An interpreter of maladies in Marha

The four foot high door into the temple of Marhai Mata forces most devotees to bow their heads. But such is the reverence for the deity’s healing powers, that scores of people who come from and around Marha village, bow anyway.

“If someone in your family is ill, you can come and pray to Bhagwati,” says Babu Singh. Like others seated under the spreading banyan tree, he is waiting for the puja to begin. Bhagwati is the goddess in this temple. “She will solve the problem – be it an illness or bhoot [ghost] or dayan [witch],” he adds confidently.

It’s a Wednesday, and the session is extra special – today the temple-priest (locally known as panda) will be possessed by the goddess. Through him, she will answer the questions the devotees have and offer solutions to their problems, usually around health.

The audience of devotees is mostly men from the villages of Gahdara, Koni, Kudan, Khamri, Majholi, Marha, Rakseha and Kathari Bilhata, but a few women are also present, veils firmly drawn over their heads.

“Aat gaon ke log aate hai, [people from eight villages come here],” says Bhaiyya Lal Adivasi, local priest and interpreter of maladies, as he gets busy for the afternoon. A Gond Adivasi, his family has been serving the goddess for many generations.

Inside the temple, a group of men are playing various instruments, including a dholak and harmonium, and chanting the name of Rama and Sita.

In a corner sits an inconspicuous pot with a plate on top of it. “Thaali bajegi aaj [they’ll play the thaali today],” says Neelesh Tiwari, a resident of Panna, referring to the plate, now sitting silently in its place.

Bhaiyya Lal has entered and taken up his position in front of the goddess as he rocks back and forth, surrounded by roughly 20 people who are also participating. The atmosphere in the room becomes charged with the loud clamour of the thaali, the rising smoke from incense sticks, bright light of a small fire in front of the shrine, all leading up to time when the goddess appears in the person of the priest. 

As the music rises to a crescendo, the panda stops, balancing himself on his feet. No one says anything, but it is understood that the goddess has taken hold of him. There is a rush among the devotees to get their questions answered. The queries are whispered into Bhaiyya Lal’s ears and he picks up a handful of grains. He throws them on the floor in front of him, the numbers dictating a happy or distressing response.

The devotees collect the ash from the incense stick which they consider to be holy and swallow it – the cure for the malady which ails them. The remedial quality of Marhai Mata’s prasad remains strong. “As far as I know, it has never failed,” says the panda with a smile.

People here say the healing period is eight days. After that, Bhaiyya Lal adds, “you can make whatever offering to the goddess you’d like: coconut or athvaai [small wheat pooris], kanya bhojan or bhagwat – that is up to the benefactor.”

Residents say that typhoid (known locally as babaju ki bimari, babaju being a divine spirit) is rampant. Women’s health and childbirth is neglected across the state. At 41 deaths  per 1,000 births, Madhya Pradesh has the highest infant mortality rate in the country, according to the National Family Health Survey 5, 2019-21.

Villages in and around Panna Tiger Reserve are starved for functional health care facilities – the nearest government hospital is around 54 kms away in Panna town, and there is a primary health centre (PHC) around 22 kms away in Amanganj.

“People here are hesitant about visiting doctors and hospitals and taking medicines prescribed by them,” says Devashree Somani of Koshika, a nongovernmental organisation that has been working in Panna for about seven years in the field of healthcare. “Our biggest challenge has been to get them to go to doctors while respecting their faith in ethno-medical practices,” she adds. “Residents of villages here believe that an illness is only a symptom, caused by an angry divine being or dead ancestor.”

Even within the structures of allopathic medicine, the ‘treatment’ they receive is most often affected by their caste identity, making them even more wary of seeking such remedies, Devashree explains.

The proposed Ken-Betwa River Linking Project (KBRLP) in the area will submerge many villages in Panna and Chhatarpur. Although in the pipeline for decades, residents are unsure about where they will have to go and when. “Kheti bandh hai ab” [Farming has stopped],” the men say, explaining that the shift is imminent. (Read: Adivasis in Panna tiger park: dammed futures).

What they do know is “we will take our Bhagwati with us,” affirms Bhaiyya Lal. “Everyone feels bad that we’re losing our land. But I feel worse that we’ll lose this sacred place. If villagers choose to leave to find work, then who knows what will happen to our people. The village will be dispersed. If we were given some place to go, where Bhagwati could be resettled, then we all would be protected,” he says. 

Santosh Kumar has come from Majhgawan, about 10 kms away. He has been regularly visiting the temple for about 40 years. “Tasalli milti hai [I feel a sense of peace],” the 58-year-old says.

“Now that we have to leave, I thought maybe in a couple of years I will not get to visit the goddess, so I came,” says the farmer who cultivates masoor [legume], chana [chickpea], and gehun [wheat] on his five-six acre farmland. 

Bhaiyya Lal is unsure if his son, now in his 20s, will continue the tradition of serving the goddess, “Woh toh unke upar hai,” he laughs and says. His son works on their five-acre farmland, cultivating gehun [wheat] and sarson [mustard]. They sell some of the crop and keep the rest for their own use.

“Araam milti hai,” says Madhu Bai, a farmer who has come here from Amanganj. “Darshan ke liye aye hai,” says the 40-year-old, sitting on the ground with other women, the constant, rhythmic sound of singing and drum beats playing in the background.

As she speaks, the faint sound of the dhol and harmonium reaches a crescendo, making it impossible to hear each other even from close quarters. “Darshan karke aate hai, [I’ll go see the goddess now]” she says, standing up and fixing her saree.