For the Santal, death isn’t the end of the road but a carefully marked turning point. The moment someone crosses over, their journey shifts from this world into a layered ancestral realm where spirits—once part of everyday village life—take on new, watchful roles.

Funeral rites unfold like a carefully choreographed dance. Family and kin gather by the riverbank, where the body is bathed, wrapped in white cloth, and set afloat on a wooden raft. This water passage symbolically cleanses and guides the departed toward Pargana Bonga, the senior ancestral spirit who presides over communal well-being. Instead of a tombstone, a sapling is planted at the cremation site, rooting the soul’s memory in living greenery.

Once the flames die down, the community returns home to prepare for “Sohrae,” a multi-day festival. During this time, offerings of rice beer, pumpkins, and flowers are laid out for ancestral spirits at the hearth, called “Marang Buru.” Every ritual dance, every drumbeat, echoes the belief that ancestors remain active guardians. In modern times, younger Santal dancers have even brought these traditions to urban folk-festivals, weaving traditional motifs into contemporary choreography—proof that these age-old ideas still pulse with life.

If a family neglects its ancestral duties, it’s said restless spirits might stir up sickness or crop failure. Conversely, regular offerings and festive celebrations invite blessings—rainfall at just the right moment, or protection against stray lightning (a nod to climate change worries in recent monsoon seasons).

All in all, Santal views on death, afterlife, and ancestral realms form a seamless tapestry: life begets death, death transforms into spiritual stewardship, and the living remain bound to their forebears through ritual, story, and song. That continuing dialogue between worlds keeps their culture vibrant, adaptable, and deeply rooted—just like the sapling that marks each new passage.