Sacred groves called sarna lie at the heart of Santal ancestral worship. In these quiet woodland sanctuaries, offerings of rice beer (handia), flowers and rice cakes are placed at the foot of venerable sal and pipal trees. The subtle rhythm of the tamate drum draws invisible lines between the living and the spiritual realm, inviting ancestor spirits—known as pahar or bonga—to draw near.

A village priest, the pahan or deuri, acts as intermediary. Clad in a simple dhoti and armed with a handful of sacred leaves, the priest invokes ancestral voices through ritual chants called kolkol. These melodies, handed down over centuries, carry stories of harvests past and guidance for seasons yet to come. When a beloved elder passes away, a special rite known as jul kol gains center stage: the community gathers, offerings are laid in a bamboo enclosure (marang bandh), and the priest leads a night-long vigil of song and dance, ensuring the spirit’s smooth passage into the ancestral fold.

Trance-like state plays a starring role. During festivals such as Karam or Baha, dancers spin and sway under starlit skies, believed to open channels for direct communication. Dreams are equally important: messages from ancestors often arrive as vivid visions, urging caution or granting blessings. Elders listen closely when a child awakens with a whispered secret from the other side.

Even in today’s digital whirlwind, Santal youth find creative ways to keep these conversations alive. Smartphone recordings of kolkol chants circulate on social media, and annual gatherings tied to the International Day of the World’s Indigenous Peoples (August 9) spotlight these ancient practices on global stages. It’s a testament to resilience—honoring forebears without missing a beat amid modern life.

Whether through the crackle of a fire, the scent of burning rice husks, or the echo of a lone drumbeat, Santals maintain a living bridge to their ancestors, weaving past wisdom into the rhythm of present days.