I recently found myself entranced by an article by Mischa Berlinski,
a 34-year-old novelist who traveled to India with his fiancé last year
and ended up in a gripping adventure following Bimbala Das,
a woman in a remote
village who had married a snake
because she thought she was cursed. The result, a thoughtful take
on a
much publicized, greatly misunderstood event, is “Woman marries snake:
A peculiar Indian love story,” published in the November 2007 issue of Harper’s. Bimbala, who changed her caste in order to marry the reclusive reptile,
became one of those strange news items that fade quicker than you can
say “snakes on a plane.” But Berlinski had different ideas. He had just
penned his first novel, Fieldwork,
(which was a finalist for the National Book Award) and had notions of
becoming a cultural anthropologist. So he hired a translator, and drove
into a place so humid that his glasses fogged over. He answered a few
of our questions about his adventure:
Why did you seek out Bimbala Das after reading her story in the news?
I think part of traveling in India is being confronted every single day with so many mysterious things. You're always asking yourself: Why does he dress like that or act like that? I wanted to try and get to the bottom of just one strange Indian story. That this story caught on in the West made the story even more interesting.
Where is Atala and how did you get there?
Atala village is about 15 kilometers from Bhubaneshwar, the capital of Orissa State. We came by train from Tamil Nadu, in the deep south. I don't know if you've ever taken an Indian train, but it's a wonderful experience. We rode second-class AC, and shared a compartment with a Mr. Aggarwal, Mr. Aggarwal's old college friend, and their families. (It was Mr. Aggarwal's theory that Bimbala married the snake "just to be famous," which as it turns out wasn't so far from the truth.) The children, as I recall, were very noisy, and like to jump from bunk to bunk. Outside the window, there were low flat rice paddies and sometimes a glimpse of the sea and little villages and always another crossing, with motorized rickshaws and motorcycles and bullock carts lined up waiting for us to go by.
Did you tell the people in the village that you were a writer? An anthropologist?
I told them I was a journalist. But I'm not sure that the distinctions between a writer, a journalist, and an anthropologist would have been meaningful at all to the people in Atala, and certainly not to Bimbala or her Guru. The thing that the people of Atala understood chiefly about me was that I was a foreigner, and white, and outside of the caste system. They organized me mentally first by this fact, then by my religion, and then by my marital status, far more than my profession.
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