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Excerpt: The Memory of Shadows and Other Folktales from the Northeast
Funny and heartwarming, Hainamuli: A Love Potion Catastrophe, a story from Assam that’s part of this collection narrated by Mijing Gwra Basumatary, is about the mysterious ways of love
In the lush, green belly of Assam, nestled between paddy fields, mosquito armies, and over-enthusiastic roosters, stood the village of Bathowpuri, a place where gossip travelled faster than mobile networks, and secrets lasted about as long as a cow’s sneeze.
Bathowpuri was no ordinary village. It had a rich system of social organization: dahwnas, gorokhiyas, and ruwathis. The landlords ran the place like emperors of yore, occasionally mistaking their ego for divine blessing and their cows for tax-paying citizens.
Now, in this charming chaos of cow dung, gossip, and paddy-scented afternoons, lived a painfully shy dahwna named Birkhang. At twenty-three, Birkhang had the emotional expression of a boiled potato left too long in the sun — soft, silent, and slightly confused. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d write poetry or serenade under moonlight. No, he was the type who would practise saying ‘good morning’ in front of a banana tree for three days before actually greeting someone.
He lived in a modest bamboo house with his widowed mother and two extremely loud hens that behaved more like security guards than poultry in his landlord’s yard. Each morning, he woke up to the screech of one hen and the dramatic coughing of his mother, who declared every sunrise as ‘the day she might finally die of joint pain,’ a daily prediction she had been making for the past decade.
Birkhang’s life was simple — plough the fields, feed the cows, accidentally step on cow dung, wash his slippers in the stream, return home, eat dry rice and mashed potatoes, and sleep under a mosquito net that had more gaping holes than net. He owned two sets of clothes, one for farming and one for festivals, both nearly the same shade of faded brown. Romance to him felt like something only people in radio songs talked about.
And then came a ruwathi named Bibari.
Bibari wasn’t just beautiful, she was alive. She had a laugh that sounded like monsoon rain hitting a tin roof—rhythmic, refreshing, and oddly chaotic. She tied her hair with old ribbons, walked with a bounce, and once beat a drunk dahwna with a ladle for stealing pickles during lunch. She was the kind of woman who made even the buffaloes turn their heads.
Every time Bibari laughed near the well or passed by carrying firewood, Birkhang’s hands would tremble. Once, while harvesting ladyfingers, he plucked off the chilli and apologized to it. Another time, during a Bwisagu rehearsal, he forgot the dance steps and clapped like a confused tourist.
Unable to bear this slow emotional torture, Birkhang decided to take action. Of course, not by actually speaking to Bibari; that would be too revolutionary. Instead, he took the age-old Bathowpuri shortcut — consulting the ojha.
The ojha, locally known as Buba Ojha, lived near the edge of the forest in a hut that smelled like wet socks, incense, and suspicious herbs. Buba was so old, no one remembered if he was born or just emerged one day from the earth like a mushroom. His eyebrows were long enough to tie into a knot, and his nose had its own personality.
He had scared off black Himalayan bears by shouting at them in Sanskrit. Once, it was said, he gave a bitter potion to a cheating husband that made him speak only the truth for twenty-four hours. The wife filed a complaint the next day not against the husband, but the ojha, for ruining the family’s peace.
As Birkhang approached the hut, he stumbled twice, got bitten by a mosquito the size of a dragonfly, and stepped on a dried cow patty. But he was determined.
‘I... I think I like someone,’ he mumbled, looking at a beetle on the floor.
The ojha didn’t look up. He was grinding something in a wooden bowl, that smelled like toothpaste and sadness.
‘Hmm,’ Buba grunted. ‘So you finally realized you’re human.’
‘I want her to like me back,’ Birkhang added quickly.
At this, the ojha slowly looked up, his cataract-glazed eyes twinkling. ‘Love, eh? Dangerous. Like taming a wild elephant, with no assurance of what comes next.’
Then, from the back of his hut, under a dusty blanket and beside an old transistor radio that only played bhajans, the ojha brought out a tiny clay bottle.
‘This,’ he said, holding it as though it were something precious, ‘is Hainamuli made from owl spit, teardrops of fish, forbidden ferns, tears of confused goats, and possibly some expired fennel seeds. It has made people fall in love, fight with trees, and even marry scarecrows.’
Birkhang nodded solemnly, although he wasn’t sure if the owl spit part was literal or poetic. (It was literal.)
The ojha leaned closer. ‘But remember, love made by force is like cooking without salt, looks fine until you taste it. If you use this, you better be ready for consequences.’
Birkhang nodded solemnly, trying to look brave but accidentally sniffing back a sneeze caused by the herbal smoke.
With the potion tucked safely in his gamusa, pressed nervously against his fluttering heart, Birkhang walked home dreaming of a day when Bibari might laugh for him, not at how he once fell into a pond trying to pick lotus flowers (which turned out to be plastic decorations from last year’s Puja pandal).
And so, with emotions bubbling and cowbells ringing in the distance, Birkhang prepared to tamper with destiny, armed with a love potion, terrible timing, and a heart more tender than a boiled potato.
That evening, as the sun dipped behind the bamboo grove and the buffaloes mooed in perfect cinematic timing, Birkhang prepared the tea with trembling hands. He poured the entire bottle into one of the cups, accidentally spilled a few drops on his own toes, and almost drank from the wrong cup twice in nervousness, waiting for her to arrive.
Then came the moment.
‘Bibari, would you like some tea?’ he asked, pretending to be casual, though his ears were sweating.
Bibari, who was busy shooing away a rooster that had fallen in love with her sandals, turned and blinked. ‘You? Tea? Voluntarily?’
He nodded.
She shrugged. ‘Well, if I die, tell my aunt she can have my fish basket.’
They sat on the courtyard steps. Birds chirped. Somewhere in the distance, an old man sneezed thrice — a bad omen, usually — but Birkhang was too nervous to care.
Bibari took a sip.
Then she paused.
Then she stared long and hard right at Birkhang.
His heart did somersaults. His stomach organized a party. His left eye twitched from anticipation.
And then...
She stood up, flung her arms out, twirled like a possessed Bwisagu dancer with a sugar rush, and shouted: ‘I LOVE THAT NAPHAM GOROKHIYA! The one who sings to the buffaloes!’
Silence.
Then the village erupted.
Not in flames but in gossip.
The Napham, a boy so awkward he once accidentally wore a hen basket as a hat, became an overnight superstar. His slippers were mismatched (one blue, one possibly stolen from his uncle), his hair was combed with a spoon, and he smelled vaguely like fermented curd. But now? He was a legend.
Bibari brought him flower garlands every morning, stood outside his shed singing lullabies meant for calves, and once offered to oil his hair ‘because they looked stressed.’
Birkhang, meanwhile, was heartbroken.
The Napham was terrified.
Even the buffaloes looked mildly offended. One of them gave Bibari a side-eye for three days straight.
The ojha came storming into Birkhang’s house the next day, waving a neem stick like a wand.
‘You fool!’ he bellowed. ‘You poured the potion on the wrong side of the cup! The wind shifted it to her left hand! The buffalo lover got lucky by breeze-assisted
sorcery!’
Birkhang fell at his feet.
‘I’m sorry! I didn’t check the wind direction!’
‘You’re not launching a kite!’ the ojha shouted.
In the days that followed, Birkhang apologized to everyone — the ojha, Bibari, the gorokhiya, even the buffaloes (he offered them extra grass and emotional support). His politeness became a running joke. Old women teased, ‘If you sneeze near Birkhang, he’ll apologize for existing.’
The villagers laughed about it for months.
‘If love had legs, Birkhang tripped on all of them and then hugged the floor,’ they’d say during festivals.
But then, something unexpected began to happen.
Bibari started talking to Birkhang again.
Not in a ‘Oh, you’re my soulmate’ way. More like, ‘Hey, why are my handkerchiefs drying in your yard?’ or ‘Did you see my ladle? I think your cow took it.’
But progress is progress.
They began sharing chores, exchanging jokes, and even teamed up once to rescue a goat stuck in a nearby fishery pond. Slowly, steadily, without potions or poultry drama, something genuine bloomed.
One fine Bwisagu evening, Bibari giggled at Birkhang’s pigeon mimicry, which was so accurate even the actual pigeons felt threatened. She clapped. He blushed. Somewhere in the distance, the Napham sighed in relief and resumed his song therapy with his herd.
And just like that, love happened.
No owl spit. No wind conspiracies. No buffalo triangles.
Just two people, awkward and endearing, finding each other in the middle of a village that never kept quiet.
Meanwhile, in Borbari, just across the river, love brewed a storm of its own.
There, two landlords, Hari Boro and Lakhi Basumatary, were locked in a feud so old that even their ancestral mango trees refused to drop fruit on each other’s land. They once fought for three weeks over a goat that allegedly grazed in the other’s vegetable patch.
But like all great dramas, this one had a twist: their children, Arjun and Leela, fell in love.
They met during Rongali Bihu, accidentally holding hands during a clumsy Bwisagu dance step. Sparks flew. So did slippers. It was destiny, or at least, a very enthusiastic coincidence.
Their love blossomed in stolen moments behind granaries and love notes hidden in fish baskets. But when the landlords found out, everything went full dramatic. Arjun was grounded so thoroughly even ants needed permission to visit him, and Leela was engaged to a contractor who blinked once every three hours.
In desperation, both families went to the ojha, the same poor man still recovering from the buffalo love triangle. They begged him to undo the romance.
‘What do you take me for—a betel nut seller?’ the ojha muttered. ‘Love isn’t something you chew and throw away by the roadside.’
Still, he gave them reverse-Hainamuli potions, muttering prayers under his breath and considering early retirement.
It didn’t work.
In fact, Arjun and Leela grew even more romantic, exchanging love songs, bangles, and strategic escape plans. Finally, one moonless night, they eloped on a borrowed bicycle with a broken chain. They pushed it more than they rode it. Even the buffaloes overtook them on the way.
When the villagers heard the news, they clapped with delight.
The landlords were embarrassed, outraged, and slightly relieved. The villagers, tired of their generational feud, demanded peace. A meeting was held under the sacred banyan tree. There was yelling. There was crying. One uncle fainted from eating too much mutton.
In the end, they called a truce.
To celebrate, they threw a grand feast. Four goats were sacrificed. One escaped mid-ceremony, sprinted through the rice fields, and became a local hero. (He was later seen in Bathowpuri with a garland around his neck, and nicknamed ‘Lucky’.)
As part of the celebration, Birkhang and Bibari were invited too. By then, they had become the village’s most admired couple. Bibari, now the queen of sarcasm and sweetness, brought pickles. Birkhang brought flowers and a nervous smile.
When Arjun and Leela returned sun-tanned, slightly thinner, but wildly in love, they were welcomed not just by their families, but by a changed village. One that had learned a little about letting go of grudges and letting love be.
The ojha, for his part, retired temporarily. He now sells only cough syrups and love advice on market days and only to people who promise not to blame the wind.
And so, the twin tales of Hainamuli became more than just gossip. They became village folklore. A reminder that you can’t brew love, can’t force it, can’t chain it to your family honour or a magic bottle.
Love, in Bathowpuri and Borbari, had triumphed.
Not because of spells.
But because people finally learned to listen to hearts instead of heritage.
And yes, every time someone has tea near the buffalo shed, they still whisper, ‘Careful now. That’s where the real magic once happened.’
