The goddess battles the virus
India’s tribal population is outnumbered by its deities, so it makes sense that during troubling times, they turn to a goddess for solace. For the Hallaki tribe of north Karnataka, the leading pandemic goddess is Mari, a hottempered deity brandishing a sword to behead the demons of illness. When the news of Covid-19 arrived, the older Halakki women with their bare dark backs and beady necklaces glinting in the sun made a customary visit to a Mariyamma shrine with thambittu offerings and neem leaves. But this apart, the nationwide lockdown had no implications for this tribe. They went about their daily activities of collecting forest goods, working in the fields and gathering food by the sea. The markets in Ankola, where they usually sell their surplus goods, were shut but the carefree Halakkis were only grateful for some spare time to repair their thatched huts.
“I don’t care”, dismisses Padmavati, an elderly Hallaki with a wave of her hand, when requested to wear a mask by the local officials. “Why should I take a bath every day? We have never done this. People here rub their hands with the mud to clean. No need of soaps; they have an ungodly, terrible smell. What is to worry? People die of diseases all the time.”
Meanwhile, the tribals deep in the forests of Bastar, Chhattisgarh, battled Covid by summoning the goddess Sheetla, who carries a cooling water pot, broom, neem twigs and a jar of ambrosia for eternal life. The Abhujhmaria tribes, who live in the Naxal-infested thickets of Bastar that are as yet free of phones signals, were among the last to know of the pandemic. As news spread, sal leaf masks were quickly fashioned and charota, a local medicine was widely distributed by the panchayat. Ramesh Usendi says Covid hasn’t reached their villages yet. “How will it? People in jungles walk in long rows, not in groups; boundaries between homes are wide and washing feet and cleaning hands with ashes from the hearth before cooking or eating is customary”, he laughs. “People in the jungles here have been following social distancing all their lives.”
In the Nilgiris, the Kurumbas lament the shutdown of schools. “Children used to walk six kilometres through reserved forests to reach schools in the Badaga tribe’s villages. While the children of that affluent tribe will start high school soon, most of our children will miss a year; many might drop out too,” remarks Mani, a Gudalur-based Kurumba activist.
Anthropologists from the Andaman Islands are on tenterhooks. Reverse migration has the potential to wipe out indigenous tribes with naturally weak immune systems. The return of some Jarawas who worked in Port Blair to their isolated settlements has caused the number of cases to flare up. Officials are now tracking deaths in the sparsely-populated tribe.
Locked in their settlements, the African-Indian Siddhis of Karnataka couldn’t be happier. Evenings have been dedicated to the tribe’s favourite pastime – song and dance. Nodding their heads in unison, two women in Honnavar sing their latest composition to the beat of the dammam (deer skin drum):
“There is no chilli powder, no salt. Police is charging us with lathis. What do we do? I got the locked down, Bangalore got the sealed down… China got the locked down, Bangalore got the sealed down…”