A Spirited Tale
It was harvesting season and villagers were gathering their crops. We could see them below from our cave above.
Tshampa Wangpo and I were mending old sacks to collect alms of grain later. The people always give gladly and greet us with benign smiles. “Kota,” Tshampa croaked from his room, “Make ready, we are going down this afternoon.”
I hastily prepared for our departure. It was a rare pleasure to descent to the farms from our retreat up in the cliffs.
As we left the cave, the sky darkened suddenly and strangely, thunder rumbled from afar.
Our nearing destination, we heard dogs barking and women wailing. We sensed something amiss and hustled.
At the outskirts of the settlement, we were met by an anguished group who gazed upon us dumbly.
“What’s the matter? Tshampa asked.” Why do you not speak?”
“Our headman’s son is lost.” A score of voices answered as one.
Presently, another group came into view. The headman, leading them and looking lost, bowed low and told us all. Then he wept piteously and whimpered, “O my son. My only son,” and held his head in despair.
He whispered between heaves of grief, “Perhaps the holy man can help me. Please do what is possible.” He prostrated himself before Tshampa, who raised him gently to his feet.
In a silent, solemn procession, we went to the headman’s old and somber abode. The rooms were cold and dismal. Everybody looked tired and in distress. The women were moaning and swaying as if fatally afflicted.
We settled in a murky room when Tshampa ordered the Mo Pecha (Book of Divination) from my pouch. The onlookers closed in making the room darker and more suffocating. Tshampa made himself comfortable and started reading the text. Afterwards, he said, “The child has been kidnapped.”
“Who by?” they questioned in unison.
“By an evil spirit. It’s still lurking about.”
The listeners let out a collective howl.
After a silence, one woman ventured to ask, “What’s to be done. O holy man?”
Before Tshampa could reply, another woman chipped in. “Why, chase the spirit away, of course.”
Everybody looked at Tshampa for his reaction. He nodded in grave agreement and beckoned at me for his daru (hand-drum) and kangdung (a trumpet made from the human thigh bone). He told us sternly to remain in silence and leave on a single lamp alight. In the semi-darkness, he set the ritual in motion, playing the grim music and uncanny chanting. The other worldly vibrations made by his custom-made instruments shook the house.
As his exorcism continued, the sound of drum and horn turned hypnotic.
At a point when the clamour threatened to overwhelm, a ghastly shadow sprang up from a nearby pile of clothes giving off an unearthly screech. Tshampa leaped to his feet and flew through the door. In a blue funk, I followed, yelling blue murder. Thoroughly alarmed the whole crowd echoed the hue and cry, pulling pushing, pumping and stamping one another.
As we fled for dear life, the uncanny cry dogged our heels. This lent our feet wings and raised our shrieks to banshee heights. The stampede led to a jam by the door where it was each for self and the devil take the hindmost. Albeit bruised and breathless, we made it in one piece.
The cry continued but changed in character. No longer did it sound spectral, now it sounded…normal! The sharp sound cut through the pitch of the night. A lone figure entered the house. A moment later, a woman’s voice called out, “My baby! My boy!” At this, everyone rushed to the spot. The headman’s wife was fondling the child and weeping with delight.
Later, I asked Tshampa why he ran out. Was it because he was afraid like the rest of us? Of course not, he haughtily retorted. I was just showing the spirit the way out.
But I can’t help wondering where the old man found the energy to skip and scoot the way he did…”
By: Nima Gyeltshen, Sarpang.