The Sadhu in the Avatar of Paranormal Physicist

23

            The Sadhu in the Avatar of Paranormal Physicist

From the ancient times trials, tribulations and tragedies of human diseases have forced those in the spiritual trade to turn their reflective, intuitive, praying and meditative faculties into the mysterious cosmogensis of malfunctioning in the human mind, body or spirit. Slogging hard against these holdups, medicinal and healing techniques have grown in parallel with our belief systems.

Be it the patients being cared in Greek temples, Egyptian priest-physicists doing doctoring or other traditional healing methods prevalent in ancient civilizations, now even the scientific community has come to believe that a religioner can find himself equipped enough to concentrate some synergetic component of the unknown infinite on the disharmonic part to start positive stimulation in the patient’s immune system.

It doesn’t matter that Hippocrates doctored a coup by extracting a curing element which we can see at the operational level unlike the religious dosage. Still, till now faith healing has remained an important aide to the struggling primary health network in the countryside. Here the mundane world of pleasures, pains, testing trials, rewards and losses has still enough lacunae to knock the disbelieving reason’s Mickey out of the commoner’s conscience and turn him a believer in the operatic prowess of paranormal forces.

The witchcraft performed to cure Bhagte’s sister-in-law hadn’t worked. The poor little beautiful flower was still sulking under the clutches of a defragrant fate. One more miscarriage had occurred. Bhagte’s mother, ever weeping for their emaciated and ragged fate, personally pleaded before the exorcist to dispel the edaciously dejuicifying black-bee from their flower. The Sadhu thus paid a visit to the devotee’s house.

Masking a transcendental equanimity of mind over his face, the exorcist sat there silent as if mustering up some energy for the contrived melodrama to follow. Like a jigsaw puzzle the young woman with a symmetrically round pink-red face sat cowering before his fearsomely bulging figure. Tremulous timbre of fear was surfacing with a dead-whiteness over her feminine face. In nervous agitation her fingers started playing with the cheap beads of her necklace. Her coarse headcloth hooded over her face allowing only a glimpse of her beautifully cut pair of lips and the dimpled chin.

“When did the bitch spoke last time?” the exorcist’s unemotional, abnormal hate for the prey baulked.

The tone carried rumbustious riot of awe through the young woman’s soft body. To muster up some courage she clutched at her mangalsutra. Draped in the nine-yards of cheap, pink cotton sari she further shrank into its protective folds.

“No maharajji, it hasn’t spoken since that last holy ritual of yours,” her mother-in-law, adjusting her breasts inside the large, closely-fitting upper garment, cackled a pleading with a strangely suffering introversion.

“Oh, Shiva! It’s gone mute. The fatal one! After that witchcraft it’s come to know that someone more powerful has come hence wants to chuck-up all those soft little lives without making any fuss about it.”

Last trace of pink vanished from the young woman’s face. She shivered as if thrown into a hellish cauldron. Sweat beads surfaced on her wheatish brow around that big bindi in the middle.

“Someone’s got it done upon her. Do’u suspect anyone of this?” his facial convulsions showed he was fastly falling into the superstitious intrenchment.

“Not particularly,” the old woman cudgeled up her debilitated brain. “Oh, yes!” the grizzled veteran suddenly uncorked the genie of suspicion. “I’m sure it’s the deed of that bitch, Hariya’s wife. People have seen her doing such things in the dark of night. And why should I curse her only, this fool is also responsible for all this. Despite my constant warnings she kept on visiting her house. She’s eaten many things given by that infertile bad bitch!” she stared at her daughter-in-law and gave a reproaching tug at the young lady’s neatly tied bun at the back of her head.

Scornful look of the old woman soared up the fear to several new notches inside the pixy figure of young woman.

The lethal cocktail of faith and superstition, like the retrenching abnormality of fire and ice existing together, came jostling and haggling. The ritualist brandished his hotch-potch puffery:

“Humn... don’t worry mataji, I’ll teach it a lesson!”

“Not only this, do something to that brother-eating living witch also!” her wrinkled, rickety body appeared tearing asunder in a fit of revenge.

The exorcist, meanwhile, lit up a fire. He poured many strange articles in it. Invidiously pungent fumes––capable of bringing volcanic eruptions of sneezing and coughing––filled the small room. Harmonious hierarchy of her shapely nostrils was disturbed and distorted. Some blurring straddles shimmered across her body. Water came out of eyes and nose. Intonations and inflexions of some bipolar depression surfaced.

“Aaan chee... aan chee...” shaken by the sneezing her head almost banged into the fire. Her mother-in-law pulled away the plain headcloth, leaving her open and unprotected before the beholder of the family’s faith.

Flames reached up to her face as if to burn the evil spirit along with her cheeks still glowing like the autumn’s full moon smiling over the discharmed and windfallen nature.

The exorcist inveighed furiously with some chants. His stygian mannerisms would’ve put anyone in a horrified wonderment.

More than the fire and fumes it was the rapier-sharp tongue of the exorcist which seemed to torment her. Sonorous simplicity of this flower had been condemned to face this gladiatorial sandstorm. Watery pearls of her eyes stared at the tormentor. Such a vulnerable, small and beautiful creature caught in a piteous hellhole. The sight seemed to empower the exorcist. Fatalistic critiques, the diabolical adversaries of this helpless female (or for that matter any of the beautiful women) hissed inside his soul. Pitiful vulnerability of this tragically troubled young woman sent his exorcist adrenaline pumping to its fiercest peak. This kind of pitying excitement left him with an instinct to bludgeon this juicy fruit to death. Fire and brutal excitement reached the remotest corner of his heart-–the place of primordial hate for the enemy of asceticism. Insatiable vengefulness of this paranormal animosity left him, for a moment, stone dead-–a demon. Yawning abyss on his face left her soul quivering to the core.

The high priest of supernaturalism gnashed in a monstrously fanatical tone, “Speak, speak out you bitch! I know you’re here inside this poor woman! Why do’u eat the little ones in her womb? Speak out otherwise I’ll burn you in this fire!”

Weird dimensions of exorcism conjured up polemical rhetoric inside his soul which in turn effectuated super-ego inflation. His eyes turned to preter-human redness.

“Speak out, I order!”

No answer came. The religious raver tarted up as much inveteracy in his questioning as he could. With a ravaging raucity he kept on banging her head with the loquacious lores of hotch-potch mutterings and a broom of peacock feathers. Tone and pitch in his voice went on deviating from the normal. Fire and smoke kept on aggravating. Occasional throwing of some powder at her head now became a torturing norm. He seemed to be paying oblations and offering prayers to the devil of hallucinations, of extra-sensory perception, of hypnotism, of witchcraft, of paranormal....

She was now abnormally staring into the fire; the smacking of eyelids now decreased to almost nil. Breadth of vision was glazed into the supernaturally lucent hallow of fire. Like a javelin thrower he now put more and more force behind the prevaricating chants. And what happened next was jerky enough to shudder the life away from the old woman.

Call it the hallucinations in which the senses get mired up in the rave, rant and ravel of strange things; or hypnotism; or (if you’re a believer in ghosts and haunting spirits) the haunting spirit forced to unshackle its maliciously invisible absurdity. Humph, readers pick up your choice!

Sharply yielding and flowerily vulnerable face of till now took a giant swipe. There was a nipping retort. A sudden surge of egoistically astraying power unnaturally waved over her cotton-soft skin. A sort of macho-muscularity was superimposed over the feminine flower. Her breathing became stormily heavy. Petalous aperture of her lips contorted mischievously. Eyes dropped dead as if she was no more interested in seeing normal things of this world. It was for sure that the poor creature’d given in either to the exorcist or the spirit.

“Yes, I’m inside her!” gates of silence were broken.

It was an invidiously strange voice. Like a beautifully rippling brook had been captured by a gurgling nullah. Like the epithalamiumic harmony of her soft vocal chords had been captivated by pettifogging jangling of thick chains.

“Who’re you to disturb me like this?” it sounded colossally proud of itself.

“I’ll burn you in this fire! Go away from this body!” the exorcist bayed for its blood.

“No, I won’t!” it sounded rock-adamant.

“Even your granny would!” the ritualist messed up his tone to thunderous proportions.

In rambling self-possessiveness the exorcist let out dolorously chanting grunts. It appeared as if he was torturing of his own soul as well. His body shook like hell was boiling inside. Watching him like this one would’ve surmised a pint-sized rationale just like this:

“To make a haunting spirit afraid, the exorcist himself has to become a bigger, more fearsome ghost.”

Are the evil spirits really afraid of provoking an exorcist?  Or is there some mechanism in our subconscious mind which provides an escaping outlet to the tortured self-–like submission in this case-–when one has been put in a situation where the attacking elements jam up the senses, thus, preventing normal sense-perception procedure? Anyway, whatever might be the cause, the haunting spirit broke down (or the inbuilt escaping mechanism saved her from any further torture?).

“Oh, master!” it gave a piteously long sigh. “Don’t burn me. I hold your feet and plead for mercy. I’ll do as you wish. I’ll never haunt this body again!” the voice plummeted down to fluminously surrendering calm from its earlier proclamation of Himalayan hugeness.

The exorcist doubled his torturing efforts. The poor body couldn’t tolerate this final assault and the spirit was gone. But before it was gone, it’d soaked too much energy from the body (or is’t the benumbing intoxication and nausea produced by the subconsciously struggling ‘escaping instinct’?). Whatever might have been the reason, effect was just the same. The pretty woman lost her senses and dropped on her back. Subtle shades of a deep slumber blossomed in the beautiful orchard of her body. Slipshod whiteness corpsely domed over her cheeks was slowly, slowly defeated by rosy hues.

“Give her this bhabhoot to lick after the meals,” the exorcist-doctor prescribed his medicine after the operation.