The Possessed Man of West Tilak: A Battle with the Unseen
It was an ordinary afternoon in 1980. We were playing football on the open field of West Tilak, the sun casting long shadows over the dusty pitch. The game was intense, our laughter echoing through the air—until we saw them.
A group of four men approached from the west, carrying another man on their shoulders. At first, we thought he was injured—perhaps hurt while working, maybe by their renowned hoe, which had cut his leg. But as they came closer, we saw something far more disturbing.
The man they carried was thin and wiry, but he thrashed wildly, twisting and writhing with unnatural strength. He kicked, screamed, and at times, nearly slipped free from their grip. His eyes rolled back, his body convulsing as if something unseen was trying to control him.
We stopped our game, our curiosity turning to unease.
“What happened to him?” we asked.
One of the men, panting from the effort of holding him down, wiped the sweat from his brow.
“He’s possessed,” he said grimly.
A Strange Strength
The possessed man, though younger and skinnier than those carrying him, was unbelievably strong. Several times, he broke free, sprinting wildly across the field. Each time, the men lunged after him, tackling him to the ground, their faces tense with both fear and frustration.
These men were labourers from Noakhali, seasonal workers who came to the area during the dry months to dig canals and ponds. Some were even college students, working for extra money. Others were professionals, renowned across the country for their skill in carving reservoirs and raising roads from the earth.
They lived near the Tilkidara culvert bridge, on the west bank of the canal. Their temporary shelters—small, triangular huts made of rice straw—stood clustered by the roadside. At night, they slept on the bare ground, using layers of straw, mats, and blankets stitched from old, torn cloth.
As they struggled to restrain the possessed man, he suddenly twisted free again—this time, running straight toward the large pond near their huts. Before they could stop him, he plunged into the water.
A Battle in the Water
The pond was covered with thick water hyacinths, their tangled roots making movement difficult. One of the workers—a man who claimed to be his cousin—jumped in after him.
We watched, breathless, as he fought against the possessed man’s unnatural strength. It was as if an invisible force was dragging him deeper, resisting every attempt to pull him out. But with the help of the others, they finally dragged him to shore, panting, exhausted.
At that moment, one of the workers decided.
“We need the Imam,” he said. And without another word, he ran toward Narainpur Mosque, a short distance away.
The Ghost Speaks
As soon as the worker left, the possessed man let out a chilling laugh.
“The Imam is useless!” he spat. “He cannot do anything to me.”
His voice was different now—deeper, rougher, almost mocking.
“I will not leave him,” the voice sneered. “He belongs to me now.”
His words sent a shiver through us. And then he did something even more disturbing.
Without being able to see the mosque—blocked by trees, shops, and a small field—he somehow knew exactly where the worker was.
As soon as the man approached the mosque, the possessed man’s expression changed.
“No!” he cried. “Don’t bring him here!”
His arrogance vanished, replaced by fear. He began to beg—pleading with the unseen presence approaching.
When the Imam finally arrived, walking calmly toward the hut, the man let out a furious scream.
“Go away! You can’t stop me!”
The Exorcism Begins
The Imam said nothing at first. He simply took the tip of his umbrella and drew a circle around the possessed man in the dirt.
“Step out of the circle,” the Imam ordered.
For the first time, the possessed man fell silent. He did not move.
The Imam began to recite verses from the Quran, performing Ruqiya, the sacred Islamic exorcism.
Then, he asked the entity:
“Why are you possessing him?”
The voice that answered was not human.
“He defiled my shadow,” it growled. “At dawn, he relieved himself on the ground where I rested—under the Tilkidara culvert bridge.”
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
The spirit suddenly spoke, pointing to someone in the crowd, “Don’t laugh. I know what you did.” One by one, he began pointing at people, exposing their hidden transgressions. It was as if he could see into their very souls, revealing the wrongs they had committed in secret. A wave of discomfort swept through the gathering. Those whom the spirit had called out paled, their expressions shifting from shock to fear. Without hesitation, they slipped away, eager to escape the spirit’s unnerving revelations.
The Imam, noticing the growing panic in the crowd, spoke firmly, “Stop revealing their secrets and listen to me.”
The Imam frowned. “He did not see you there. What were you doing under the bridge?”
“I live there,” the voice hissed. “I am crippled. My leg is broken—I cannot move properly. I am seven hundred and fifty years old.”
Someone in the crowd dared to ask, “Have you seen Hazrat Shah Kamal (RA)?”
The spirit responded, “Yes. And I respect his descendants.”
A hush fell over the gathering.
Then, with a sorrowful tone, the spirit continued, “My family once lived here, but they have left. They now dwell in Hatbilla, near the Seven Beels.”
In Bengali, “Sat” means seven, and “Hat” also means seven in certain local dialects.
The Seven Beels—interconnected swamps—had long been shrouded in mystery. Over time, the water had eroded the banks, merging them into a single, vast expanse.
“There is a tree there,” the spirit added. “That is where my family resides now.”
A heavy silence settled over the crowd as the weight of the spirit’s words lingered in the air.
The Imam nodded. “Then go to them. You have no right to stay here.”
A Terrifying Bargain
The entity laughed. “I will not go for free.”
“What do you want?”
“A cow,” it said.
The Imam scoffed. “A cow? That is too much. Ask for something else.”
“A goat,” it insisted.
“No.”
“A rooster.”
“No.”
The spirit hesitated, then said, “120 koi fish.”
The Imam paused, then made his own offer. “Four koi fish. No more.”
A tense silence filled the air.
Then, the voice whispered, “Agreed.”
But before leaving, it made one final demand.
“I will give proof of my departure,” it said. “Watch that mango tree over there.”
We all turned. The tree stood fifteen feet tall, its branches reaching toward the evening sky.
“If I leave,” the spirit continued, “I will break its crown.”
The Final Sign
The Imam nodded. “Then go.”
At that moment, in front of more than thirty witnesses, the topmost branch of the mango tree snapped clean off.
The branch crashed to the ground, leaves scattering in the fading sunlight.
A stunned silence followed. Even as children, we had heard stories of such things—but to see it with our own eyes was something else entirely.
The possessed man collapsed, unconscious. When he awoke, he was weak, confused, and had no memory of what had happened.
The entity was gone.
But that broken tree remained. A silent witness to the battle between the seen and the unseen.
And to this day, I have never forgotten it.
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