HIDDEN BEHIND A TEA STALL IN MAYONG, a cluster of twelve hamlets about forty kilometres up the Brahmaputra from Guwahati, stands an unfinished brick-and-concrete building of, at present, a single large room. A plaque declares it the home of the Mayong Village Museum and Research Centre, and at the entrance is an image of the building’s proposed design. When I visited in November, the tea stall’s gaunt proprietor showed me inside, and guided me through the museum’s collection of artefacts. There were old hookahs, weapons, utensils, stone busts, cannon balls—all of which once belonged to Mayong’s royal family. But what my guide was most interested in showing me was a large glass case holding fifty ancient manuscripts, all neatly arranged. All of them, he told me, had to do with magic.
Written in two early Assamese scripts, Brajavali and Kaitheli, the manuscripts contain various chants that some believe to have mystical powers, comprehensible to none but a handful of “magicians” in the village, most of them old men. Mayong’s folklore is replete with tales of magic, set hundreds or thousands of years ago. Its reputation as a cradle of black magic stretches far into the past, and continues to draw visitors. But though that legacy is a crucial part of the local history and culture, it is at risk of fading away. Many young people see the belief in magic as little more than outdated superstition, and have little interest in carrying on the traditions associated with it.
“There should be a way to legitimise this culture instead of shying away from it,” Utpal Nath, the brains behind the museum, told me. I met Utpal, a composed man in his early thirties who teaches economics at Mayong Anchalik College, for tea at his house, a short walk from the unfinished building. He started displaying historical artefacts in 2002, first in a rented room and later at a vacant hall offered to him by the forest department. The project began “as a mere tourist attraction,” he said, but he soon expanded his goals. His hope now is to help preserve Mayong’s heritage by making people “consider magic as a cultural practice … rather than a superstitious act.”
Others see Utpal’s point too. Ülo Valk, an Estonian professor of comparative folklore who has studied Mayong, told me over email that the museum could serve as “a cultural centre for the community,” and help “promote the place, its regional identity, and preserve the heritage.” Valk also offered a different approach to understanding local beliefs. “Magic is always connected with the actual needs of humans as social beings,” he wrote. “They have some problems, concerns or goals that need to be addressed. Magical methods might seem unusual or irrational for scientifically oriented intellectuals, but different modes of thinking exist,” including those in which magic makes sense.
Soon after setting up the exhibition, Utpal, with help from some of his students and local supporters, submitted a formal proposal for a museum and research centre to the local administration. He was granted about an acre of land and preliminary funds, and construction began in May 2013. Later that year he secured an official grant of about R15 lakh, though he had asked for R75 lakh. Utpal explained that construction on the museum should be completed by 2016. He added that more artefacts will have to be bought, since the collection is currently only a fourth of its planned size.
When I asked to meet a practitioner of magic, locals led me to Akanchandra Nath, a retired headmaster. I met him at his home, a mud hut that was once considered a centre of black magic. Earlier, Utpal had taken pains to assure me that “it’s only white magic that is practiced these days.” Akanchandra told me of his college days in Guwahati, where people were often alarmed to learn he was trained in Mayong’s occult traditions. Some loathed him, but others befriended him in hopes of using his claimed powers to their advantage. When I insisted on a demonstration, he demurred. “My daughter-in-law wouldn’t like me to perform magic openly,” he said. “If you’re really interested, I teach how to do magic. ... It takes five years.”