The ojha's fame had preceded him. I knew of him long before we finally met. The first of many stories that I heard of him was about his remarkable knowledge of medicinal plants. Stung by some mysterious insect or infected by some disease of the limbs, a woman in a distant aking was in severe pain. She had been taken to a number of ojha's none of whom could make any difference. Her affected limb appeared to be rotting away, when she was brought to the Baghmara hospital. After a week of no improvement, she was taken out and straight to our ojha in Hansapal. He treated her and within a fortnight, she was back to normal. It was difficult to say how much truth lay in the story, but sometimes you couldn't help wondering if there really was some vishalya karani lying hidden in the mountains. Incidentally, there are various viewpoints about what the magic herb that Hanuman took back to revive Lakshman really was. Some believe it to be the humble neem (Azadirachta indica) and others that it is a fern Selaginella bryopteris (see story). In the Garo Hills, that plant is known by the local name samjanggi and is believed to be found on the Chutmang peak which itself is equated with the gandhamadan peak of the Ramayan.
Some months ago I had heard that the ojha was unwell and may not be able to walk again. Further enquiry revealed that a wild boar wounded by a hunters bullet had charged into the ojha who had been nearby. It had ripped out his right calf until it was hanging only by the skin. It would have probably killed him if he hadn't held onto its head for dear life. As a result, there were severe injuries to the hand too. Carried back from the jungle, he lay in bed for four months with herbs and leaves bandaged around his leg. He refused to go to a hospital and refused stitches. Nobody expected him to stand up even. Yet, eight months later, as we reached his house, we learnt that he was not at home. He had gone to the forest to collect vegetables and medicinal plants.
Nightfall. A bath in the cool water of the stream to wash the grime and the sweat away.
As we sit and gulp down the rice and a curry made of wild yam (results of the ojha's foraging) we make small talk and plan for the trip to Chutmang the next morning. I bring up my favourite topic - cryptozoology. Unlike other people who tell us stories of the wildman, the Yeti of the Garo hills, the mande burung, the ojha seems strangely reluctant to talk much about it. After a little persuasion from us, he admits that he has seen it. He points to his recently married daughter who is serving us and says she was just a child when they both saw it. It was a fleeting glimpse, but she was terrified and couldn't speak for a whole month. The ajaju, the orangutan lookalike he has never seen and it probably doesn't exist. You can sense the fear, respect and sincerity in his voice. He volunteers no further information. I know its time to stop although I'm bursting with inquisitiveness. Another day, I tell myself.
For now, I need rest if I have to climb that crazy peak the next morning.
Some months ago I had heard that the ojha was unwell and may not be able to walk again. Further enquiry revealed that a wild boar wounded by a hunters bullet had charged into the ojha who had been nearby. It had ripped out his right calf until it was hanging only by the skin. It would have probably killed him if he hadn't held onto its head for dear life. As a result, there were severe injuries to the hand too. Carried back from the jungle, he lay in bed for four months with herbs and leaves bandaged around his leg. He refused to go to a hospital and refused stitches. Nobody expected him to stand up even. Yet, eight months later, as we reached his house, we learnt that he was not at home. He had gone to the forest to collect vegetables and medicinal plants.
Nightfall. A bath in the cool water of the stream to wash the grime and the sweat away.
As we sit and gulp down the rice and a curry made of wild yam (results of the ojha's foraging) we make small talk and plan for the trip to Chutmang the next morning. I bring up my favourite topic - cryptozoology. Unlike other people who tell us stories of the wildman, the Yeti of the Garo hills, the mande burung, the ojha seems strangely reluctant to talk much about it. After a little persuasion from us, he admits that he has seen it. He points to his recently married daughter who is serving us and says she was just a child when they both saw it. It was a fleeting glimpse, but she was terrified and couldn't speak for a whole month. The ajaju, the orangutan lookalike he has never seen and it probably doesn't exist. You can sense the fear, respect and sincerity in his voice. He volunteers no further information. I know its time to stop although I'm bursting with inquisitiveness. Another day, I tell myself.
For now, I need rest if I have to climb that crazy peak the next morning.
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