My trip as a myth buster

I have acquired ‘divine’ powers. I can now claim that I possess at least some of the strength of a witch doctor, often referred to as ‘ojha’ — an individual distinct from any caste by that name.

It all begins with a journey from Kolkata. I take a train and travel 325 km to Purulia town, where a rationalist group is campaigning to bust myths about witchcraft. The practice is still rampant among the tribal communities here and in the surrounding districts of Bankura, Jhargram, and West Midnapore.

I am here to experience how myth busters work and try my hand at a trick or two.

Madhusudan Mahato is the district secretary of Bharatiya Bigyan O Yuktibadi Samiti — the Science and Rationalists’ Association of India (SRAI), founded by the famous Prabir Ghosh way back in the ’80s.

Mahato and his team of 20 rationalists — a mix of school teachers, farmers, self-employed professionals, and retirees — have been at it for 20-plus years.

He initiated me into the spells ‘witch doctors’ use to treat a ‘possessed’ individual, and taught me a few tricks. I can now take a fistful of grain and turn it into puffed rice, without heating it on fire. I can ‘identify’ an ‘evil’ individual with the help of a magic egg. I can make an egg float in a glass of water, and make vegetables and fruits ooze blood. I can peel a perfectly-shaped banana and find it already neatly split in two.

There’s a similarity between the witch doctors and the myth busters — both use scientific principles. The difference lies in the purpose. The first group misleads, the second educates. The myth busters remind me of a Constitutional directive: Article 51-A (h) exhorts every individual to develop the scientific temper, humanism and the spirit of inquiry and reform.

With Mahato, and Madhusudan Bauri, another activist, I reach Gandhudih, 35 km from Purulia, on a balmy afternoon. A smooth road leads to a bumpy stretch, and the kachcha raasta takes us to the hamlet. Before we enter, we prepare for the tricks we have to perform to bust myths.

A woman has alleged her mother-in-law is a witch. We have to dispel the idea before it leads to serious consequences. After spending two days with the team, attending an awareness camp at a remote Laka Primary School, 50 km from Purulia, learning tricks from them, and familiarising myself with villagers, I am ready to perform my Constitutional duty.

Mahato listens to the family, which sits around attentively. We are inside a small thatched room, with a door so low I can get in only by stooping. Two men and Mahato sit on a charpoy. I sit on the mud-floor beside the complainant. Her husband sits in the doorway.

I want to tell them there are no witches, and as a nation, we are working on sending our first crewed mission to space in the near future. But this is not easy, and certainly not a moment for a grand speech. Where to start, and how to start? I finally begin, talking in the simplest way I could.

I gave the two a banana each. What would a witch doctor do if he had to identify one of them as a black magic practitioner? I ask them to peel the bananas. To help them understand the dramatisation that witch doctors indulge in, I whisper a spell. As they peel the skin, one of the bananas is found neatly sliced in two pieces.

Next, I offer a brinjal each to the two men and ask them to cut it. The first is cut. Nothing happens. A big circular blood clot spreads as a knife cuts through the second. We gasp collectively!

The first experiment indicates one man as a ‘witch’. The second points a finger at the second man. I declare that going by the outcomes, I could declare both are up to mischief. The men are taken aback, and suspicious.

I explain the trick. Pricking a needle through a dull spot at the centre of the banana, I could rotate it sufficiently to cut it into two halves without peeling. The brinjal was injected with a red dye well in advance.

As we leave the spot, we request the three men and the woman not to get swayed by people who take advantage of old practices and mislead innocent people.

From here, we go towards Garaphusra, a village in the opposite direction, 24 km from Purulia town. A woman in her 70s is facing the wrath of a man whose wife has been keeping unwell. He suspects she has evil powers.

We are received in a well-decorated room, in a village with mud roads and thatched huts. The woman tells us how her neighbours are treating her badly. Here, our audience comprises women, and a few children.

Mahato and I have already spent our stock of bananas and brinjals in the earlier demonstration. I have to improvise. This is an unforeseen challenge that demonstrators often face. I remember a trick from childhood — how to make a thumb appear longer than its usual length.

This is a simple trick. You fold your palm and fingers around the thumb of the other hand, placing the thumb of the folded hand craftily over it. This gives the impression that the thumb is being stretched beyond its length.

I try to engage the children, telling them that we all have special powers. Later I tell them the powers are derived from science. The older children seem to be aware of the trick but fail at first to do it.

My next presentation, with two eggs, is more powerful. I explain the trick before performing it. I ask for two glasses of water, some salt and a spoon. I stir the salt in one of the glasses. I blow my ‘magical words’ and cast a ‘spell’. The egg sinks to the bottom in the first glass, but not in my special water.

The audience now understands the trick has something to do with the salt and not with my powers. Mahato explains the phenomenon of density — salt water has a higher density, and so prevents the egg from sinking to the bottom. Pintu Modak, history teacher, is a member of Mahanto’s team. He tells the children the story of the Dead Sea, where high salinity makes it easier for people to float.

Tribal villages resist these sensitisation drives more than non-tribal communities do, I am told. I did not face one because I am accompanied by a group the tribal residents of Purulia are familiar with. The group liaisons with village samitis and police.

The horror story

Eighty-eight murders with witchcraft as an objective were reported from 13 states in 2020 (Crime in India 2020, National Crime Records Bureau). Madhya Pradesh (17), Chhattisgarh (16), Jharkhand (15), and Odisha (14) reported the most cases. There are zero cases from West Bengal.

Mahato says this could be because there is no specific law in the state to deal with such incidents — these get reported under general sections. Some states have enacted specific laws to tackle superstition.

S Selvamurugan, superintendent of police, Purulia, told DH On Saturday no incidents of witch-hunting have been reported in the district in the recent years. “We have been carrying out awareness campaigns in villages through police assistant booths (PAB). We also get information (about suspected cases) from village police and civic volunteers,” he shares.

With Mahato and the team, I meet five women at different locations allegedly facing persecution after they were dubbed witches either by family members or neighbours.

Most victims are older women — younger girls are more vocal against superstitions, I learn.

At the Laka Primary School, the rationalists’ team has generated enough awareness. The story of human evolution is painted on the inner and outer walls of a classroom. It is a mixed crowd of over 60 children, and 30 women and 17 men that we meet.

Ram Nath Mahato, another team member, takes pains to prepare the magic tricks, guarding them from inquisitive children. He and his team eventually put up an open-air show on a raised platform in the school courtyard.

One spell at a time, Mahanto and team members expose the tricks of the witch doctors. Paper bits catch fire when water is sprinkled and chants are uttered, and grains turn to puffed rice. The audience is spell-bound, and later, is surprised to learn how it is done. Considerable practise is required to acquire such proficiency.

The case of flour balls floating in water, or smearing ash on the palm to reveal the name of the ‘suspect’ are among other tricks they bust. They also expose fraud ‘gurus’ by demonstrating how they manage feats like walking on fire or lifting their bodies off the ground.

Witches are real for a majority in the villages, as real as the air we breathe but can’t see. They believe ‘evil’ can hear us talk from a distance, and can attack our bodies. Shyamal Mandal, a researcher on the practice of witchcraft, recalls how much more intense the belief was some decades ago. His grandfather, engaged in farming, was often approached for treatment by people who suspected they were under an evil spell.

The rationalists have perhaps saved many lives because of their campaigns, but they know it is a long road.

For their medical problems, many in the villages have moved on from witch doctors to MBBS doctors. But innocent, helpless women still face harassment. We can’t wipe out myths completely, but we can offer a competing scientific view.

Truth behind common tricks used to mislead the innocent

* Unpeeled banana split in two inside: The centre is pricked using a needle, and rotated.

* Blood inside uncut brinjal: A red dye is injected in advance.

* Floating egg in a glass of water: Salt is added to the water to increase its density.

* Rice puffs up without heating: Puffed rice is hidden in a U-shaped cane tray.

Know the difference

* Witch doctors (or ojhas) claim to have remedial powers. They use a mix of magic, non-religious chants and medicine.

* Native healers (or kobi raaj) make use of traditional plants and wisdom to suggest remedies. Some practice Ayurveda.

* Quacks are ‘doctors’ with no formal degree.

* Rationalists use science and logic to bust superstitions.