Sonoka Hamlet

                                           

 

I left the others behind while they stood there discussing the condition of the road. The rocky hillock had a blanket of thick vegetation. A large rock rested precariously against a much smaller one threatening to roll down a bald spot. The uneven path beckoned with an eerie silence. From where it took a bend I could see a natural gateway of two boulders. There were tales of rocks hurling down all of a sudden. Or stories of cruising in air like missiles. We were in the Mayong region of Assam, famous for tales of black magic. And Sonoka is a village, tucked away that is accessible through a narrow dirt track ridden with pebbles and stones. The village opened out to the silvery wrinkled sheet of the Brahmaputra on  one side. And on the other side a bow shaped hillock stretched out, shielding it from an outsider's gaze.  

                                       

Last evening a friend had suggested Sonoka, a picturesque village here boasting of the perfect sunset. Amidst all the boisterousness of a school reunion, we decided to explore it on our way back. Walking through the gap between the two rocks now, I found a narrow dirt track snaking parallel to the silently flowing Brahmaputra. A lone egret watched from the periphery of an ancient forest. The room waiter last night had sworn that the people here no longer practiced the ancient art of black magic. Such spectacles were last seen almost sixty years ago. But there were whispers of sorcery.

                           

If I hadn't been listening to stories, I would have found the nook perfect to spread a mat and watch the river endlessly or tread into the forest that held back from a distance. The silence was deafening. It was hard to believe that a city was growing helter-skelter, spilling over from its limits just forty kilometers away. The others had caught up with me by now. Just as I got into the first car, two men on bicycles appeared on either sides of the car. I had not noticed them before. One of them discouraged us vehemently from going ahead citing a dangerous ditch. The other stopped by my side and whispered not to listen to him saying no one trusted him in the village ahead. A scene from a comic book flashed. Two tiny creatures perched on either shoulders. One with a halo over its head and the other with a pitchfork.

                                           

Unheeding we drove down the dirt track confident of reaching that elusive Sonoka. Suddenly the cars  almost bumped into each other. A wide deep ditch yawned from where we had halted. Heads with confused voices poked out of windows. It was going to be a while for the seven vehicles to reverse and turn around on the narrow lane. The sun was fast slipping into the waters. The cyclist who had cautioned us, stuck around to guide us through. I looked at the path on the other side of the ditch. Far away in the distance was the faint promise of a homestead of Sonoka. And a cyclist rode on without once turning back.

                           

This post was written for TWTFOW#5

                

Mayong And Black Magic

                                         

   

  "Don't look  anyone in the eye neither should you throw your gaze left or right. I for one, am not going to risk that" advised Mintu who was driving us down to Pobitora famed for dense population of the one horned rhino.

"If I am turned into a cat, I assure you, I will still find my way back home to Goalpara, even if I have to drag myself  through" he jested. Pobitora was an hour's drive from Guwahati in the Morigaon district. Mintu's concerns stemmed from the countryside we were driving through which was Mayong, the cradle of India's black magic practice.

Turning people into animals and plates stuck to their back to cure aches were a few instances of  normal occurrence of Mayong, according to the whispers. But then what else would one expect from Mayong, touted to be the capital of Black Magic of the country. I remembered little tit-bits of how people referred to Mayong in an oblique way in their conversations. That if anyone partook a bowl of tea in any household of Mayong, chances are that he would leave with the peera, a low wooden stool stuck to his rear. This was one of the most common sayings.  There was a time when it was said that every household in Mayong practiced magic and people from far and near came here to learn the art. Rumours are that it included PC Sorcar Jr. Even in the annals of history there are references to Assam as the land of sorcery and black magic. Raja Ram Singh when directed by Aurangzeb to march towards east, sought sufi saints and Guru Tegh Bahadur to accompany them as protection against sorcery. There is an interesting note of previous encounters by Shihabuddin, who chronicled Mir Jumla's march to Assam province.

"...No one who entered this country ever returned and manners of this country were never known....the people of Hindustan used to call the inhabitants of Assam sorcerers and magicians....They say that whoever enters this country is overcome by charms and never comes out of it." (A History Of Assam by Sir Edward Gait)

It is the vagaries of time then, this magical aura submerged never to rise again. Ironically the present generation, who are well in the clutches of JK Rowlings Hogwarts, Voldemort and Harry Potter, remain ignorant of a magical past of their land. Mayong remains a vague idea and not a real existence on the geographical map.

Mintu cruised ahead on the road, his aim being to reach the resort well before darkness fell. Vague stories floating down from memory coloured  the landscape we crossed. A beautiful thicket lining one side of the road had many teak trees and dense undergrowth. Rocks and boulders jutting out from within made me think of possibilities rising out of the stories. Suddenly they seemed eerie and I looked hard for any evidence of the past. The villages we crossed seemed normal with people going about their everyday chores. Nothing magical there. Quite a disappointment actually!

The resort organized a magic show that evening, probably cashing in on its lost history. Nothing extra ordinary there. I asked the staff, who were locals, about any occurrence that was out of the ordinary ambit of life. They were quick to wash off their hands.One of them smiled sheepishly, “ Frankly, our generation has not taken it up seriously. There are very few of us who would have taken the lessons of this craft. There are strict rules to be followed which becomes difficult to abide by, in the present conditions when there is a family to be fed.”

And as if to compensate for the disappointment writ large on my face he hastily adds,” I’ve heard stories from my uncle who says he has been a witness to some of them. On one occasion there was a duel between two wizards and they saw fireworks and balls of fire as they tried to counter each other’s spells and hexes. But we haven't seen magic here as far as we can remember.”

Stories again. And yet there is proof of a magical past. A museum put together by local effort displays ancient scripts bearing chants, charms and hexes. These have been collected from the homes of the people here in  order to preserve them. One suspects that people haven't really given up all that they inherited. 

Sitting there amidst the lush paddy fields, in a nicely done up resort right next to the Pobitora sanctuary, very few seemed interested in the formidable past of Mayong. It's glory and tales of enchantment eluded the present and remained amorphous in the real world.


This post was written for TWTFOW#5