Dahanu is a sleepy small town, that looks like a Pacific island with endless palms and coconut plantations, on the western side just above Mumbai on a map. The fresh Neera or coconut toddy, a sweet morning juice that can ferment into an intoxicating drink in the afternoon, is pure nectar.
I climb out of the brown train on a winter morning in February for what promises to be a fun trip with my cousin, her husband at the in-laws of the in-laws. It’s slightly complicated so let’s call them the others. The others have a huge apartment in Dahanu.
The first three days were untainted heaven that included long walks, night under rural starry beaches, good food as in a variety of vegetarian curries, lentils and pickles. My cousin’s husband, technically my brother-in-law is a hilarious comedian. We were staying at his sister’s house, the in-laws of the in-laws.
But on that fateful day, we were warned in instalments by others. “They are coming”, said the stupid one. “We need the bhuwa (exorcist) as lots of bad things are happening in the house.”, said the mother. This was following a shouting match between father and the stupid one.
We went for dinner that evening having forgotten the small snippets of talk that day. When we came back everyone was drinking and the lights were full blast inside the house. “They are from London, they don’t believe all this”, said the father to the exorcist almost as a challenge to prove himself. I shuddered. My cousin was thrilled at being called a London-returned. Actually, none of us have been to London. I live in Auckland and my cousin has travelled to Dubai and Nairobi.
I quietly went to our green room with an AC, that looks ancient and works like a breeze. I must have nodded off and suddenly we heard loud noises. My cousin said, “Looks like they are dancing”. I laughed a wee bit but curiosity made me jump from my bedding near the AC to the door some seven feet away. I was excited, even hopeful. Not that I was watching ghosts or possessions, to be more precise, for the first time. But I never believed in the Indian voodoo or any voodoo. I placed myself behind the door and kneeling I opened it slightly. It was not my house so I could not jump out and say “Hey! Let me watch!” Protocol had to be followed. That was part of being born in a country of arrange marriages, extended families and the caste system. India.
Having said that, the class system did not affect the metros, in a big way. But coming back to the action through a gap between the door and the wall, my cousin joined in and her husband followed. My cousin being a staunch Jain did not believe in ‘hocus pocus’. I, on the other hand, believed in almost anything and everything: more excitement that way. I was on all fours; My cousin was bending over me; Her husband was standing upright. Thus, economising wisely the half inch gap between the door and wall.
My cousin continued “Are they singing?”.
Suddenly we saw someone come towards us. We immediately jumped to our nonchalant positions on bed, playing scrabble, reading etc.
The lady of the house walked in and insisted that if we wanted we could join them. I looked at my cousin sister, waiting for her approval
“No. We are fine but Suneal, if you want to go it’s alright”.
I stood on ceremony for exactly ten seconds before I ran out. They eventually followed.
They were singing bhajans or hymns to evoke the goddess mother deity Durga, Kali, Ambe and/or Chamunda. I quietly went and sat there as most Indians do on the thick cotton-jute carpet.
And I saw one of the daughter-in-laws swinging her head at a radius of three feet in a circular 3D motion that allowed her leverage of three feet in height. Something like Earth’s rotation and revolution. I had never sat so close to a possession.
There was red sindoor, not a small dot that dot-busters hate but a big blood red liquid going from between the eyebrows all the way into the hair. And, the woman was moving frantically and when prompted by the exorcist
“Show your true self… WHO ARE YOU!”
She stuck her Maori-haka tongue out and we could see that she looked like a replica of Mother Chamunda. She did – with her eyes wide open. And she rotated and revolved at full burst for a good half an hour. Everybody was summoned to touch her feet in sheer respect for the goddess. Most did – some didn’t. I just bowed to keep the peace since I knew that this whole thing was aggravated because I’m a hot-shot, non-believing foreign returned, who had to either bow to submission or hexed. Add to that my cousin’s attitude of being someone that she was not, could add to my woes. The wannabe tough, educated feminist from hell and the greatest gift to any one who comes into her life.
The noise in the meantime was increasing as people were summoned and asking questions and getting accurate answers. Then the whole part, in fact, a few chosen ones decided to go to crematorium, the Hindu version of a graveyard. I was not invited but I knew that they were going to bury the lemon that had captured all the bad spirits, bad luck and possible misfortunes that the family of others could have faced.
After an hour, the lady that was nice to us was called and she insisted that she didn’t want to get into it since she was religious and believed in Shiva. The father-in-law said it was nothing and we all found ourselves in the yellow lamplit hall with pictures of goddesses and a skull again. She was asked to drink some wine and she insisted that’s enough but suddenly out of no will of hers, she began rotating even while insisting that she did not want to go through this. The roller coaster of hell.
She was fine and educated and graceful and suddenly she began convulsing. I definitely believed, while my cousin decided to be cool. I felt the sooner I believe, the faster the lady will be out of her ordeal. She went for gold. Her voice changed and she was answering question that onlookers had. I touched her feet. I wanted her spell to be broken as soon as possible.
It was finally over and left a huge impression on me. I’m sure there was something there. The exorcist had been in a lineage of exorcists and insisted he did not accept money but I’m sure a lot of money changed hands. The parent- in-law were happy and proud of their daughters-in-laws.
I was relieved when the lady insisted that she was fresher than ever and did not remember a thing. I believe. Actually for a few hours, I had forgotten why I had come to Dahanu. As I reported to my email group…

So What am I doing in Dahanu? I don’t know. But Dahanu is a quiet seaside town in sleepy northern end of Maharashtra. It’s an escape from the polluted suburbs of Mumbai. The summer has begun, bringing nostalgia and heat and dust and a sense of picnicking.
Dahanu has two storied buildings and massive chikoo plantations. We walked at dusk for around 3 kms to the nearest beach. That’s the first thing we did since we came in the morning, ate a lot and slept through India’s mediocre batting. In the evening we were enjoying a 5 km walk through the beach line and a few stars. Nothing spectacular in the sky. The walk was nice and full of oxygen. So was the late night dinner at a lonely spot in the beach. It’s called a restaurant but actually is a nice place, well lit and since it was a week night we were the only people around. One of my friends got drunk. He also happened to be the driver of a van that got curvy and dangerous for dogs at midnight.

I had decided to hold the incident close to my heart till an opportune moment, when I actually can digest my brush with the after life. There was definitely something there.