The Tamang Shaman
The old weathered shaman sits idly on a block of land
that he calls his own, handed down to him no doubt by his predecessors who had
either purchased the land or were granted the deeds to it, for services
rendered during colonial times. He stares out in the open, seated on a rickety
stool on the verandah of a hut surrounded by the banana trees that he grows for
a living. The sun is high and its luminous rays beat relentlessly down on the
rugged graveled land below.
The sounds of distant drumming echo over the horizon
and he hums a little tune. In the valley below a group of young men are beating
on a set of tin pan drums. He sings of a young man, on the verge of death,
whose soul leaves his body and drifts towards the clouds and there he meets a
young maiden and he is instantly taken in by her. His soul returns to his body
and the maiden follows him back.
The clock strikes twelve and it will soon be time for
lunch. He gets off the stool and makes his way to the rear of the hut where he
has a chicken coop and selects a nice fat black rooster. “It will do nicely”,
he says to himself.
He takes the rooster out of the coop and tucks it
under his arm. He then walks into the hut to the wall where his knife hangs
silently still, its blade protected by a leather sheath. He grabs it and tucks
it under his belt and walks out the front door. He returns to the stool and as
he sits down, he pats the rooster on the head.
Minutes pass by and he hears someone lifting the latch
on the front gate. A loud creak ensues as the gate is pushed open, followed by
the sound of footsteps. “The boys are here” he says to the rooster and true
enough, minutes later, three young men armed with tin pan drums and wooden
sticks which they use to beat the drums with, walk up to him. They utter a
customary greeting and he responds in the time-honored manner.
He stands up and walks towards a designated spot right
in the middle of a clump of banana trees and the youths follow close behind.
The hour is just past twelve and the hot afternoon sun is blaring down on them.
He looks at the young men and asks them to begin. The boys respond by beating
on the drums.
The man starts dancing with the rooster tucked beneath
his arm. Then without any warning he removes the knife that is tucked under his
belt from its sheath and in one smooth fluid stroke severs the head of the
rooster from its body. The music stops and he hands the bloodied remains to one
of the young men while he buries the head of the rooster at the foot of one of
the banana trees that appears slightly taller and sturdier than the others.
The man and the boys make their way back to the hut
where they remove the feathers from the carcass before the meat is cut up and
cooked. It looks like chicken curry is on the menu.
That night, the front of his hut is filled with
villagers, some of whom have brought gifts of fruits and other homemade items
with them. The boys from the afternoon are there again beating on their tin pan
drums. Incense sticks are lit and the air is filled with the scent of burning
camphor. Benzoins are set alight and as the drum beats get more intense the man
inhales the smoke from the benzoins.
Soon after his body starts to shake and tremble and
his facial contours change. There is a transformation, and he starts to speak
in another voice, slightly higher pitched and more feminine. Suddenly the drum
beats stop.
He points to one of the drum beaters and the young man
approaches him. “Who’s first?” he asks and the young man beckons to a couple
who are standing close by. They approach the man and tell him their troubles.
He stops and he ponders on what he’s heard and after a minute or two gives them
a solution. The pair thank him and leave.
The next person in line then makes his or her way up
to him and it continues well into the night. At the stroke of midnight, the man
wraps up proceedings and returns to his normal self and the three drummers head
for home. The next morning the man wakes up and goes about his business without
giving much thought to the events of the previous day. As far as he is
concerned it was just another day in the life of a Tamang shaman.
Copyright © 2019 by Dyarne Jessica Ward and Kathiresan Ramachanderam
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