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Sri Lanka
  Photo: Paul Cowan
Sri Lanka
 Photo: Paul Cowan

Sri Lanka: Cobras In The Bedsprings (cont.)

At sun down, the monks in our living room began chanting without break.  They covered the palm leaf altar with beetle leaves and a heaping tray of sliced mangos, bananas, and papayas. As the night went on, they danced and sung—the chanting never diminished.  Around two o’clock in the morning, a young assistant priest pulled a rooster with bound legs from a cardboard box.  He laid him helplessly on the carpet until one of the older men picked him up by the talons. I suspected he would  kill it on our living room floor—blood spilling everywhere like in a bad orientalist movie.  I cringed as he pulled a knife from his sarong and held it dramatically to the twitching rooster; but he only cut deep enough to draw blood and then held the rooster over the altar and let the blood drip over the offering of fruit and leaves.

By three in the morning, the exorcism quieted down.  The dancing ceased, the incense burnt out but lingered in the room.  My amma took a break to make strong tea for me and the aging priests who were falling asleep despite their sacred duty.  One priest placed a cow’s skull covered in ancient Pali letters on the altar of fruit and blood and chanted prayers unenthusiastically. Another produced a pumpkin and a large lump of clay from a recycled rice bag.  He broke off lumps of clay to craft ornate human figurines and finished his work by drawing a face on the pumpkin.  Meanwhile, one old man continued to chant trance like prayers over a long string of wooden beads.

Near daybreak, they had prepared everything necessary for the climax of the exorcism.  They lifted up the pumpkin face and paraded it around the room—dancing feverishly at every corner.  At the end of the procession, the oldest man broke all the clay figurines; he mashed them in his hands.  While he concentrated on his task, another man laid down on the floor and waited while the young assistant placed the pumpkin face atop a piece of wood on his stomach.  When the old monk was ready, he drew a machete over his head; he mumbled continuously in the ancient tongue and split the pumpkin face with a deliberate thud.  The ceremony ended.

My amma collected the dilapidated altar and the mush of fruit outside, burning it immediately.  The priests went in my room and affixed a small mirror above my bed where the wall met the ceiling, then they sprinkled a mixture of rice, spices, and grains around the room.  My amma did this religiously every day while chanting.  Once afterwards, she admitted, “it is superstitious, I know. But it is something that had to happen.” 

My amma and I did not agree on much during those four months, she constantly made wild accusations about American culture based on the plot lines of Hollywood blockbusters. While I would correct her, I did not often convince her of anything.  Reciprocally, whenever I made foolish assumptions about Sri Lankan culture—she would say, “no, no, no, not like that one bit,” and proceed to correct me.  But, when she made this brief comment on the exorcism’s necessity, I sipped my tea in silent agreement.  We had found a common peace of mind.   I did not tell the neighbors—I did not think that she was silly and superstitious.  It just had to happen for both our sakes. 

My bed continued to shake for as long as I slept in it; but after the ritual, I could convince myself with confidence that it must have been a cobra after all.

 

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