The Tantrik Town

It seems like any other little town, until practitioners of wizardry and sorcery start turning up in their benevolent avatar as magic healers.

Forty kilometres from Guwahati, along the banks of the mighty Brahmaputra river, lies the sleepy town of Mayong. Barebacked fishermen, an unruly herd of goats and some gaggling geese greet us as we enter this small settlement located in Assam’s Morigaon district. As its tiny bazaar comes into sight, it is hard to believe that this is the same Mayong that, according to lore, was once the seat of sorcery in the country—a tantrik town where wizards could cast complex spells to control time, turn invisible and even command tigers to their will. 

Nearly every household in Assam has a magical story associated with the area, some of the tales spiced up to make for elaborate conversation pieces at family gatherings. A popular one is about how fish bought from Mayong inevitably weighs less once taken home: “No matter how many times you get it weighed in front of you, it will always be a couple of grams less when you take it home.” There is another one about a government employee who asked for a chilli during a feast here, and found a dozen of them marching up to his table.

Right now, however, everything in Mayong seems rather normal, Muggle-like if you wish. A group of women sit outside, sunning themselves. Children chase each other on the way back from school, and men sit outside the barber’s shop discussing local news. We decide to dig deeper for the Mayong of yore, a land of legends and fables. To know more, we meet PhD student Utpal Nath, who is currently working on a thesis about the practice of magic in this area. “Mayong ke naam mein hi maya hai (its very name has illusion in it),” he grins. 

Several stories abound of the name’s origin. Some say it is the ‘land of illusions’, hence Mayong from maya. Others believe that it derives its name from the Maibong clan that used to inhabit this area. Another legend says that the sacred parts of Goddess Shakti had fallen here, so the elders used to call this place Maa-r-Ongo (parts of the Goddess), which later became Mayong. “This place finds a mention in several ancient tales, including The Mahabharat. Bheem’s son, Ghatotkacha, was a clan ruler here and also an adept magician,” says Utpal. 

Until 30 years ago, sorcery was practised widely in Mayong. Every fifth household boasted of a bej or magician. “The main mantras were kal diksha, udan, paas, mohini and haranluki, most of which are now extinct,” says Dipan Nath, who is a keeper of sorts of Mayong’s history, having written several books on the subject. A septuagenarian, he can regale you with stories of his illustrious ancestors for hours together. His fascination with the udan mantra is evident. He tells us how his grandfather used to complete a three-day journey in a single day by chanting a single spell. 

Today, however, most of these practitioners are dead and gone. They have only left behind a trail of octogenarian witnesses who claim to be privy to the power of the bej. The young generation has no interest in the traditional practice of magic; they’d rather pursue regular jobs that earn them money. However, contrary to what most would like you to believe, magic is not yet extinct in Mayong. Utpal and Dipan Nath inform us that there are still some powerful bej who use their spells for healing people.  

As our car rattles along the road, amidst rows of banana trees, we reach the house of Tilak Hazarika. Considered one of the most influential bej of modern times, Hazarika claims to be one of the three magicians who taught former Assam Governor Loknath Mishra the luki mantra, a spell that turns a person invisible. 

Hazarika doesn’t conform to your stereotypical image of a magician or tantrik. The long tangled hair, saffron robe, bloodshot eyes and the jhaad phoonk apparatus are thankfully missing. Instead, one finds a simple man, dressed in a neat white dhoti, who is extremely open about who he is and what he does. “When the knowledge comes from within, there is no need for props or disguises,” he says. An expert in curing snakebites, Hazarika receives students from Thailand, the US and UK who want to learn more about these mystical mantras. “It is sad that within Mayong, the thirst for this knowledge is dying out,” he rues. 

As one listens to him, one can’t help feeling conflicted. His narrative paints a vivid image of the magical glory of Mayong. You almost want to believe him, but then your rationalist self asserts itself. All that Hazarika says is contrary to everything that you have been brought up to believe and—most importantly—disbelieve. Spells, wizards, magicians are the stuff of fairy tales and bestseller book franchises, not real life. Yet, here, in front of you lies a land of unsolved mysteries, another baffling facet of an India that can’t be rationalised or explained. 

Almost as if sensing our scepticism, Hazarika tries appealing to reason. “I am a school teacher by profession and a person with a reasonably logical bent of mind,” he says, “I would not have become a bej if these spells didn’t have some scientific basis.” He has an accomplice in this claim to modernity in Phonidhar Nath, yet another popular bej. They both vouch for each mantra  being a formula associated with a natural element. “Using high levels of concentration, a bej focuses on an element or a herb and uses it to provide a solution to the problem,” says Phonidhar, who casts spells to cure arthritis and kidney stone pains. 

As corroborative evidence, he shows us a book in which all these mantras have been neatly penned down. Originally written in Sanskrit and Brajawali, these mantras were later translated into Assamese and Khasi in the early 1900s. It’s a treasured book; not all bej possess the knowledge of all mantras. “Like in school, some students are better at some subjects and poor in others. It is the same for bej,” explains Phonidhar.  

And not everyone can be tutored in the use of these spells. Students are carefully chosen based on their temperament. “Even now, I don’t teach people who show a tendency to be aggressive,” confides Hazarika, “What if they use these spells to harm people out of sheer spite?” That would be bad, indeed. 

The precautionary zeal is not new, though. Nearly 30 years ago, in order to protect the residents of Mayong from black magic, most practitioners drowned all their harmful spells in the river. “There was a really dangerous mantra called the kal diksha, which was used to kill people. This too was drowned in the river,” he adds, reassuringly. 

Of course, some spells were simply used in good spirit to generate a laugh. Phonidhar recalls how his grandfather would recite a mantra to glue a person to his chair. “Some spells were even used to play Cupid. Certain families would use the mohini mantra to get an eligible boy married to one of their daughters,” says bej Pritam Saikia, who insists we note his date of birth, 16 October 1922. “I have seen a lifetime of magic,” smiles this octogenarian who tries his healing spells on himself before trying them on others. 

Given the indifference of the youth, are the mantras in danger of being forgotten? The old magicians hope not. One can find documentation of 47 such mantras at the Mayong Central Museum, which has been listed as one of the ten most unique museums off the beaten path by National Geographic. ‘Dedicated to the rustic origins of dark magic and tantra, it houses local artefacts like ancient manuscripts and huge swords that were possibly used for sacrifices…’ reads an excerpt from the magazine. 

With a handful of practitioners like Saikia and Hazarika constituting the last generation of bej, the legendary magical arts of Mayong may soon pass into history. “Soon we are going to be reduced to dust,” sighs Saikia, “But I hope that the legend of Mayong will live on.”

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