RITUALS

Based on some still prevailing tribal rituals in different corners of the globe

It took almost a full day to reach the village.

The first thing that struck me after reaching my destination was where I would spend the night.

Manish, fortunately was there to greet me in the God-forbidden place. After all he had an interest here. His much-wanted commission money.

But his unexpected sensibility gave me some relief when I saw he made my lodging arrangement in the bungalow belonging to the local forest department. The place was shabby, probably no one spent a night there for long so lacking good maintenance. Manish through his impeccable mobilization skill put some villagers in making one of the rooms of the bungalow habitable, exclusively for me.

‘They did it without asking for a penny.’ Grinned Manish. ‘They know you are coming here to approve their application for the scheme.’

‘What about my food?’ I asked him. ‘Hope you won’t at least get them from the village.’

‘No Sir. There is a dhaba about five kilometers away from here. I will myself bring the food for you from there.’

I felt more relieved.

‘Are you staying in the bungalow tonight?’

‘Of course Sir. How can I leave you here alone?’ Said my local agent with a beaming smile.

 

 

There was no electricity in the bungalow as usual. The dinner was a perfect candle-light one where Manish played a top to bottom caring host. He even managed a mouth-watering chicken curry. The rest of the dhaba food tasted delicious after the whole day’s toil.

When I finished my dinner rhythmic beating of the drums with string of funnily sung songs hit my ears from the village side.

‘The villagers are enjoying a party, Sir.’ Commented the near-by Manish. ‘To celebrate your coming to their place.’

‘But I haven’t approved their application till now. How come they are so sure about that so early?’

‘Poor people live only on hope, Sir. They have already started believing that you will give them the scheme and they will see the face of happiness.’

I didn’t reply.

How much poor those people are?

A throng of low-class, untouchable, landless people who were thrown into a marginal, inaccessible village and forgotten for years! They only hit the limelight once we received their application to grant the scheme under which they might get certain preferences and amenities to lead a productive life in terms of having bank accounts and identity proofs, eligibility to apply for easy loans, accessibility to free healthcare and primary education facilities and of course enjoying some special incentives chosen for the ultra-poor.

Tomorrow morning I will scrutinise their applications where they need to prove to me that they are the poorest of the poor. On-site verification is a must to sanction applications from the forbidden lands and I am currently one of the public servants shouldering the responsibility of a tedious, ground level reality check.

 

Manish had earlier helped the illiterate villagers to fill up and submit their applications to us being our local agent. Thousands of such young and educated agents are functional across the country to help the scattering poor people hidden within the forgotten hamlets and make their presence felt through their applications to earn the welfare schemes of the government.

The payments of the agents bank solely upon the approval of the schemes. If not approved the agents also remain penniless. So they have to be extra careful to keep the relevant evidences ready on behalf of the local needy communities that can only enhance the approval of their applications.

Hope Manish has already done his ground-works well to make the villagers happy by giving them my approval.

 

 

The next day morning started with an unusual breakfast like oily puri and watery dahl that my current man ‘Friday’ had managed from a near-by tea-shop. ‘Sorry Sir, you won’t get anything better here. The dhaba only opens at ten. Your breakfast would have been late.’

I had no other option.

Then he took me for a round inside the village.

I had seen poverty like this in many other places. Malnourished folks of children, bunch of skinny women, drunk hoard of men and pathetic living conditions. So my heart didn’t melt much. I was actually counting my hours. My return booking was done for today evening. The railway station was about seventy kilometers away from my current place of work. I must leave early. The road was more than horrible with full of pits and broken miserably in multiple places.

The village-head, an over seventy, shrunken looking man with a stick in his hand and two more youths were constantly accompanying us. They, in the midway brought me to a hut where a woman had delivered a baby last night. They urged me to shower my blessing on the newborn.

They put a thick paste of vermillion on the baby’s forehead.

While asked ‘what’s the reason for such off-beat practice’ they told me, the baby has been sacrificed to God.

Tribal societies are full of such taboos which carry no logical meaning. My previous experiences of visiting quite a few marginalised communities taught me that.

 

Soon I got myself engrossed in my real work for which I took the pain the hit this God-forbidden place; verifying the applications of the villager for the welfare schemes.

There was no chair or table. They spread a mat for me to sit inside the residence of the village head. Manish brought all of them there whoever had submitted their applications. My job was to identify them by name, age and sex, click their pictures in my mobile for storing in my records including taking their finger-prints once more for the final round of cross-matching with the original ones that they had already put in their applications.

It was a cumbersome process to complete the entire exercise sitting on the mat right through by keeping your knees folded and neck bent for several hours. The pungent, cocktail of smell of indigenous alcohol and awful, dried sweat being emitted uninterruptedly from the filthy bodies of the villagers was off and on knocking me down.

When finally I put the stamp of approval on their applications after satisfying myself about their genuineness and the dire needs of the local people Manish loudly declared that among the villagers in the local dialect.

The entire body language of the worn-out village changed in the next moment. Pale faces gleamed with large smiles, dwindling eyes sparkled, sagging heads erected on the Midas touch of pride.

 They got what they genuinely deserved, a favour of the government to raise the quality of their lives.

I congratulated happy Manish for bringing their applications to our attention. Then we left the village for the bungalow where Manish made arrangement of my lunch. ‘I have informed your car to pick you up around three.’ He assured me as well, ‘you can take a nap after the lunch.’

 

My lunch got little delayed as Manish’s bike had a tyre puncture on the road while carrying my food from the dhaba.

When I was between my lunch Manish informed me some villagers came to give me a visit. ‘They prepared a very special dish for you, Sir which they would like to offer.’

Tribal cuisine!

I am ok with any kind of food being a perfect foodie. I tasted local cuisines in many places.

‘So what they want to serve me…..pig, cow or rat?’ I asked Manish. The only problem with their food is the hygiene part. They care a damn about the hygiene.

‘I don’t know Sir.’ Said Manish, ‘they are carrying it inside a medium-sized closed container.’

I was a bit surprised and called them inside my room. The village-heads, the same two youths of the morning and two more men entered in the room. They were looking exorbitantly happy. One of them was carrying a casket in his hand.

‘Ask them what’s there in the casket?’ I said to my interpreter.

Manish exchanged the local dialects with them once more to finally inform me that this would be a delicacy that contains rare herbs cooked with chicken and meat. ‘They said the food increases man’s stamina, vigour and prowess. They prepare it on very special occasions and only for highly distinguished guests.’

Soon they put the casket on my table. Manish removed the cover of the container to let a creamy layer of smoke out. A weird smell of barbecued meat that I never experienced before hit my nose. I bent down my head to make a closer look inside the casket.

My entire soul was frozen. My total senses got paralysed. My limbs turned numb. My speech became chocked.

There was a barbecued, roasted baby inside the casket with every prominent human features including the glistening nails of the fingers and toes intact but without the traces of life.

 

‘Thick paste of vermilion on the forehead of the newborn and sacrificed to God.’ My deactivated brain could remember only these few words under that indescribable, shocking situation.

 

Rituals! 

They call it exactly that.  

Reviews

[Leslie Philibert]

Liked this, Sugata has a great descriptive talent, and I love the background. But the end ? True ?
What a shocker !

[AvesomeChit]

Wow. I'm speechless. Are rituals like this still present?

[SUGATA M]

Yes, they are still there. I won't name the country (not India of course; though this story is imaginary and written in the background of India). But in few places this barbaric ritual is still existing. Soup of newborn babies is a delicacy in those societies.

[Coyote Poetry]

A very sad story written. When I was in the service. I saw terrible things done in the Middle East and Africa.
"There was a barbecued, roasted baby inside the casket with every prominent human features including the glistening nails of the fingers and toes intact but without the traces of life."
The above lines left the reader with a very sad vision. Thank you my friend for sharing the powerful story.
Coyote

[SUGATA M]

Thank you so much.

[Coyote Poetry]

You are welcome my friend.