The air in the Jhargram and Paschim Medinipur tribal belt of West Bengal changes as the sun dips below the horizon. The vibrant, dusty bustle of the college day is replaced by a heavy, palpable silence, broken only by the rhythmic crunch of dry leaves under the boots of men patrolling the village peripheries. As a faculty member recently posted to a government college here, I have moved from the sterile world of academia into a landscape where the line between the physical and the metaphysical is perpetually blurred.
In my recent visits to the neighbouring villages with my students, I find that even if they learn Darwin, balance chemical equations, and measure human anatomical details in the practical rooms well, yet, the moment the lecture ends, the conversation often drifts to the Ojha—the local sorcerer. Villagers, who include our students, speak with absolute conviction about the "evil eye." They describe how their elders identify a potential witch whose mere look can make one fall ill. It creates a malady that only the sorcerer can remedy through jhar-fuk. To them, this is not "superstition." It functions as a necessary defence mechanism in a world they perceive as spiritually volatile.
This landscape—Junglemahal—is etched with the history of the occult. Take, for instance, the village known locally as Dain-mari - its name literally translates to "the place where witches are killed." It stands as a grim reminder of a belief system where the "witch" is the scapegoat for every unexplained misfortune. But today, the traditional fear of the supernatural has mutated into a modern, hyper-vivid hysteria.
The Anatomy of a Modern Phantom
A new folklore has emerged, one that feels like a fever dream of the digital age. Throughout villages in Jhargram and Paschim Midnapore, a specific terror has taken hold. The villagers are gripped by reports of "Identity Snatchers." The description of these figures is remarkably consistent and terrifyingly specific: they are tall, dark figures who arrive in groups, clad entirely in black with high-necked collars and masks obscuring their faces. They wear heavy boots that thud against the earth, yet they possess a supernatural agility, jumping great distances to evade capture if anyone tries to intervene. Most strikingly, they carry large knives and speak only in English.
From an anthropological lens, this is a fascinating "urban legend" manifesting in a rural heartland. These figures are the perfect inversion of the local tribal identity. Where the villager is local, these figures are "outsiders". Where the villager speaks Santali or Bengali, these phantoms speak English—the language of the elite, the court, and the distant bureaucracy.
In her seminal work, Purity and Danger, Mary Douglas speaks of ‘dirt’ as "matter out of place." This is the root cause of taboo and fear. Therefore, these black-clad, English-speaking jumpers are the ultimate "matter out of place." They represent a localised personification of a globalized, predatory force that the villagers feel is closing in on them. They are not merely thieves; they are "identity vampires."
The SIR Drive and Administrative Anxiety
To understand why these rumors focus so obsessively on the snatching and burning of Aadhaar cards, Voter IDs, and PAN cards, we must look at the timing. This panic has peaked exactly as the Special Intensive Revision (SIR) drive is underway.
In the tribal consciousness, the "document" is the thin thread connecting them to survival—to rations, to land rights, and to the right to exist in the eyes of the State. Here, the SIR drive, while intended as a routine administrative update, is perceived through a lens of historical trauma and precariousness. The fear that English-speaking intruders are burning these cards represents a localised interpretation of "Administrative Anxiety." If your "paper self" is destroyed, your "physical self" becomes invisible to the State, and therefore vulnerable. The large knife carried by the phantom is the tool of "severing"—a symbolic representation of being cut off from one's citizenship and protections.
The Fortress of Fear and the Night Vigil
The result of this anxiety is a total social shutdown. Scores of villages are now ruled by fear after sundown. In Kherejora, men aged 18 to 60 have formed night vigils, patrolling with torches, lathis, and axes from 8 PM until 4 AM. Even those who work grueling day shifts, like 25-year-old labourer Uttam Mahato or his 58-year-old father Kartick, find themselves sacrificing sleep to guard their borders.
This is "Dain-mari" logic applied to the 21st century: find the "outsider," the "other," and neutralise the threat before they can cast their bureaucratic spell. The villages have effectively closed themselves off to outsiders. The fear is so pervasive that even women, though not patrolling, spend sleepless nights in groups, convinced that a knock on the door leads to the snatching of their belongings and identities. The tragedy lies in the human cost and the potential for violence. There are already sporadic reports of innocents being harassed or beaten out of sheer suspicion. In an environment where everyone is looking for a tall man in a mask, any stranger becomes a monster by default. If a villager feels insecure about their future due to the SIR drive, the "Identity Snatcher" provides a tangible target for that existential dread.
The Failure of the "Rational" State
Local officials, including the Superintendents of Police for Jhargram and Paschim Medinipur, have dismissed these as mere rumours, noting they have failed to identify any actual culprits or evidence of such intruders. They have stepped up awareness drives and patrolling, but they are fighting a ghost.
We treat superstition as an absence of knowledge, rather than a presence of a specific, lived history of marginalisation. We teach the "what" of science, but we fail to address the "why" of the fears that keep our students awake at night.
The nights in Junglemahal remain long and dark. The villagers are exhausted, yet they remain vigilant, convinced that their very existence is at stake. Until the State can speak to the villagers in a language they trust—rather than the "English" of a distant, intimidating administration—the sal forests will continue to be haunted by the ghosts of our own bureaucratic making.
