THE INTERPRETATION OF ANDAMANESE CUSTOMS AND BELIEFS: MYTHS AND LEGENDS
In the last chapter I tried to explain, by reference to psychological
principles, the more important ritual and ceremonial observances of the
Andamanese; in the present chapter I shall deal in a similar manner
with the legends recorded in Chapter IV. That is to say, I propose to
explain, not how the legends arose, but what they mean, what part they
play at the present time in the mental life of the Andaman Islander.
Customs that seem at first sight meaningless or ridiculous have been
shown to fulfil most important functions in the social economy, and
similarly I hope to prove that the tales that might seem merely the
products of a somewhat childish fancy are very far indeed from being
merely fanciful and are the means by which the Andamanese express and
systematise their fundamental notions of life and nature and the
sentiments attaching to those notions.
I propose to analyse a few of the more important legends, and will
begin with the Akar-Bale story of the origin of night and day [184].
The explanation of this story depends on the connection of day and
night with the cicada. This species of cicada, of which I do not know
the scientific name, always makes a noise (“sings” as the natives say)
during the short interval of twilight between sunset and darkness and
between dawn and sunrise. It is possible that individual insects of the
species make a noise at other times of the day and night, but I do not
remember to have heard them, and it is only at the beginning and end of
the day that they are all to be heard singing together. The song of the
cicada, as day gives place to night and as night changes to day is one
of the most familiar of all natural phenomena to the Andamanese.
Another fact that is made use of in the legend is that if one of these
insects be crushed as was the cicada of the story, or even if it be
taken up in the hand, it will utter its shrill and plaintive note, not
unlike the cry of a human being in pain. Finally, fully to understand
the tale, it is necessary to remember that in all the tribes of the
Great Andaman Division there is a prohibition against killing the
cicada. The meaning of this prohibition will have to be discussed in
connection with the legend.
The facts stated above enable us to understand what may be called the
skeleton of the legend. One of the ancestors killed a cicada (a
forbidden act), the cicada uttered its cry (as it does when hurt), and
as a result, darkness covered the world (as it always does when the
cicada sings in the evening). Leaving aside, for the present, the rest
of the story, we may try to make clear to ourselves just what this part
of it expresses. The explanation that I propose is to the effect that
the legend is simply an expression or a statement of the “social value”
of the phenomenon of the alternation of day and night. By the social
value of anything I mean, as explained in the last chapter, the way in
which that thing affects the life of the society (either beneficially
or adversely) and therefore the way in which it affects the social
sentiments of the individuals who compose the society. There is no need
to discuss at length and in all its bearings, the way in which the
alternation of day and night affects the social life of the Andamanese.
The one outstanding feature of first importance is that the day is the
time of social activity whereas the night is a period when the society
is, as a rule, not active. It was shown in the last chapter that one of
the most important elements in the mental complex revealed by a study
of the ceremonial is the recognition of the fact that it is on the
activity of the society that the individual depends for his security
and well-being. So long as he can feel that he is an active member of
an active community the individual feels that he has for his support
(morally and physically) a great force on which he can rely. If, for
any reason, he is temporarily cut off from the society and from
participation in its life, he is in a position of insecurity, and
believes himself to be in danger from the powers of the world of
spirits. It is an inevitable result of this that the daytime, when the
society is active, should be felt to be a period of comparative
security, while the night, when all social activity ceases, should be
felt to be a period of comparative insecurity. That the day and night
are so regarded is shown in the belief of the natives that the spirits
are more to be dreaded during the night than during the day.
The Andaman Islander, like many other savages, is afraid of the dark.
It might perhaps be thought that this fear is immediate and
instinctive, a result of the physiology of the human nervous system,
but that, I think, would be a false assumption. Many infants would seem
not to be at first afraid of darkness, but to learn to fear it, as they
learn to fear many other things. It is not possible here to enter into
a discussion of the matter, but I would hold that in the Andaman
Islanders and probably in other savages, the fear of darkness, of
night, is a secondary or induced feeling, not by any means instinctive,
and is in large part due to the social sentiments, to the fact that at
night the social life ceases. The savage feels, and rightly so, that
for everything he has and is, for the safety and well-being of his body
and the comfort of his soul, he depends on the communal life in which
his own life is merged. When, at the close of day, the social life
ceases, he feels, should anything occur to direct his attention to his
own condition, less secure than when the social life is proceeding
actively around him [185].
The interpretation that I would offer of the Akar-Bale legend is that
it is an expression of these sentiments relating to the night, an
expression that takes advantage of the connection between the song of
the cicada and the alternation of night and day. One feature of the
manner of expression will be explained later in the chapter, namely
that it takes the form of a story relating to a mythical period of the
past. For the present the necessity of this particular form must be
accepted as a postulate. Granting this it remains only to show that the
legend does express the social value of night as defined above.
The fear of night, or rather, since that fear is rarely more than
potential, the feeling that night is a time of insecurity, is part of
the general attitude of fear or respect towards the forces of nature
that are believed to be possible sources of danger to the society. Now
it has been shown that this particular attitude to nature finds
expression in ritual prohibitions of various kinds. For instance, the
Andaman Islander translates his feeling of the social value of food
substances into the belief that such things must be treated with ritual
precautions. Applying this to the case before us, we must first
recognize that to the Andaman Islander the alternation of day and night
and the singing of the cicada are not separate phenomena but are two
parts or aspects of one and the same recurring event. Now, the night
and the day are things that cannot be handled, i.e., cannot be
immediately subject to the actions of human beings, while the cicada
can be handled. Hence it is to the cicada that the need of precaution
is referred. Any interference with the cicada is forbidden, and this
prohibition serves as a mark or expression of the social value of that
alternation of night and day with which the cicada is so intimately
associated [186].
The legend of the Akar-Bale tribe is simply an elaboration of this
theme. In the beginning there was no night, no darkness. Social life
was continuous and was not subject to periods of diminished intensity.
Then one of the ancestors (apparently in a fit of temper owing to his
lack of success in fishing) crushed a cicada, and the cry of the insect
brought darkness upon the world. The darkness, with its inhibition of
activity, is clearly regarded as an evil, i.e., as a manifestation of
force hostile to the society, and this accords with the definition of
the social value of night given above, where it was shown that this
value is negative, that night is a source of social dysphoria.
This interpretation is confirmed by the statements about the night made
in the North Andaman (where this legend does not seem to exist), such
as that the night is made by the spirits (Lau) who draw a mat or cloth
across the sky. When we remember that the spirits are the embodiment of
the forces hostile to the society we see how this statement expresses
the feeling that night is the time when such hostile forces are in the
ascendant.
The Akar-Bale story, besides giving an account of the origin of night,
relates the invention of singing and dancing. There is no specific
reference to dancing in the story as recorded from my Akar-Bale
informant. The reference is found, however, in the version recorded by
Mr Man [187] and it is implicit even in the Akar-Bale version. Dancing
is always accompanied by a song, and every song is composed with the
express intention of being sung at a dance. Thus, for the Andamanese,
singing and dancing are merely two aspects of one and the same
activity.
Dancing, except on a few special ceremonial occasions, always takes
place at night. Night, as we have seen, is a source of social
dysphoria. It prevents the pursuit of the common social activities,
such as hunting or making canoes or weapons. The condition produced by
darkness can be neutralised by means of singing and dancing, the dance
being a condition of intense social euphoria, in which social activity
is at its maximum, and all the social sentiments are pleasurably and
intensely excited.
This belief that dancing and singing are means by which the evil
influence of darkness can be overcome is shown in the custom observed
when a corpse remains in a camp all night, of sitting round it and
singing, in order (so the natives say) to keep away the spirits that
have caused the death. They do not dance, because the pleasurable
excitement of the more intense activity would be incompatible with the
condition naturally resulting from a death. This custom affords clear
evidence that singing, and in a yet higher degree the combined activity
of singing and dancing, possess magical efficacy against the dangers
prevalent at night.
This relation between the (negative) social value of night and the
(positive) social value of dancing and singing is simply and clearly
expressed in the legend. It was the “singing” of the cicada that
produced the darkness. The ancestors, finding themselves overwhelmed
with darkness, set to work to remedy this evil by singing (and, it is
to be presumed, by dancing to the song). One after another they sang a
song, just as at a dance one man after another sings until he is tired.
Finally, after the dance had gone on for a number of hours, Ko̱ŋoro took
his turn at singing and the night came to an end and day appeared. So
effectual was the means adopted of neutralising the evils of darkness
that it finally resulted in the return of the daylight in which
ordinary social life is possible.
The reference to resin in the legend can be easily understood. The
Andamanese use resin to provide the light by which they dance, as well
as for torches for fishing on dark nights. It is their only artificial
light, and without resin a dance would be a very poor affair. Thus the
social value of resin is that it affords a means of neutralising to a
certain extent the effects of darkness.
These are, I think, all the essential elements of the story. One of the
ancestors, under the influence of an anti-social passion, killed a
cicada, which uttered its cry, and thereupon the world was covered with
darkness. The ancestors then made torches of resin which enabled them
to neutralise the darkness to some extent. They then invented dancing
and singing and after they had continued for a number of hours the
light came back. Since that time day and night regularly alternate with
one another, and the cicada sings at each period of change. Men have
learnt how to use resin for artificial light, and how to remedy the
effects of darkness by dancing and singing.
The legend is thus simply the expression in a particular form of the
relation between the society and a certain natural phenomenon in terms
of what have been called social values. We find expressed the social
values of night and of resin and dancing. It may be noted that the
legend also gives a special social value to the ancestors, different
from and greater than that of men or women at the present day. The
ancestors of the Andamanese were able to do many things that men cannot
do now; they were able to affect the processes of nature in a way that
is no longer possible. This notion of the social value of the
ancestors, of the past, will be shown to be one of the most important
elements in the legends, it being this that is responsible for the
general form of the stories. The consideration of this subject,
however, must be postponed.
There are still a number of points of the legend that have not been
considered. It is not easy to account for the inclusion in this story
of the discovery of the yam. It is possible that there is some ground
of association between the yam and the cicada, but I do not certainly
know of any such. There is a legend recorded by Mr Man from the Aka-Bea
tribe, and given above [188], in which an account is given of the lucky
discovery of the first yam by the chance shooting of an arrow. It is
therefore quite likely that the yam story first existed quite
independently, and that it has become incorporated in the legend of the
origin of night on account of the fact that the incident of the
shooting of an arrow was found in both of them.
There is one reason for the inclusion of the yam incident that it is
worth while to note. By its means it is told how Da Teŋat discovered a
new object of each of the three kinds—animal, vegetable, and mineral.
The new animal was the cicada, the new vegetable was the yam, and the
new mineral was the resin, which, as the story shows, the natives
classify as a “stone,” although they know its vegetable origin. The
story is thus rounded off and given an air of completeness and
symmetry.
The incident of the shooting of the three arrows is of some interest as
giving us an idea of how the Andamanese think of chance or luck.
Arrows, it must be remembered, are regarded as being possessed of
magical power. Further, the ancestors themselves possessed powers that
do not belong to living men, as is shown repeatedly in the legends. The
ancestor shoots an arrow, and, by reason of his power and that of the
arrow, it strikes an important object and leads him to a discovery. The
mere striking of the object by the arrow seems to give him a certain
degree of power over the object, whereby he forces it to reveal its
name. (We have already seen, by a reference to this very story, that
there is an important connection between the name of an object and its
social value [189].) Thus, in common with other primitive peoples, the
Andaman Islanders regard what we call luck or chance as due to the
action of the magical powers possessed by objects and by human beings.
There is one point that is not very plain in the Akar-Bale version, but
I think we must take it that Da Teŋat was disgusted at his lack of
success in fishing. His irritation was not diminished but rather
increased by the fact that he did succeed in procuring one small and
worthless fish. His shooting of the arrows must be regarded, I think,
as the result of his anger. He might be supposed to address his arrows
as follows: “You have not succeeded in hitting any fish at which I
aimed you; let me see if you can hit anything on your own account, when
I take no aim.” In this way he was led to the discovery of the yam, the
resin and the cicada, for though it is not explicit, it is evident that
it was the third arrow that led him to the cicada. His irritation was
not yet appeased however, and he crushed the cicada, thus bringing
darkness over the world. We must infer that he was aware of what he was
doing, for as soon as he had discovered the yam and the resin he learnt
their names and thereby learnt all there was to know about them and
their properties, and we must suppose that he similarly learnt the name
of the cicada, and that to injure it would cause darkness. In the
Aka-Bea legend recorded by Mr Man it is expressly stated that the
ancestors who performed the actions that led to the first darkness did
so because they were annoyed by the continuous heat of the sun [190].
Now we have here a very important feature of the legend which it will
not do to overlook. We shall find that it is a principle of the Andaman
legends that evil results follow from evil actions. Night, which, by
reason of its negative social value, is regarded as an evil, is shown
to be the result of the misbehaviour of one of the ancestors in giving
way to anti-social feelings of anger or annoyance. It is a case of like
producing like. When an individual gives way to such feelings as anger
he becomes a source of danger to the society, or at any rate a source
of social dysphoria by disturbing the harmony of the community. Thus,
in the legend, it was the wickedness of the ancestor in giving way to
his feeling of irritation that led to the social disaster. Inversely,
it was through the combined effort of the ancestors joining in a
harmonious action (singing and dancing) that the day was brought back.
The events of the legend are supposed to have taken place at a spot
named Golugma. I only visited this spot once and did not take
particular note of it, nor have I information about the position it
occupied in the social life of that part of the island in former times.
We do know, however, from the name Golugma Bud, that at one time it was
the site of a communal hut and was therefore an important camping
place. It may have been a place at which dance-meetings were frequently
held, and this would be a sufficient reason for its selection as the
legendary site of the first dance.
One of the minor motives of the Akar-Bale version of this story is the
identity of the ancestor who appears as the chief actor. I regret to
say that I have never found the exact meaning of the word teŋat. Though
I asked the natives to bring me a specimen they did not do so. It is
probably either a species of spider or of ant. However, even if I had
succeeded in identifying the teŋat, it is possible that I should not
have discovered the reason why this particular creature was selected as
the hero of the story. This can be shown by considering another of the
incidents of the story. All the ancestors who sang and tried to bring
back the day failed except the ko̱ŋoro. This is a species of small red
ant. Whenever I heard this story told or referred to, this particular
incident (the successful singing of ko̱ŋoro) caused great amusement
amongst the listeners. It was obvious that it was a good joke. Yet in
spite of my endeavours on more than one occasion I was unable to see
what the joke was.
In the A-Pučikwar version of the same legend [191] it was Pe̱tie, the
monitor lizard, who crushed the cicada and brought darkness. This is to
be explained not on the basis of any particular characteristic of the
lizard, but as being due to the position that this animal occupies in
the A-Pučikwar mythology in general as the first ancestor of the
Andamanese. As the first progenitor he is made responsible for the
origin of all sorts of things. The story of the origin of night must
have a chief actor, and in the absence of any important ground for
selecting any other of the ancestors the A-Pučikwar story-teller falls
back on the monitor lizard.
In the above analysis I have drawn a distinction between what may be
called major and minor motives of the story. The validity of the
interpretation of the legends offered in this chapter depends on the
validity of this distinction, and it is therefore important to provide
a method by which we can separate major from minor motives. This can
only be done when there are several versions of the same legend. Major
motives may be defined as those which appear in all the versions of one
legend, while minor motives are those which may vary from one version
to another without producing any fundamental change in the legend
itself. Thus, by a comparison of the Akar-Bale and the A-Pučikwar
versions it can be shown that the identity of the chief actor is a
minor and not a major motive.
If we compare the Akar-Bale legend with the Aka-Bea version recorded by
Mr Man we see that they have in common (1) the explanation of the
origin of night as due to the breaking of a rule, (2) the tracing back
of the trouble to the anti-social passion of anger on the part of the
actor or actors, (3) the account of the origin of dancing and singing
as a means of neutralising the effects of darkness. All the other
elements of the story are different in the two versions. In the Aka-Bea
story it is the killing of a grub (gurug) that brings on the night,
which is itself called gurug. What the meaning of this may be I cannot
say. I did not hear this version of the story, and was not able to make
any enquiries concerning it. All that it is necessary to note is that
both the legends express the social value of night, and they both
express it in very much the same way, the difference being that the
Akar-Bale version makes use of the connection between night and day and
the cicada, while the Aka-Bea story makes a similar use of some
connection (not yet explained) between the night and a grub.
Thus the comparison of different versions confirms the interpretation
here given. The legend expresses the negative social value of night as
a period when social activity is diminished and the power of protection
of the society therefore lessened. It does so by telling how the night
first arose as the result of disobedience to a ritual prohibition,
i.e., of meddling with the forces of nature. It traces the original
cause yet further back to the anger of one of the ancestors, anger
being itself a source of social disturbance. It passes on to express
the social value of the dance, with its accompanying song, and exhibits
the relation, within the system of social values, of dancing and
darkness. Thus, although the manner of expression may differ, yet what
is expressed is the same in both versions, and we are therefore
justified in regarding this as the essential content of them.
An exactly parallel explanation can be given of the Andaman notions
relating to the moon. The social value of moonlight is due to the fact
that it enables the natives to fish and catch turtle and dugong by
night. A clear moonlight night affords the best opportunity for
harpooning dugong. During the second quarter the light of the moon
steadily increases, and the period of moonlight falls in the first part
of the night. After the change to the third quarter the light steadily
diminishes, and moreover there is a gradually increasing period of
complete darkness at the beginning of the night. The natives do not
care to get up in the middle of the night to go fishing or hunting
turtle. Therefore the second quarter is the time when they undertake
such expeditions, and after the change to the third quarter they
abandon them largely or entirely, and if they do go out they have to
depend on torches. Therefore we may say that during the second quarter
the moon gives valuable help to the natives, but during the third
quarter withdraws that help.
At the beginning of the third quarter the moon rises in the evening
with a ruddy hue. The natives explain this red and swollen appearance
by saying that the moon is angry. When a man does something that hurts
or damages another it is generally (in Andamanese life) because he is
angry. So to say that the moon is angry is equivalent to saying that he
is damaging or hurting someone, as he is indeed damaging the society by
withdrawing the light by which for the past week or so they have been
able to capture fish and turtle. The phenomena of the change of the
moon in so far as they affect the social life are represented as if
they were the actions of a human being. We may describe this briefly by
saying that the moon is personified, using that term in a special sense
to be defined more exactly later. Amongst the Andamanese, as amongst
ourselves, anger is associated with heat, and this explains why the red
glow of the moon when he rises during the first few nights of the third
quarter is regarded as the visible sign of his anger.
Even the moon, however, is not to be expected to be angry without a
cause. The natives say that the anger is due to some bright light
having been visible at the time the moon rises. The personification is
thus further elaborated. The moon gives the light by which fishing and
turtle hunting at night are possible. This light has a positive social
value, and its withdrawal is an evil. They therefore regard the moon as
jealous, so jealous that if anyone makes use of an artificial light, as
of a fire or torch or burning resin, the moon immediately is consumed
with anger and withdraws the light that has been of so much use and has
not been sufficiently appreciated. This belief is a means by which the
value of the moonlight is recognized. Thus the beliefs about the moon
can be interpreted in exactly the same way as the legend about night;
both express, in accordance with the same psychological laws, the
social values of natural phenomena.
I will next consider not a single legend but a number of different
stories, running through all of which we can find a single major
motive. I have recorded [192] three legends which relate, with some
differences of detail, how in the beginning the ancestors had no fire,
how fire was introduced by one of them, and how many of them, being
burnt or frightened, were turned into animals of different kinds. In
one version [193] the sea-eagle came into the camp of the ancestors and
threw fire amongst them; whereby many of them being frightened were
turned into animals. Another version is very similar, the chief actor,
however, being the prawn [194]. In an Akar-Bale version Dim-do̱ri, now a
fish, obtained the fire and burnt some of the ancestors with it so that
they became fishes [195].
This legend is a widespread one, being found both in the north and in
the south of the islands. The fact that the actor is different in the
three recorded versions proves that the identity of the hero of the
tale is a minor motive, i.e., one that may be varied without affecting
the essential meaning of the myth.
The story serves as an explanation of the markings on birds and fishes,
these being where the ancestor who became the species was burnt by the
fire. Thus the legend is of the kind that is often called etiological.
The common method of explaining such legends is to say that they are
crude attempts on the part of primitive man to explain the natural
phenomena with which they deal, in this case the bright colours of
birds and fishes. Such an interpretation cannot be regarded as
adequate. Why should the Andaman Islanders want to explain the markings
of animals? Why should they explain them in the form of a legend, and
why should the legend take this peculiar form?
The clue to the true interpretation of the three stories mentioned must
be sought in the social value of fire. It was shown in the last chapter
that fire is regarded as the symbol of social life and social activity,
the centre around which the social life revolves, the source from which
it draws its force. We may say, in a word, that it is the possession of
fire that makes social life (as the Andamanese know it) possible. It
was shown that it is on account of this relation of the society to fire
that the latter is believed to be a source of security, of protection
against the spirits. Now amongst all the creatures that inhabit the
world, man is the only one that possesses and makes use of fire. Here,
then, is the fundamental notion that is expressed in these legends. At
first, so the story runs, animals and human beings were one, were not
distinguished. Then came the discovery of fire. Some of the
(undifferentiated) ancestors fled from the fire, because they were
afraid of it, or because it burnt them. They became birds and beasts
and fishes, retaining their fear of the fire, and being cut off for
ever from the human society which, from that moment, constitutes itself
around the fire. It is the possession of the fire that makes human
beings what they are, that makes life as they live it possible. It is
equally (according to the legend) the lack of fire, or the lack of
ability to make use of fire, that makes the animals what they are, that
cuts them off from participation in human life.
This, briefly, is the way I would explain the legend mentioned above,
and ample confirmation will be forthcoming when we consider some of the
other legends. Attention may be called here to a very significant
phrase in a version of the fire legend recorded by Mr Portman [196] to
the effect that “it was on account of the fire (i.e. of the possession
of fire) that the ancestors became alive.”
The three stories considered above contain three motives. (1) They
express the social value of fire, by making the foundation of human
society (through the differentiation of men and animals) depend on the
discovery of fire. (2) They express a peculiar notion as to the
relation of the human species to other animals, which is found also in
other legends. (3) They give a legendary explanation of some of the
characteristics of animals, such as the bright colours of certain birds
and fishes.
It would seem that these same motives are present in many of the
legends relating to the origin of fire. In the common version of the
fire legend the fire is stolen from Biliku (Puluga) by the kingfisher.
This bird has a patch of bright red feathers at the neck and these are
explained as being where he was struck by the fire or the pearl-shell
(lightning) flung by Biliku. In one variant the kingfisher swallowed
the fire and had his head cut off by the lightning, whereupon the fire
came out of his neck where the red feathers now are. In most of the
versions it would seem to be implied that though the kingfisher
succeeded in obtaining fire for the use of the ancestors, he was
himself unable to profit by his own exertions, for he was turned into a
bird condemned to eat his fish raw for ever. In one story, however,
from the Aka-Kede tribe, it would seem that the kingfisher, by the
possession of fire, and through the loss of his wings and tail, became
a man. There is a lack of logic here which it is worth while to note.
Although the kingfisher became a man yet the legend is clearly based on
the explanation of the red feathers of the bird’s neck as due to the
action of the fire. The psychological significance of such
inconsistencies as this will have to be discussed later on.
Let us now consider another group of legends. We have seen that one
explanation (in the mythological sense) of how the birds arose is that
they were ancestors who fled from the fire. There are other stories
that give a different account and relate that the animals came into
existence through a great flood or storm that overwhelmed the
ancestors. Both of these legends are to be found in the same tribes.
Their incompatibility does not prevent them from being both equally
accepted. If it can be shown that the story of the flood is simply an
alternative method of expressing the same set of representations that
underlie the story of the origin of the animals through the discovery
of fire, the interpretation of the latter will be in some degree
confirmed.
One account of the flood or storm, variants of which were obtained from
both the north and south of the islands, tells how the ancestors only
with great difficulty succeeded in saving the fire. Although it is not
explicitly stated, we may conclude, I think, that it was because some
of the ancestors kept their fire alight that they remained human, while
those who lost their fire were turned into animals. If my personal
impressions are of any value, this is really the idea that does
underlie the legend in the native mind. Thus it would appear that this
version of the flood myth is simply a reversal of the fire legend
previously considered. They both express the same thing in different
ways. They both make the possession of fire the thing on which social
(i.e., human) life depends, the fundamental difference between man and
animals.
It may be objected to this interpretation that in some of the versions
of the flood myth there is no reference to the ancestors being turned
into animals, while in others there is no reference to the saving of
the fire. The reply to this is that if we are to understand the legends
we must not consider each separately, but must seek out the connections
between the different stories, connections that are not always obvious.
Thus, as there are, in each of the tribes, different versions of a
flood myth it might be supposed that the natives believe in several
different floods having taken place in the times of the ancestors. Mr
Man seems to have come to the conclusion that there were two distinct
floods. I am fully satisfied, from personal knowledge, that the natives
think of only one flood or catastrophe, and refer to it all the
different legends. Sometimes a man will relate how the flood came and
the fire was nearly lost, but will make no mention of the origin of
animals at this time. At another time the same man will relate how the
flood turned the ancestors into animals, but will make no mention of
the saving of the fire. To understand the meaning of the legends we
must connect these different stories together, for we know that they
are connected in the minds of the Andaman Islanders themselves. Every
native knows that it was at the time of the flood that the animals came
into existence and he may remember this fact when he hears the story of
how the fire was nearly lost. Similarly, when he hears the story of how
the animals came into existence he remembers the other story of how the
fire was nearly lost. Thus one man gave me a legend of the flood which
explained the origin of the animals, and at the very end he mentioned
as an afterthought “It was at this time that the fire was saved by Maia
Taolu.”
When we thus connect the different stories relating to the flood we see
that they express a definite system of representations or beliefs,
which are found in all the tribes, and that this system is sometimes
completely and sometimes partially expressed in the different versions.
On the interpretation here suggested the major motives of the flood
myth are (1) the social value of fire as expressed by making the
difference between man and the animals depend on its possession by the
former and not by the latter, and (2) the notion of the animals as
having once been one with the ancestors. These two motives are both
present in the legends of the origin of fire that were previously
considered. It can be shown that even the third motive of the fire
legend manages to creep into the flood story. In the Aka-Kede version
[197] the dove is mentioned as having saved the fire. The connection
between the dove and the fire (which appears in other legends) [198]
would seem to have its basis in the shining plumage of the bird, just
as the kingfisher is connected with the fire through the red feathers
of its neck.
The details of the legends may be briefly mentioned. One Aka-J̌eru
version [199] explains how one of the ancestors made a noise by
breaking firewood while the cicada was singing and so raised a great
storm, in which the fire was nearly lost, and in which many of the
ancestors were turned into animals. This version is a fairly complete
expression of the fundamental representations on which the whole group
of legends is based. There is an elaboration of one point in that an
account is given of how the cyclone was brought about. This is a
separate motive which will be discussed and explained later in
connection with the Biliku myth.
Another legend from the same tribe [200] relates to a storm that was
caused in the same way, and that resulted in the destruction of the
whole world. The fire, which was nearly extinguished, was saved by one
of the ancestors. No mention was made of the ancestors being turned
into animals. This version, however, as I have recorded it, is
incomplete. I was unfortunately unable to understand some of what the
narrator told me.
The Aka-Kede version [201] similarly does not distinctly state that the
ancestors who were destroyed by the flood were turned into animals, but
the fact that the three persons mentioned in the legend are all birds
suggests that it was at this time that the birds originated. The bird
called čarami-lebek, having lowered the surviving ancestors to the
ground with their fire, remained at the top of the Dipterocarpus tree
and has been there ever since. The Aka-Ko̱l version of the same story
[202] simply states that the ancestors were turned into animals in a
cyclone, but contains no mention of the rescue of the fire.
In a number of these legends it is stated that the ancestors saved
themselves by climbing up into a tall tree or into the trees. This is
to be explained by the fact that the birds all live up in the trees,
and a great many of them can never be seen save overhead. The top of
the forest is where the birds live, it is their world, raised above the
world of men and women. The flood drove the inhabitants up to the tops
of the trees. The birds remained there and only the human beings came
down again. As the original inhabitants were driven up into the trees
by water covering the land we may complete the myth by saying that
those who failed to reach the upper world were on that account
compelled to spend the rest of their existence in the water as fish and
turtle. This is, I think, what the legend really means. Thus the story
of the flood gives a picture of a threefold world, the waters below
with their inhabitants the fishes and turtle and other marine
creatures, the solid earth, and the upper region of the top of the
forest where the flowers bloom and the butterflies and other insects
and the birds pass their lives. This representation of the top of the
forest as a world in itself may seem strange to one who has never seen
a tropical forest, but to one who has spent months beneath it the
forest-top of the Andamans does seem a world in itself, near yet
inaccessible, a world where there is a gay and interesting life in the
sunshine above, of which the wanderer in the deep shade beneath can
only catch occasional glimpses as he gazes up through the tangle of
boughs and leaves. For the natives of the islands therefore the top of
the forest is an alien world into which they can only penetrate with
extreme difficulty, by climbing, and with the life of which they have
little to do. Similarly the waters of the sea are another world into
which they can only penetrate for a few moments at a time by diving
[203].
It may be said that, on this view, no allowance is made for the
existence of terrestrial animals. That is true, but it must be
remembered that there are very few such animals in the Andamans. The
civet-cat and the monitor lizard and some of the snakes are as much
arboreal in their habits as they are terrestrial. There remain only the
pig and the rat as true terrestrial animals, and it may be noted that
neither of these two animals ever figures in the legends as an
ancestor. There are independent legends that relate to the origin of
the pig, and the rat seems to be of so little importance that no
explanation of its origin would seem to be necessary. Moreover the
monitor lizard and the civet-cat, which are partly terrestrial, occupy
for this reason exceptional positions in the legends. Thus there is a
legend recorded from the Aka-Kede tribe which accounts for the
simultaneous origin of the civet-cat and the pigs through a game of the
ancestors [204]. The monitor lizard is in an altogether exceptional
position in that it is equally at home in the trees, on the ground and
in the water of a creek. It is in a way free of all the three divisions
of the world. This helps us to understand why in some of the tribes the
monitor lizard is regarded as the original ancestor not only of the
Andamanese but also of all the animals, including the birds of the
forest and the fishes of the sea. The civet-cat cannot live in the
water as the lizard can [205], but can climb trees and run on the
ground. In many of the legends the civet-cat is said to be the wife of
the monitor lizard. It will be remembered that in the Akar-Bale story
it is the civet-cat, the wife of the first ancestor (the monitor
lizard), who saved the fire from the flood by climbing up to the top of
a steep hill with it. Thus it may be seen that the position of the
monitor lizard and the civet-cat in the legends of the Andamanese is
partly determined by the position that these two animals occupy in
relation to the threefold division of the world revealed in the story
of the flood.
The repeated mention of the Dipterocarpus tree in these legends would
seem to indicate that it is a motive of importance. The tree is the
tallest tree of the Andaman forests, and is very common, but it is
probable that this does not afford an adequate explanation, and that
there are other ideas connected with it in the minds of the Andamanese
that would justify the place it occupies in the mythology. In one
Aka-J̌eru story the whole forest is said to have sprung from a
Dipterocarpus seed dropped by Biliku after she had destroyed the
original forest in her anger. It may be noted in passing that in the
languages of the North Andaman the word for this tree is the same as
the word for dugong.
Let us now briefly examine the story of the origin of animals as
recorded from the Akar-Bale tribe [206]. There are three variants of
this story. The one recorded from an A-Pučikwar informant [207] must
really be regarded, I believe, as an imperfect reproduction of the
Akar-Bale version. The version given by Mr Man [208] is also of
Akar-Bale origin, as is shown by the fact that the phrases in it are in
the Akar-Bale language. A comparison of these variants shows that the
main purpose of the story is to relate how a great storm or cyclone
visited the islands in the times of the ancestors and turned many of
them into animals. The storm was brought about by the action of one of
the ancestors who in anger did some of the things that are known to
anger Puluga and cause a storm.
In some of the other legends we find the same motive. Thus in an
Aka-J̌eru legend [209] the flood is said to have been caused by one of
the ancestors breaking firewood while the cicada was singing. In an
Aka-Kede version [210] this part of the story is further elaborated,
and a reason is given for this action on the part of the ancestor.
Ko̱po-tera-wat was angry with the rest of the ancestors because they
refused to give him any of the honey they had collected, and he
therefore deliberately performed the action that brought the storm. The
purpose of these elements of the legend is to explain how the great
flood came about, by tracing it to the anti-social action of some one
or more of the ancestors, just as the night is supposed to have been
produced by an ancestor who performed a forbidden action. In the
Aka-Kede version and also, as we shall see, in the Akar-Bale story, the
matter is traced still further back and the anti-social action of the
ancestor is explained as being caused by his anger which had been
aroused by a disagreement with the ancestors. The origin of the
catastrophe that separated the once united ancestors into animals and
human beings is thus traced to the fact that they could not live
together sociably and in harmony.
In the Akar-Bale story the part which explains how one of the ancestors
came to give way to anger is highly elaborated. It starts with the
quarrel of the tree-lizard with some of the ancestors. (It may be noted
in passing that the tree-lizard is quarrelsome in reality.) This leads
to the death of the lizard (or his transformation into an animal that
still bears the name), and so to the grief of his mother and her anger
against the ancestors who have killed her son. This elaboration of one
part of the story tends to obscure the meaning of the whole. This is
particularly the case in the version recorded by myself in which the
anger of the tree-lizard is the direct cause of the change of some of
the ancestors into animals. The narrator sets out to explain how a
flood or cyclone came and turned the ancestors into fishes and birds.
He elaborates the details of the first part of the story to such an
extent that he loses sight of the conclusion. The purpose of the story
as explaining the origin of animals remains in his mind, however, and
gives rise to the description of how some of the animals had their
origin as animals (i.e., were cut off from the human society) by being
thrown by the lizard into the forest or into the sea. The legend in
this form may therefore be regarded as giving an alternative
explanation of the separation of the animals from the human society,
the cause of the separation being a great quarrel in which they were
all involved. In other words, human society is only possible if
personal anger be subordinated to the need of good order; the animals
are cut off from human society because they could not live peaceably
together without quarrelling.
The examination of the variants of the flood-myth has taken us away
from the main argument. In the various stories there are two separable
elements. There is first the explanation of how a disastrous flood or
storm was caused by the non-observance of ritual prohibitions connected
with Biliku (Puluga). This element will have to be considered in
relation to the Biliku myth. There is secondly the account of how
through the flood or storm the birds and fishes became separated from
the human race, and the three regions of the world, as the Andaman
Islander knows it, became established. It is this second element that I
have sought to explain. To repeat the argument, I would hold that it is
really through the loss of the fire that the birds and fishes became
cut off from mankind, and that therefore this element of the legends of
the flood expresses exactly the same notion as the legend of the
catastrophe that followed the discovery of fire. The two groups of
legends result from the way the Andaman Islander feels about the fire
as being the one thing on which the society most completely depends for
its welfare.
The preceding analysis has shown that the legends relating to the
origin of animals, whether through the action of fire, or by the flood,
serve to express the social value of fire. If this interpretation be
correct we have a close parallel to the explanation of the story of the
origin of night. In both cases, it has been argued, what the legend
really expresses is the way in which a particular phenomenon (fire, in
one case, the alternation of day and night in the other) affects the
life of the society and the sentiments on which that life depends. The
legends of the catastrophe, however, obviously contain another element
of importance, revealing as they do a certain way of thinking about the
animals. This element has not yet been explained. The representation of
the birds, etc., as ancestors is not confined to one particular legend
or group of legends, but runs through them all. Its explanation is
therefore better postponed until we come to deal with the general
features of the mythology, and will then have to be undertaken.
Let us now turn to the legends that concern Biliku (Puluga) and Tarai
(Deria), which are of capital importance in the Andaman mythology. The
clue to the understanding of them lies in the Andamanese notions about
the weather and the seasons. In the Andaman Islands the year may be
divided into four seasons. There is the cool season lasting from the
beginning of December to the middle of February; immediately following
this is the hot season from February to the middle of May; then comes
the rainy season, from May to the end of September; October and
November constitute a short season to themselves. In the cool season
the weather is uniformly cool; there is very little rain, and storms
are almost unknown; the wind blows uniformly from the N.E. In the hot
season there is little or no rain; the wind is generally N.E., but may
be variable; summer lightning is frequent, but there are no violent
storms except at the very end of the season. During the rainy season,
after a short period of uncertain stormy weather with which it begins,
the wind blows uniformly from the S.W.; it rains heavily, sometimes
every day for weeks together, but violent storms (cyclones) are very
rare. Between the rainy season proper and the cool season there is a
period of six or eight weeks in which the weather is unsettled; the
wind is variable; fine weather alternates with storms that are
sometimes of terrific violence; waterspouts are frequent; it is at this
season that violent cyclonic storms are likely to occur. This season is
called by the Andamanese Kimil (Gumul of Aka-Bea). We have seen in the
last chapter that the word kimil denotes a condition of social danger,
or of contact with the power possessed by all things that can affect
the life and safety of the society. It is obviously in this sense, and
not as meaning “hot,” that it is applied to the season in question, for
the months of October and November are fairly cool, certainly very much
cooler than February and March. We shall find that this is an important
point in connection with the Biliku myth.
The life of the Andaman Islander is profoundly affected by the
alternation of the seasons. There are, first of all, the violent
cyclonic storms that occasionally occur. Such a storm may uproot the
jungle for miles, making it impassable for years to come, and thus
destroying some of the native hunting grounds. The wind is sometimes so
violent as to tear every leaf from the trees in its path. While the
storm lasts there is danger to the lives of the natives. An old man
recounted to me how on the occasion of a violent cyclone he and the
others of his village took refuge in the sea and on the open shore from
the danger of falling trees, and remained there till the violence of
the storm had abated. The usual name for a cyclone in Aka-J̌eru is
to̱ko-po̱r, i.e. “falling wood” or “falling trees.” Even if all the
natives escape the danger of death or injury, there is still the
extreme fear and discomfort of the experience. If a storm lasts for any
length of time the natives, who are unable or afraid to go out hunting,
have to do without food until it is over. Incidentally the storm may
destroy their huts, canoes, and other property and thus cause loss that
has to be made up by toil.
The second important effect of the seasons on the life of the
Andamanese is through the food supply. During the cool season, and the
succeeding hot season, a number of vegetable foods, including the very
important roots and some of the most prized fruits, are available. On
the other hand, during these seasons the land animals are in poor
condition. In the hot season, at any rate, lizards, snakes and the
civet-cat are not eaten. Pigs are breeding and are in such poor
condition that often a pig that has been killed is left in the jungle
as being not good enough to eat. The hot season is pre-eminently the
season of honey, which is so abundant that the natives are able to
obtain much more than they can consume. In the rainy season there are
few vegetable foods and very little honey, but on the other hand the
jungle animals are in good condition and flesh food is abundant; fish
are more plentiful in this season than during the dry weather. In the
Kimil season (October and November) the natives add to their food
supply two varieties of grub (the larvæ of the cicada and of a beetle)
which are regarded as great delicacies. Roughly we can say that the
rainy season is the season of flesh food, the Kimil season is the
season of grubs, the cool season is the season of fruits and roots, and
the hot season is the season of honey.
By reference to the prevailing wind the year may be divided into two
parts, the N.E. monsoon from November to May, and the S.W. monsoon from
May to November.
I propose to show that the Andaman Islanders express the social value
of the phenomena of the weather and the seasons, i.e., the way these
phenomena affect the social life and the social sentiments, by means of
legends and beliefs relating to the two mythical beings whom they call
Biliku and Tarai. Using the word personification in a sense to be
defined later in the chapter, we may say that the Andamanese personify
the weather and the seasons in the persons of Biliku and Tarai. Biliku
is associated with the N.E. monsoon; she lives in the N.E.; the wind
from that quarter is called “the Biliku wind”; to Biliku, therefore,
belong the cool and the hot seasons, these being the seasons of the
N.E. monsoon. Tarai is associated with the S.W. monsoon; he lives in
the S.W.; the wind from that quarter is called “the Tarai wind,” or, in
Aka-Bea, simply Deria; to Tarai therefore belongs the rainy season. It
is possible to show that the Andaman Islanders associate with these two
beings all the phenomena of the weather and the seasons, and are able
to represent the changes of the latter as though they were the actions
of human or anthropomorphic beings.
In the mass of beliefs and stories relating to Biliku and Tarai there
are some elements on which there is absolute agreement in all the
tribes of the Great Andaman Division. I propose to treat these as being
the most important elements. There is absolute unanimity, for instance,
as to the connection of Biliku and Tarai with the N.E. and the S.W.
respectively, and with the winds that blow from these two points of the
compass. Further, this belief does not conflict in any way with any
other belief of the Andamanese. There is similar unanimity in the
beliefs that Biliku is angry at the digging up of yams, and at the
melting of bees’-wax. There are other matters on which the agreement is
fairly general but not absolute. For instance, there is a common belief
that it was Biliku who first discovered fire, but there are also
legends as to the origin of fire in which Biliku does not figure. I
propose to treat such elements as these as being of secondary
importance. Finally there are other elements with regard to which the
beliefs of different tribes are not in agreement. For instance, in the
South Andaman Puluga is regarded as male, while in the North Andaman
Biliku is female. I propose to regard such elements as being of only
minor importance, i.e., as not being closely connected with the central
notion or notions expressed in the myth.
Applying the strict method outlined above, we may begin by noting that
there is complete unanimity in regard to the connection of Biliku and
Tarai with the N.E. and the S.W. respectively, and therefore with the
monsoons. No interpretation of the myth can be adequate unless it sets
out from this fact. The connection is so firmly fixed that it appears
in the names of the winds themselves [211]. Even in this matter of the
winds, however, there is a slight difference in the detail of the
beliefs in different tribes. In the North Andaman it would seem that
only the two principal winds are recognized; the S.W. wind (more
accurately W.S.W.) is called “the Tarai wind” (not, be it noted, “the
wind of Tarai”); the N.E. (or more accurately N.N.E.) wind is called
“the Biliku wind.” These two winds are by far the most important, as
the former blows steadily throughout the rainy season and the latter
blows with almost equal steadiness throughout a good part of the cool
and hot seasons. In the Aka-Bea and Akar-Bale tribes the general belief
seems to be precisely the same as in the North Andaman. Only the two
principal winds are considered to be of importance and one is
associated with Deria and the other with Puluga. In these two tribes,
as in the North Andaman, practically no notice is taken of the
existence of winds from other quarters. In the A-Pučikwar tribe there
is a notable difference, of great importance to the true interpretation
of the legend. There is a dual division of the winds; the S.W. wind is
called Teria; the other winds (of which a number are recognized) are
all called Bilik. Thus Bilik is a generic name for a number of winds,
namely for all the northerly or easterly winds, including not only the
N.E., but also the N.W. and S.E. winds. The S.W. wind is called by a
simple name, Teria, or as it would be better rendered in English “the
Teria.” The other winds are called by compound names such as Me̱tepur
Bilik, Ko̱ičo Bilik, etc., which we can only translate as “the N.E.
Bilik,” “the East Bilik,” etc.
Two things of importance are shown by the consideration of these facts.
The first is that there is a sense in which it may be said that the
Andaman Islanders personify the winds in the persons of Biliku and
Tarai; they apply to the natural phenomenon a name which is also the
name of a mythological person, and they apply it directly and not in a
possessive form, i.e., they say “the Bilik” or “the Biliku wind” and
not “Biliku’s wind.” The second is that only the S.W. wind is
associated with Tarai and all the other winds are associated with
Biliku.
The last point is one of considerable importance in the interpretation
of the myth. If we divide the year by reference to the prevailing
winds, then the rainy season, with the exception of its beginning and
its end, belongs to the S.W. wind; the hot season (save its end) and
the cool season may be regarded as belonging to the N.E. wind, though
the wind may be variable in the hot season; there remain two portions
of the year, at the change of the monsoon, when the wind is variable,
which cannot be classified as belonging strictly to the S.W. or to the
N.E. wind. The fact that all these variable winds are denoted in the
A-Pučikwar tribe by the name Bilik shows that in this tribe they are
all classified with the N.E. wind. In this way the year is divided into
two slightly unequal parts, one belonging to Teria or Tarai including
the whole of the rainy season except the end and the very beginning,
the other belonging to Bilik (Biliku) including the Kimil season, the
cool season, the hot season, and even the first few days of the rainy
season. This strict division only appears in the A-Pučikwar tribe, but
it will be shown that an approximation to the same notion is found in
the other tribes.
There is general agreement in all the tribes in the belief that storms
are due to Biliku or Tarai. Both of them send rain and thunder and
lightning, but whenever mention is made in the legends of a violent
storm it is always Biliku who is mentioned as causing it, and never by
any chance Tarai. Thus, in regard to this matter of storms, it is
evident that Biliku is more important than Tarai, and this is only one
example of the preponderance of Biliku over her consort. This
preponderance will need to be explained as one of the essentials of the
myth [212].
We have already seen how the Andaman Islander represents any natural
phenomenon having negative social value as though it were the result of
the action of a person in anger, this being the one anti-social passion
with which he is most familiar in his own life. Thus the withdrawing of
the light of the moon after the full is explained as being due to the
anger of the moon. The negative social value of a violent storm is
obvious. In accordance with the general principles of his mythology the
Andaman Islander therefore explains the storm as being due to the anger
of a personal mythical being. But storms are intimately connected with
the winds, so that it must be Biliku and Tarai (in whom the winds are
personified) who are responsible for the storms. Further, in the
Andamans, violent storms are very rare except at two special periods of
the year, at the change of the monsoon. This gives a further ground of
association with Biliku and Tarai between whom the seasons are divided.
We have seen that in classifying the winds the natives (of one tribe at
any rate) associate with Tarai only the steady S.W. wind which brings
not cyclones and violent storms but steady rain, while all the other
winds are associated with Biliku. If this be so it is clear that a
cyclone, with its wind veering from one quarter to another, must be the
work of Biliku. Further, if the Biliku season be regarded as including
all the periods of variable northerly and easterly winds as well as the
period of the steady N.E., then we can say that it is only in the
Biliku period that violent storms are likely to occur. It is evident
therefore that an examination of the natural phenomena themselves gives
us an adequate reason for the preponderance of Biliku over Tarai in the
legends. This will be made even more evident as we proceed.
Another law of the Andaman mythology is that a person, such as the
moon, is never angry without cause. There are a number of actions that
are believed by the Andamanese to cause the anger of Biliku; of these
there are three of extreme importance, all the others being certainly
of much less importance. It is necessary, therefore, to examine these
three carefully and find their meaning.
There is absolute agreement in all the tribes with regard to the belief
that Biliku is angry and sends bad weather when bees’-wax is melted or
burnt. The season of honey is the hot season from February to May.
During the rainy season scarcely any honey is to be found and that only
of the inferior (black) variety. It is clear therefore that honey
belongs particularly to the Biliku portion of the year. During the hot
season honey is abundant and large quantities are collected. As the
natives make use of the wax, and as this is useless till it has been
melted, this is the special season of the melting of bees’-wax. At the
beginning of the season the Biliku wind blows calmly from the N.N.E. As
the season draws to a close the wind becomes variable, uncertain, and
in some years violent storms occur ushering in the rains of the S.W.
monsoon. Year after year the wax-melting season comes to a close in
stormy weather. Now stormy weather and the anger of Biliku are, for the
Andaman Islander, one and the same thing, so that to say that the anger
of Biliku follows the melting of bees’-wax is in one sense simply a
statement of actual observable fact.
Another belief about which there is absolute unanimity in all parts of
the Islands is that Biliku is angry when certain plants are cut down or
dug up. These plants include some of the most valuable vegetable foods
of the Andamanese, such as the yams and the pith of the Caryota palm.
Amongst the roots and fruits associated with Biliku there are one or
two that were not botanically identified. All of them, however, about
which I was able to obtain any information whatever, are available as
food during the cool and hot seasons, and either not at all or in very
small quantities during the rainy season. On the other hand, of the
vegetable foods that are available during the rainy season, not one is
ever mentioned as being in any way connected with Biliku. Further,
amongst all the foods of the cool and hot seasons only those are
intimately connected with Biliku which begin to be available during the
Kimil season. A few examples may be mentioned. The yams and other
edible roots are not found at all in the rainy season, but the tubers
begin to form in the Kimil season (October and November) and small
quantities of these roots are available for food at that time. By the
time the cool season has set in the roots become abundant, and they
continue to be found until well on into the hot season. All these roots
are regarded as being specially connected with Biliku and are spoken of
as her foods. The same thing applies to the Caryota sobolifera of which
the pith is eaten either raw or cooked. The pith begins to form in the
Kimil season, and this highly prized food is available right through
the cool season. The fruit of the Cycas, which is another of those
belonging to Biliku, also begins to ripen at the beginning of the cool
weather. As regards the Entada scandens, Kurz, in his Burmese Flora,
mentions it as seeding in the “cold season.” I neglected to take note
of the relation of this plant to the seasons, but the statement of Kurz
may be relied on. Thus it is seen that the vegetable foods that are
associated with Biliku are those that begin to be available for food
during the Kimil season and are abundant during the cool season. Now
the Kimil season, which is really the opening of the N.E. or Biliku
monsoon, is the season at which cyclonic storms are likely to occur.
Here again therefore, as in the case of bees’-wax, there is a definite
ground of association in familiar natural phenomena. Year after year,
as these foods begin to ripen and to be eaten, the islands are visited
with stormy weather, sometimes of exceptional violence. When the
Andaman Islander says that the stormy weather which is the sign of the
anger of Biliku follows the digging up of yams and the cutting down of
the Caryota palm or the gathering of the seeds of the Cycas or Entada,
he is stating what is an actual fact.
The case of these vegetable foods is in one way different from that of
bees’-wax. The melting of the wax goes on for some weeks before the
anger of Biliku is finally aroused, when storms come to punish the
offenders, and the change of season cuts short the supply of honey. In
the case of the roots, etc., it would seem that it is only the first
step that counts. The danger lies in the beginning of the season. Once
the anger of Biliku has burst forth the bad weather ceases, the danger
is past, and weeks of fine weather ensue, during which the natives may
eat freely of the foods in question without fear of consequences. In
this connection considerable importance may be attached to a statement
made to me on more than one occasion, to the effect that the most
efficient way of stopping a storm is to go into the forest and destroy
the plants that belong to Biliku, i.e., do the very things that make
her angry. We may apply this to the events of the Kimil season. The
natives begin to dig up yams and collect other vegetable foods, and
thereupon Biliku becomes angry and stormy weather follows. All that the
natives have to do is to show sufficient persistence in continuing to
eat yams, etc., and the anger of Biliku is bound to subside and the
stormy weather to cease.
There is a third belief that is generally accepted in all parts of the
Great Andaman, that Biliku is angry if a cicada be killed, or if a
noise be made while the cicada is singing in the morning or the
evening. The interpretation of this belief is made difficult by the
fact that there is also an association between the cicada and the day
and night. Thus Mr Man states that the prohibition against making a
noise at dawn (while the cicada is singing) is associated not with
Puluga but with the sun [213].
The grub of the cicada is eaten during the Kimil season, and at no
other time of the year. Here the association is simple enough. The
killing of the cicada (grub) takes place only during a brief season,
and this is the season when cyclones occur. However, the grub of a
beetle is eaten at the same season and yet I never heard of any
connection between Biliku and this other grub. Certainly if there is a
belief in such a connection it is very much less important than the
belief relating to the cicada. Further, there is the belief that if the
imago of the cicada be killed or if a noise be made while the cicada is
singing, Biliku will be angry and will send bad weather, which is
obviously not simply the result of the custom of eating the grub of the
cicada during the Kimil season.
The relation of the cicada to Biliku is almost certainly due to the
connection of the insect with the seasons. Unfortunately, not then
recognizing the importance of the matter, I did not, while in the
Andamans, take particular note of the relation of the life-cycle of the
cicada to the revolution of the seasons, and I am reluctant to trust to
vague memories of matters to which I did not pay special attention. Mr
Man states, apparently on the authority of a native, that during the
cold and dry seasons the cicada is seldom seen (and is therefore
presumably also seldom heard). What I believe to be the life-cycle of
the insect is as follows. During the rainy season only the adult
insects are to be found. They lay their eggs at some period during the
rainy season, possibly towards the end. In October and November the
eggs have developed into pupæ, and it is these that the natives eat;
but apparently the adult insects, or some of them, still survive at
this time and are to be seen and heard. By about December the last of
the adult insects die out and the grubs have not yet attained the adult
form, so that there is a period during which no adult insects are
either seen or heard. It is probable that the new generation makes its
first appearance in adult form as soon as the first rains of the rainy
season begin.
The essential point, on which we can base an interpretation of the
myth, is that the cicada is not seen or heard during the fine weather
(December to March). It probably, as stated above, makes its
reappearance just at the period of the stormy weather that ushers in
the rainy season. Similarly, it does not disappear until after the end
of the stormy period of the Kimil season. (I have certainly heard and
seen the insect in October, and to the best of my recollection in
November also.) Thus the cicada is definitely associated with the part
of the year including the rainy season and the two stormy periods at
its beginning and end. I believe that this is the fundamental fact that
explains the Andamanese beliefs about the connection of the insect with
the weather.
I was told of a ceremony that was held at the end of the Kimil season
in the Akar-Bale tribe (and possibly in other tribes also) the purpose
of which was said to be to ensure fine weather for some months and
which is called “Killing the cicada.” The ceremony consists of doing
the very thing that is believed to produce storms, viz., making a noise
while the cicada is singing in the evening. As soon as the cicadæ begin
to sing all the persons in camp make as much noise as they can by
banging bamboos on the ground, striking the sounding-board, or
hammering on the sides of canoes, thus making just the kinds of noise
that are said to be most disliked by the cicada. According to the
statement of my informant this ceremony results in “killing” all the
cicadæ so that they are not heard again for many weeks, and while this
silence lasts fine weather is assured. The meaning of this little
ceremony is plain when we recall the fact that though the digging up of
yams and the cutting down of the Caryota palm anger Biliku and result
in storms yet sufficient persistence in these actions, and therefore in
any others that are displeasing to Biliku, results in dispelling the
bad weather. Thus it is seen that although the matter is a little more
complicated, yet the belief in the connection of the cicada with Biliku
and with bad weather can be explained on exactly the same lines as the
beliefs about bees’-wax and vegetable foods. The fact that the same
explanation can be given of the three most important prohibitions
connected with Biliku gives a high degree of probability to the
interpretation here offered. These three beliefs are the only ones of
real importance. I am unable to explain the connection of Biliku with
the species of fish, the bird and the two kinds of wood mentioned on
page 156. In the North Andaman there is a definite association between
Biliku and spiders, the generic name for “spider” being biliku. I
believe that this could be explained on the same basis as the
connection with the cicada, i.e., through the connection of spiders
with the changes of the seasons, but as I unfortunately neglected to
take note of the habits of the spiders of the Andamans I cannot speak
with any certainty and therefore prefer not to enter into a discussion
of the subject [214].
The explanation that I have to offer of these beliefs relating to
Biliku and to the things that offend her is that they are simply the
statement in a special form of observable facts of nature. The rainy
season comes to an end, the wind becomes variable, yams and other
vegetable products begin to ripen and are used for food, and stormy
weather comes, some years bringing cyclones of exceptional violence.
Then follows a period of steady N.E. winds with fine weather and
abundance of vegetable foods, during which the noise of the cicada is
not to be heard. Then comes the honey season, when everyone is busy
collecting honey and melting bees’-wax. The wind becomes very variable,
storms come, the fine weather comes to an end and the rainy season
begins again. These facts affect the feelings of the Andaman Islander
and he expresses his impressions by regarding all these happenings as
if they were the actions of an anthropomorphic being. The vegetable
products, the cicada, and the honey all belong to Biliku. When the yams
are dug up she is angry, or in other words, storms occur; a storm is
the anger of Biliku. The cessation of the song of the cicada removes
one of the possible causes of the anger of Biliku, and therefore marks
the period of fine weather. That anger appears once more when the
natives busy themselves with melting bees’-wax.
It may be noted that these beliefs about Biliku give an expression of
the social value of honey and bees’-wax and of vegetable foods such as
yams. The Andaman Islands provide few fruits containing natural sugar.
Yet the natives are inordinately fond of sweet things; they greatly
enjoy the sugar that they now obtain from the Settlement of Port Blair.
Honey, which was almost their only sweet food in former times, was
therefore very greatly valued. Apart from the yams and other foods
associated with Biliku there are very few productions of the Andamans
containing starch in a palatable form. To the native who has been
living during the rainy season almost entirely on meat and fish, the
starchy foods of the stormy season (yams, Caryota, etc.) are of great
value, and they are very highly prized. Thus the foods associated with
Biliku all have a high value.
We all know how the value of an object is increased if, in order to
obtain it, we have to make some considerable effort or sacrifice, or
put ourselves in danger of some evil. Reversing this mental process,
the Andaman Islander expresses his sense of the value of honey and yams
by the statement that to obtain them he must be prepared to risk the
anger of Biliku with its results. It was shown in the last chapter that
the value of food in general is expressed in the belief that all food
is more or less dangerous to eat, and that ritual precautions must be
observed if the danger is to be avoided. Here in the Biliku myth, we
have a further example of the same sort of mental process, in relation
not to all foods in general but to a few foods of special value. Yet
another example may be given. Roast pork is highly relished by the
natives, and they believe that the roasting of pork offends certain
spirits of the sky and is therefore dangerous [215].
Returning now to the subject of Biliku as the sender of cyclones, it is
necessary for the argument, even at the risk of repetition, to show (1)
that this is by far the most important attribute of Biliku, and (2)
that it follows immediately from her connection with the N.E. monsoon.
Taking the second point first, we may note, in the first place, that
while Tarai is associated with the steady S.W. wind which blows with
very little variation for months at a time, Biliku is associated with
the variable winds of the hot season. Now a characteristic of a
cyclonic storm is the way in which the wind veers from one quarter to
another. Further, as most of the cyclones that cross the Andamans
travel from the south-east in a north-westerly direction, and the
movement of the cyclone is in a counter-clockwise direction, the first
wind of a cyclonic storm when it strikes the islands comes from the
north-east. This may be seen from the accompanying diagram. It is only
at the very end of the storm, when the storm centre has passed, that
the wind blows from the south-west. Thus it is clear that the
association of cyclones with Biliku and not with Tarai is determined by
the nature of the phenomena which the Biliku-Tarai myth sets out to
explain.
That the most important attribute of Biliku is her connection with the
cyclones is evident when we consider the legends in which she is
mentioned. In most of the legends in which her name occurs [216] she is
spoken of as being angry with the ancestors, and we know that a cyclone
and the anger of Biliku are, for the Andaman Islander, one and the same
thing. In some of the stories mention is made of a great storm that
Biliku sent which nearly destroyed the world. All through the legends
we find her pictured as a being whose anger is to be feared, who has
the power to destroy human life and human property. Tarai is never
mentioned in this way, for the rains of the south-west monsoon
themselves have no such power.
We are now in a position to compare the characters of Biliku and Tarai
and explain their relative positions in the myth. The reason for the
preponderance of Biliku lies in the fact that it is she who sends
cyclones, while Tarai sends nothing more than heavy showers of rain.
Tarai is never responsible for the destruction of life and property,
whereas Biliku is. Thus the preponderance of Biliku follows from the
essentials of the myth. Secondly, Tarai is constant, ever the same,
whereas Biliku is changeable. The rainy season of one year is exactly
like that of another, and during the time it lasts the weather is
consistent throughout. On the contrary, one year the Biliku season
brings a terrific storm, and another year it is much less violent,
while, from day to day during certain parts of the Biliku season the
weather is unsettled, so that you cannot tell what the morrow will
bring with it. It is obvious that this uncertainty about the actions of
Biliku, the fact that she cannot altogether be reckoned with, would
tend to make her of greater importance in the eyes of the Andamanese
than her consort Tarai.
Let us now consider the question of the sex of Biliku. On this matter
there is a lack of agreement. In the North Andaman Tarai is declared to
be male and Biliku female. It can readily be shown that this results
from the position of Biliku and Tarai as regulating the seasons. Tarai
rules over the rainy season, in which the chief food is the flesh of
animals of the land and of the sea; it is the business of men to
provide flesh-food. On the contrary Biliku rules over the seasons in
which the chief foods are vegetable products of different kinds; it is
the business of women to provide such foods. It is only men who go out
hunting for pigs or turtle or who harpoon or shoot fish, and it is
always the men who attend to the first part of the cooking of pig,
turtle and dugong; it is the women who dig up the yams and collect the
fruits and seeds, and it is the women also who cook them. There is a
very real sense, then, in which flesh foods may be called the foods of
men, and vegetable foods may be called the foods of women, and, since
flesh foods are the foods of Tarai and vegetable foods are the foods of
Biliku, there is a sound reason for calling Tarai male and Biliku
female.
This way of thinking of Biliku as female is in harmony with her
character as outlined above. Women (in the Andamans) are notoriously
uncertain, changeable creatures. You can always reckon fairly well what
a man will do, but not so with a woman. Moreover, when the Andaman
Islander wishes to picture to himself a pair of closely associated
beings, it is natural that he should compare them to the most closely
associated couple with which he is familiar,—husband and wife. This
tendency leads him to make the sun and moon man and wife in many of his
legends, and it may well be expected to have its influence on the
Biliku myth also.
In the South Andaman however, both Puluga and Daria are said to be
male. It can be shown that this view is also appropriate in its way.
The Akar-Bale say that Puluga and Daria were once friends, but have
quarrelled and now live at opposite ends of the earth and are
perpetually renewing their quarrel. Daria has things to himself for a
few months (the S.W. monsoon) and sends his wind; then Puluga makes an
attack on him; some weeks of unsettled weather ensue while they are
fighting, until Daria is beaten and Puluga takes over the control of
the weather and sends the N.E. wind. By and by, however, Daria shows
himself again and there is another quarrel, with its unsettled and
stormy weather, which ends in the defeat of Puluga and the
reinstatement for a period of Daria. Even the bald language in which it
is stated does not quite hide the poetical grandeur of this conception
of the world as the arena of two battling giants in a never-ending
quarrel. Those who have lived through a tropical cyclone with its wind
changing from one quarter to another, its consummate violence, its
sudden onslaught, its pause (that is felt to be merely a pause) as the
centre of the disturbance reaches and passes you, and then its sudden
renewal of the mad combat with the wind coming now from the opposite
quarter, cannot but recognize in the Akar-Bale myth a successful
attempt to describe such a storm in figurative language.
Such a combat could only be pictured by the Andamanese as taking place
between two men, and the myth in this form therefore necessarily
involves the belief that both Puluga and Daria are male. It is evident,
therefore, that this view has some justification, that it does enable
the Andaman Islander to express the feelings and impressions evoked in
him by the phenomena of the weather. I venture to think, however, that
the southern myth is not quite so satisfactory as the northern one,
does not translate quite so well all the different features of the
natural phenomena with which it deals [217].
A most important element of the myth is the connection of Biliku
(Puluga) with fire. In all the tribes there are legends that represent
Biliku as the first possessor of fire, which was, according to some
versions, given by her to the ancestors, and according to others stolen
from her by one of them. There can be no doubt that these legends owe
their origin to the connection between Biliku the storm-sender and
lightning.
There are several different beliefs about the lightning. According to
one of these the lightning (Ele) and the thunder (Korude) are persons,
who produce the phenomena of the same name. Another belief is that
thunder and lightning are produced by Biliku and Tarai. On the whole,
it would seem that the latter belief is the one which is most
frequently present to the minds of the natives. A man seeing lightning
in the sky will say, according to the season, the prevailing wind,
etc., Biliku čatobom, or Tarai čatobom; “Biliku (or Tarai) is at work.”
There are different accounts, however, of the way in which Biliku makes
the lightning. One belief is that it is a fire-brand flung by her
through the sky; a second is that it is a mother-of-pearl shell (be)
similarly flung; yet a third statement is that she produces the
lightning by striking a pearl shell (be) on a red stone.
There is no doubt that the Andamanese regard lightning as fire; the
charring of trees struck by it is sufficient to convince them of this.
Thus lightning and the sun are the only two natural fires that they
know. (With the relation of Biliku to the sun I shall deal later.) As
the wielder of lightning Biliku thus becomes the possessor of fire. The
simplest of the different beliefs, the one following immediately from
the natural phenomena, would be, therefore, that which makes the
lightning a fire-brand. This is, on the whole, the one that is most
usually expressed, at any rate in the South Andaman.
The explanation of lightning as a shell depends not only upon the
pearly lustre of this kind of shell, but also on other features of it.
The shell in question (be) is used by women alone, and its use is
confined to slicing yams and other vegetables in preparing them for
food. Its association with Biliku therefore follows from the view of
Biliku as female and as being especially associated with yams and other
vegetable foods. Granting this fundamental connection, then the
brightness of the shell, its keen edge and the way in which it can be
made to skim through the air, will explain the statement that lightning
is just such a shell thrown by Biliku. In the South Andaman, where
Puluga is regarded as male, this belief about the pearl shell would be
out of harmony with the rest of the myth, and, as we should expect, it
is not found. However, the Aka-Bea word for lightning (be-iŋa, the -iŋa
or -ŋa being a suffix) suggests that they may have had a similar belief
in the past [218].
In the North Andaman the two views of lightning as a fire-brand and as
a shell are both held, because they both, in different ways, fit in
well with the rest of the myth. There is yet a third view in which
these two contradictory beliefs are, as it were, reconciled. This is
that Biliku produces lightning by striking a pearl shell against a red
stone.
In the North Andaman the action of throwing a shell or a fire-brand is
regarded as typical of Biliku; this is the way in which she is pictured
by the native, and in which she would doubtless be portrayed if the
Andamanese had a pictorial art. In the dance described in an earlier
chapter, in which the dancer gave representations of various mythical
beings, Biliku was represented by the dancer holding a shell in his
hand and dancing round threatening to throw the shell at the
spectators.
The representation of Biliku or Puluga as throwing her lightning in the
form of a fire-brand or a shell appears in several of the legends of
the origin of fire, and in particular in the legend of which different
versions are found in all parts of the islands that tells how the
kingfisher stole fire from Biliku and how the latter flung a fire-brand
or a shell at the thief.
The most usual form of the fire legend, and the only one that I ever
heard, is that in which the fire is stolen. Mr Man has recorded a
version in which Puluga is represented as giving the fire to the
ancestors. Considerable importance attaches to this motive of the story
as it reveals to us the way in which the Andamanese usually think of
Biliku and of their own relation to her. She is not, so far as these
stories go, a benefactress who by the invention of fire has earned the
gratitude of men, but rather a person with whom the human society, both
in the time of the ancestors and at the present day, is in a condition
of opposition. Though Biliku had fire, yet she kept it for herself and
it was only obtained from her by stealth. She was angry when her fire
was stolen and tried to punish the offender.
This opposition between Biliku and the ancestors is shown in other
legends. In some of the stories she is represented not as living with
the ancestors, but as living on one side of a narrow strait while the
ancestors lived on the other, as in the Akar-Bale and A-Pučikwar
legends. She is thus separated from the ancestors in the minds of the
natives. In the Aka-Kede legend the ancestors eat the foods that Bilika
regards as specially belonging to her, and she kills them. As a result
the ancestors join together and kill Bilika. In the Akar-Bale version
something of the same sort appears; Puluga is always getting angry with
the ancestors because they eat vegetable foods, and in his anger he
destroys their huts and other property (as a cyclone does, and as an
Andaman Islander is sometimes known to do in a fit of temper); at last
the ancestors send him away out of the world. In the A-Pučikwar legend
Bilik goes away from the world in anger because the ancestors steal his
fire. In the Aka-J̌eru version Biliku eats up all the food of the
ancestors, and so they go away and leave her; she then destroys them
with her shells (lightning) and finally perishes in an attempt to cross
the sea on a stone. All these legends seem to express much the same
thing in different ways, namely the existence of a condition of
hostility between Biliku and human beings, based on the fact that the
latter venture to make use of the things (yams, etc.) that Biliku
regards as peculiarly her property. There can be no doubt that this is
the usual way in which the Andamanese conceive the relation between
Biliku and the ancestors, and therefore, since the ancestors represent
the society in its beginnings, between Biliku and themselves. This
relation is quite in agreement with what we have seen to be the
essential basis of the myth. The natives obtain from the N.E. monsoon
things highly valued, such as yams and honey, but they are given as it
were grudgingly after a period of storms, and finally taken away in
another period of storms.
This view of Biliku as hostile to mankind is not, however, absolutely
universal if we are to accept Mr Man’s account of the myths of the
South Andaman. Mr Man describes Puluga as the creator of the world and
the beneficent ruler of mankind. Although I could not find a native who
held exactly the same views about Puluga as those that Mr Man
represents as being the views commonly held in the tribes he studied
(Aka-Bea and A-Pučikwar), yet there is no doubt that at times, and more
particularly in the southern tribes, the natives do regard Puluga as
the benefactor and even the creator of the human race [219].
The representation of Biliku as hostile to mankind depends upon her
position as the angry storm-sender, and this, as the legends show, does
seem to be the more usual way of regarding her. But there is another
and contrary aspect of Biliku. The revolution of the seasons brings to
the Andamanese new supplies of relished foods,—the grubs of the Kimil
season, the yams and honey of the cool and hot seasons. One of the
Andamanese names for the season of the N.E. monsoon means “the season
of abundance.” Therefore Biliku, as the personification of this season,
is herself the giver of good things. This aspect finds a partial
expression in the legends. Biliku is regarded as having created or
discovered the use of all the natural productions associated with her.
(In one legend it is Pe̱rǰido, the son of Biliku, who discovers honey
with his mother’s help.) She thus occupies a position similar to that
of the other ancestors, towards whom the men of the present feel
grateful for the benefits they have bestowed on mankind. This view of
Biliku as benefactress is often extended in the North Andaman to the
belief that it was she who invented all the arts now practised by
women, and there are traces of a belief that it was her son Pe̱rǰido who
was similarly responsible for the arts practised by men.
This view of Biliku as a benefactress, although it conflicts to some
extent with the view of her as on the whole hostile to mankind, yet,
since it springs from the essential basis of the myth, cannot be
overlooked. During the stormy season the Andaman Islander may well
forget every aspect of Biliku save that she is responsible for the
storms of which he goes in fear, but during the fine weather of the
N.E. monsoon, when there is no longer any fear of a violent storm and
when he is enjoying an abundance of the good things that he regards as
especially belonging to Biliku, his feeling towards her must be of a
very different nature; she is then the being who gives him the fine
weather, the relished foods. Thus, contrary though they be, these two
aspects of Biliku are both integral parts of the myth.
But Biliku is also the first possessor of fire, and we have seen that
fire is regarded by the Andamanese as the source of the life of
society, and therefore, in a way, of all life. Biliku as the source
from which comes the fire is also the source of life. This view of
Biliku is certainly to be found in all parts of the islands, though it
has been developed more in the South than in the North. Biliku thus
becomes responsible for the beginning of the society, and since the
whole universe centres in the society, of the whole universe. She
becomes the being who created or arranged the order in which men live.
For the honour of this position Biliku has, however, a competitor.
Besides the lightning there is another natural source of fire, the sun.
We find therefore two different (and contrary) developments of the myth
of the beginning of the world. In one of these the sun is associated
with Biliku, is regarded as belonging to her or made by her. For
instance, in an Aka-Kede legend, she is stated to have made the sun by
throwing a flaming brand into the sky. By this means Biliku becomes the
sole source of fire and therefore of life. This is the position that
Puluga occupies in the versions of the legends recorded by Mr Man. In
those legends Puluga gives fire to the first human beings by making the
sun come down to earth and ignite a pile of wood. The alternative
development makes the sun independent of Biliku and it is then the sun,
or a mythical person associated directly with the sun, who becomes the
maker of the world, the source of life. Unfortunately, I did not obtain
much detailed information about this development of the myth. In the
North Andaman the being named Čara is associated with the sun and with
fine weather, and is certainly sometimes regarded as the maker of the
world. In the South Andaman it is Tomo who is associated with the sun.
Men and women, when they die, go to live with Tomo in the sky. It is
Tomo who is responsible for all things being as they are. He was the
first being; it was he who arranged the order of nature; and similarly
it was he who created the social order, so that a question as to why
some custom is observed is often answered by saying that it was Tomo
who made it so. In Mr Man’s account Tomo is degraded to the position of
being merely the first man made by Puluga, but in the accounts that
were given to me by the natives of the Akar-Bale and A-Pučikwar tribes
Tomo was a rival of Puluga; sometimes one and sometimes the other was
spoken of as being the supreme maker of all things. An Akar-Bale man of
very high intelligence, who had been educated as a Christian, in trying
to explain to me statements about Tomo made by another Akar-Bale who
was regarded as an authority on the legends of his tribe, said that
Tomo was the same thing to the Akar-Bale that God is to the Christian.
When I asked him if it was not rather Puluga who was the Andaman
equivalent of God, he said that some people might think so, but that
according to the old man to whom I was talking it was Tomo and not
Puluga who occupied the position [220].
There is only one more point that needs to be discussed, and that is
the connection of Biliku with the spirits. It is clear that Biliku and
Tarai must be distinguished from the spirits (Lau), yet at the same
time Biliku is brought into relation with the spirits by the existence
of two alternative explanations of bad weather. One of the explanations
is that storms are due to Biliku, while the other is that they are due
to the spirits, particularly the spirits of the sea. Both these
beliefs, contradictory as they seem, are held by the Andamanese. The
connection of the spirits with the weather is due to the fact that the
weather is a thing that can limit the activity of the society, and we
saw in the last chapter that there is a tendency to associate with the
spirits of the dead all things that in any way interfere with the
smooth progress of social life. When it is said that a storm can be
stopped by swishing arrows in the sea, or by placing in the sea a piece
of Anadendron creeper, it is to the spirits of the sea, who are afraid
of arrows and of the Anadendron, that the storm is attributed, and not
to Biliku.
In the A-Pučikwar tribe I found an association of Bilik with the
spirits. One man of this tribe (a medicine-man or dreamer) stated that
the Bilik are a distinct class of spirits, distinct from the Lau and
the J̌urua, yet similar to them. It is the Bilik who control the
weather. Certain men, when they die, become not Lau or J̌urua, but
Bilik. Thus in one of his dreams that he related to me he met and
conversed with the spirit of a deceased friend whom he spoke of as
Boičo Bilik, Boičo having been his name when he was alive. A
medicine-man is able to control the weather through his communication
with the Bilik in dreams. In this tribe therefore we find a doctrine
according to which Bilik is not the name of a single being but of a
class of beings similar in essentials to the other two classes of
spirits. It seemed to me possible that these beliefs are a
comparatively late introduction by some of the medicine-men of the
tribe. The Boičo about whom my informant Tora dreamed seemed to have
had some part in the development of the doctrine. This does not,
however, in the least detract from its value as affording us an insight
into the beliefs of the Andamanese.
These beliefs clearly spring from an attempt to distinguish from one
another the different northerly and easterly winds, each of the
recognizable winds being regarded as a separate person, and from the
merging together of the two contrary beliefs in the weather as
regulated by spirits and by Bilik and Teria. The general system of
beliefs about spirits as being responsible for all things that may
affect human well-being inevitably leads to the notion that the weather
is controlled by the spirits, and this is implied also in the belief
that a medicine-man (whose power is derived from contact with the
spirits) is also able to influence the weather to some extent. This
doctrine, however, conflicts with the view of the weather and the
seasons as controlled by Biliku and Tarai, who are not spirits but
personifications of natural phenomena. It is perhaps this conflict
between doctrines, both of them important and indeed necessary, that
has led to the elaboration of the peculiar beliefs met with in the
A-Pučikwar tribe.
I have dealt with most of the more important details of the
Biliku-Tarai myth, and have tried to show that the whole myth is an
expression of the social value of the phenomena of the weather and the
seasons. These phenomena affect the social life in certain definite
ways and thereby become the objects of certain sentiments; these
sentiments are expressed in the legends. Biliku and Tarai are
personifications of the N.E. and S.W. monsoons; as such they are
responsible for the weather; feelings awakened by the weather are
therefore referred to Biliku and Tarai; thus the fear of a cyclone at
certain periods of the year is expressed as a fear of the anger of
Biliku. Since the time when men go in fear of storms is also the time
when they are just beginning to dig up yams and eat them, the myth
connects the anger of Biliku with the digging up of yams, and similarly
in the cases of honey and the cicada. As Biliku is associated with
vegetable foods, and these are things with which women chiefly have to
do, Biliku (in the North Andaman) is regarded as female; Tarai, being
associated with flesh foods, is male; the two are therefore conceived
as wife and husband. As the maker of storms Biliku is responsible for
the lightning and is therefore possessed of fire. She thus comes to be
regarded as the first possessor of fire. This gives rise to stories of
how the ancestors obtained their fire from Biliku, and as she is
generally regarded as being hostile rather than friendly towards
mankind, the stories relate how the fire was stolen from her. But
besides being the maker of storms Biliku is also the dispenser of the
good things of the season of the N.E. monsoon and when this aspect of
the procession of the seasons is prominent before their minds the
natives think of Biliku as a benefactress of mankind. As she is the
possessor of fire, and as fire is the source of the life of the
society, she comes to be regarded as herself the source of life, though
there is an alternative myth that gives this position to a being
associated with the sun.
Such is a brief outline of the explanation that I have tried to
demonstrate. It may be objected that there are a few important details
and several minor details that I have not explained. To that extent my
explanation is incomplete, but I hope that I have given sufficient
evidence for it to justify us in using it as an integral part of the
explanation of the meaning and function of the Andaman mythology in
general.
It is not necessary, for the purpose of this chapter, to examine one by
one all the legends recorded. Indeed, there are many details of the
Andaman mythology that I cannot explain, owing simply, I believe, to my
lack of insight into the ways of thought of the natives. The examples
already considered are sufficient for the argument. If the
interpretations given of these be correct we can base on them certain
general conclusions.
I have explained some of the more important of the legends as being
expressions or statements of the social value of natural phenomena. The
alternation of day and night, for example, affects the life of the
society in a certain definite manner and this gives rise to a certain
way of thinking and feeling about the phenomenon in question. These
thoughts and feelings, however, remain vague and without fixity until
they are formulated and expressed either in the form of some definite
rule of behaviour, such as the prohibition against noise while the
cicada is singing, or in some concrete statement, such as that afforded
by the legend of the origin of night. Similarly the legends relating to
the origin of fire or the saving of the fire during the flood serve to
give definite and permanent form to the vague feelings that result from
the way in which the possession of fire affects the social life.
Finally, I have tried to show that the myths relating to Biliku and
Tarai are nothing but the expression in concrete form of the ideas and
feelings that result from the effects of the weather and the seasons on
the life of the Andaman Islanders. From these examples I now propose to
draw a general conclusion. All the legends, I wish to maintain, are
simply the expression in concrete form of the feelings and ideas
aroused by things of all kinds as the result of the way in which these
things affect the moral and social life of the Andaman Islanders. In
other words the legends have for their function to express the social
values of different objects,—to express in general the system of social
values that is characteristic of the Andaman social organisation. To
justify this general statement it will be necessary to show how it
comes about that these representations are expressed in the form of
myths and legends dealing with the ancestors and with such
anthropomorphic beings as Biliku and Tarai.
Throughout the myths we meet with examples of what I have called the
personification of natural phenomena. It is now necessary to give a
more exact definition of this term. By it I mean the association of a
natural phenomenon with the idea of a person in such a way that the
characteristics of the phenomenon may be regarded as though they were
actions or characteristics of the person. The simplest form is that in
which the phenomenon itself is spoken of and thought of as if it were
an actual person. Thus the sun and the moon are spoken of as Lady Sun
and Sir Moon. Similarly, in the North Andaman, the night is personified
and is called Lady Night (Mimi Bat). In many cases of personification
however, while the person may or may not possess the same name as the
phenomenon, the latter is said to be produced by the former. Thus, in
the North Andaman, Ele is the name of the lightning, and Ele is spoken
of as a person; yet, if we enquire further, we are told that Ele (the
person) produces the lightning by shaking his leg. A somewhat similar
case is that of Biliku and Tarai. These two beings are said to produce
the winds that blow from the different quarters of the compass. But
when we enquire as to the names of the winds, we find that in the South
Andaman (A-Pučikwar tribe) the S.W. wind is called Teria, and the other
winds are all called Bilik. Thus the name of the person is also used as
the name of the phenomenon of which he is (in the phraseology here
used) the personification. In the North Andaman we find a difference,
the winds being called “the Biliku wind” and “the Tarai wind.” It is
necessary to insist on this translation of the native Biliku bo̱to and
Tarai bo̱to. We should expect, if Biliku were simply a person who
produced the winds, that the latter would be called “the wind of
Biliku,” a possessive form (Biliku ičo bo̱to) being used, but this is
not so, and the phrase habitually used can only be properly translated
“the Biliku wind” just as we might say “the north wind.” Thus, even in
the North Andaman Biliku and Tarai are used as the names of the two
chief winds.
In all these cases, sun and moon, Biliku and Tarai, etc., I propose to
use the term personification, as being the most convenient and not
liable to be misunderstood after having been carefully defined. We have
now to seek an explanation of this process of personification. A great
deal has been written on the subject of personification in mythology,
and it is therefore not without diffidence that I venture to put
forward an explanation which can only be very briefly stated in this
place and would require for its full exhibition a lengthy psychological
explanation.
An insight into the process of personification is afforded by
considering our own use of figurative language. We talk of the angry
storm, the raging sea. In such cases we allow ourselves for a moment to
regard the natural phenomenon as if it were a person or the action of a
person, and we do not even trouble distinctly to express the “as if.”
We use such phrases in order to attain a more forcible expression of
our thoughts and feelings. How is it that such expressions succeed in
the purpose for which they are used?
The reason would seem to be that our knowledge and understanding of
persons is much more intimate than our knowledge of things. The fact
that we are able, by the action of sympathy, to know what persons with
whom we are in contact are feeling, gives us an understanding of them
that we can never reach with inanimate objects.