree's base is a network of twigs. By the time her son-in-law strikes the match, Somra has stopped screaming.
In the midst of the wild-eyed throng, Dr. Gideon Blake watches as the pyre consumes it latest victim, the rank smell of burning flesh seeping down his throat, cling to his clothes. The witch has been routed out, her dark powers destroyed. The anopheles mosquito, the true villain in the malaria outbreak, has gotten off scot-free.
Irony of ironies, in the pocket of his jacket, Blake has enough quinine to administer to the sick. Tomorrow he will do just that, create a medical miracle.
The ojha's wisom will be proven correct. The revered sorcerer has spotted the witch, all right. For the ojha, this is a two-goat night.
For Blake, it is much more.
In Jharkhand, Uttar Pradesh, Chhattisgarh, Orissa, it is the same. Tales of beatings, rape, throats slit with sickles and families being hacked to death make the papers, the perpetrators rarely brought to justice, the witnesses to the crimes as guilty as the executioners.
Everywhere, the threat of torture hangs in the fetid air, death as close as the next breath.
Yes, rural India is a most suitable playground. Next weekend, Blake will visit Jharkhand.
