In Purulia, the ojha is a closely-guarded secret, the letting out of which to non-believers is tantamount to sacrilege. More trusted than qualified medics, these folk healers have been sustaining a system of health that, in the absence of informed diagnosis, has survived for generations on a sort of unimpeachable faith. The two most common responses to the incomprehensible are fear and awe. That explains the deification of the ojha, and perhaps, why, seeking an interview with one ended up being quite a quest.

Politely shooed away by locals at Bari, some way from Purulia town, for having enquired about their ojha and expressed a desire to watch him at work, we stopped at Kenda, a neighbouring village, but were directed to the post office at Hariharpur. A handful of clerks could hardly contain their disdain at the interest of two city-bred women in their village seers. “The ojhas protect us with their lives. They transfer their inner power to bring us back to life from the jaws of death. They suffer a depletion of energy in the process. You may see the ojha today, but tomorrow he may be gone, having given up his life for the good of Man,” exhorted Ajit Singh Patho, careful not to disclose the ojha’s location.

The caution with which people spoke in every village may have had something to do with news reports mentioning, for instance, the death of snakebite victims when ojhas had failed to revive them and had instead delayed the administering of anti-venom serum at health centres. A snakebite is hushed up for fear that the curse of Manasa, the goddess of serpents, might have befallen the family. An ojha must be called in and the curse dispelled through a ritual appeasement of the goddess. Whether the patient lives or dies, the ojha’s word is usually final. Since he is able to direct the community’s sentiments, blame is attributed to the unknowable, or occasionally, to a particular person. We were told that this could be a woman of substantial means, who would be labelled daini (witch), and have to pay compensation for a death she did not cause.

From diarrhoea to infertility, the ojha claims to be able to cure everything. He depends on spirits and chants for his treatment, sometimes complementing them with herbal medicine. Nayan Mukherjee, a doctor and the secretary of the Paschimbanga Vigyan Mancha (Purulia branch), conducts awareness campaigns along with health activists in the villages, trying to dispel myths about miracle-working ojhas. They perform the same magic tricks that the ojhas do and explain the science behind what is perceived as supernatural.

At Panipathor village, a group of women debated among themselves whether we could be trusted enough to be taken to their ojha. While one emphatically denied the existence of such people, two others giggled nervously. Finally, a young man offered to take us to an ojha’s dwelling. At last, seated on a charpoy, under the enquiring gaze of nearly 50 villagers, we waited for Gopal Mahato, the ojha.

He appeared, blushing at the attention. Unwilling to explain the nuances of his discipline, he spoke of chanting prayers to deities to get rid of ailments, and proudly declared that he’d had a 100 per cent success rate. He practises a ritual called jhar-phuk, where the mantra to the deity is used either to dispel evil spirits that have entered the victim’s body or just as a prophylactic measure. Different ojhas follow different schools of treatment, and Mahato scoffs at those who beat patients to drive away evil. Neither does he practise exorcism, though there are others who do. I ask him what I must do to get rid of my phobia of snakes, and the entire village cackles in amusement. He doesn’t offer a remedy, but says, “Ki bolbo? Aage bishwaash korte hobe.” (What can I say? You must believe first).” As the people nod in agreement, it is clear that there exists in Purulia a parallel system of cure that survives primarily on the strength of belief. Treatment can be trusted only when conferred with the legitimacy of faith.