“Whatever people think,” she said, “this is not an evil or frightening place. People imagine all sorts of things about us—but we look after one another much better than people who live in proper houses in the cities. In Calcutta, if you fall sick, none of your neighbours may notice you’ve gone. Here if one of us is ill, the others make sure he is all right. When the floods come during the rains and the river rises to submerge our homes, we come to the aid of one another. If someone is ill, we all help pay for the hospital. If one of us dies, we all contribute to their cremation.”
Manisha shrugged. “People who don’t know what we do are afraid of Tantra,” she said. “They hear stories about us abducting girl-children and killing them. Sometimes gundas come to the graveyard and insult us, or knock about the sadhus when they see them in the bazaars. Many times I have been called a witch.”
I had read a little about this in the newspapers: according to one report I had seen, Tantra in Bengal was now under threat from the ruling Communist Party, which occasionally sent out members of what were called “Anti-Superstition Committees” to persuade people to reject faith healers, embrace modernity and return to more mainstream and less superstitious forms of Hinduism. This often involved attacking—rhetorically or otherwise—the Tantrics of the area, whom they depict as perverts, drug addicts, alcoholics and even cannibals. In the press in West Bengal there have also been reports of the persecution of poor, widowed and socially marginalised women, who are accused of practising witchcraft and “eating the livers” of villagers, particularly when some calamity befalls a community; indeed they are still occasionally put to death, like the witches of Reformation Europe and North America.
“Several of my Tantric friends to the west of here in Birbhum have been badly beaten up,” said Manisha. “But I am not worried. Our local Communist MP may tell his followers that what we do is superstition, but that doesn’t stop him coming here with a goat to sacrifice when he wants to find out from us what the election results will be. He was here only a fortnight ago. He is just afraid that people will come to the goddess and get power from her, and not from him. In his heart he believes.”
“But why live in a cremation ground in the first place?” I asked. “Isn’t it asking for trouble? Surely there are better places to lead a holy life? In the Himalayas, or at the source of the Ganges …”
“It is for her that we people inhabit this place,” said Manisha, cutting me short. “Ma Tara pulled us here, and we remain here for her sake. It is within you that you find the loving shakti of the Mother. This is a place for its realisation, for illumination.”
As we spoke, a devotee approached and bowed his head before Manisha, who stopped her story to give him a blessing, and to ask how he was. As he left, the man slipped a few coins on to the cloth that was laid out for offerings in front of the largest skull.
“Every night we believe she reveals herself here, just before dawn,” continued Manisha. “At that time you feel her very strongly. If she did not bless us in this way we would not be here. She takes us in. She takes care of us. She gives us help. Anyone who comes here and calls on her will overcome their difficulties. She is everywhere in Tarapith: in the leaves of the trees, the buds of the rice, in the sap of the palms, the clouds that bring rain. All we do is to light some fires in her honour, chant a few mantras, perform some rituals. She does the rest.”
“But aren’t you scared to live in a place like this?” I asked.
“Tara loves us,” replied Manisha. “So no, I am not scared.” She paused, then added, “And anyway the dead do not stay here in the burning ground. Only the bodies are here. The dead take birth again.”
Manisha smiled. “We have been fetched by the Mother,” she said. “She has taken us away from the humdrum of normal life. She arranges everything for us: the gifts that come to us, the alms which allow us to survive. I feel her presence here. This is her home.”
“Have you actually seen the goddess?” I asked.
“The Mother has many forms,” she replied. “All the forms of Tara cannot be numbered. Recently, I saw a jackal—her vehicle. Sometimes in my dreams I glimpse her, but she has never yet appeared to me in a vision. I hope one day she will. If you call her from your heart, one day you will see her, floating before you.”
Manisha fingered the beads of her rudraksh rosary. “Maybe I am not worshipping her in the right way. Unless you call her from with in, in a truthful manner, she will never hear you. It is a long struggle, and it’s not easy. But if you stay here, getting up at 2 a.m. to pray, and if you persist and do not give up, then surely you will see her.”