Mystical emoirs

 

 

Springtime anywhere, I imagine, would be wonderful for travellers; but the springtime of 1990 in Bhutan was especially wonderful for me. I was making preparations for a cross-country drive from Thimphu to Bhutan’s only center of higher learning in the eastern district of Tashigang. My time at Sherubtse was probably the happiest of my teenage years and often reminds me of those conversations that I engaged innocent bystanders at parties into (it’s no wonder that I rarely get invited for outings anymore!) Yet it is ‘the journey’ that I embarked upon that has always held a special, albeit silent, place in my heart.

That journey was surreal. Those unseen powers worked on shaping me into someone else; someone with a semblance of soul. The steep winding road that leads out of Thimphu started off rather on a plain note. My taped cassettes prerecorded with my favourite driving music blared as my car tyres screeched around the bends on the narrow tar. Nothing outside the car seemed to interest me; neither the moss that swayed in the gentle wind nor the colourful blur of budding flowers that dotted the roadside. I decided to stop by one of the sporadic traditional Bhutanese houses in search of a delicious meal of unique red rice, aezay or red chili paste and dried yak meat. The lady of the house was kind enough to offer the traditional butter tea and dried yak meat that I was yearning for. In return for the sumptuous meal, I offered the lady a lift to where she was dressed to go. As I made my way past the prayer wheel, I faintly heard the lady mention that centuries ago, a troublesome banshee was imprisoned in the stupa over the revolving prayer wheel and that she still haunts people who dare to loiter around in that area when it is dark. That’s bogus, I thought.

Four and a half hours later, I found myself mesmerised by what has remained till this day and will always remain my dream valley; Bumthang, the geographical centre of Bhutan. I had pre booked a stay at the Swiss guest house, located below the Dzong. In Bhutan, every district has a central fortress called a Dzong, which house the central monastic body and the government offices. My story is about the incident which occurred that night in the confines of my room in the Swiss guest house. Exhausted from my nine hour drive, I ordered room service but fell asleep before dinner arrived. The fireplace crackled, giving a warm glow to the room. I slept like a log. Next morning, I sleepily opened my eyes to look out at the low lying mist that enveloped the valley. After a hot shower, as I meticulously arranged my national dress, called Gho, I was stupefied at the glance of my back in the mirror. There were fingernail scratches all along my upper torso! Although it looked fresh, I could feel no pain. I hurriedly put my things together and moved out without enquiring about what might have caused these inexplicable painless scratch marks. Just as I rounded the final bend before Tongsa Dzong, I realised that I had not listened to any music for the past four hours. Instead, my eyes admired the sights and sounds of the valleys.

I quickly ran to my hostel room of Sherubtse College, gathering my friends as I went along. I was eager to show them the marks on my back. As Sonam, Dophu, Kuenga and Choeki formed an audience around me, I ceremoniously disrobed. There was silence. Then came a sudden slap on my back from Dophu, followed by Sonam’s giggles. I spun around, looked in the mirror and was horrified to see not even a faint reminder of the gruesome red lines which were present in the morning. Whether or not anyone believes me, my conviction is firm that it did happen. The marks that I had seen had disappeared just as mysteriously as they had appeared!!

With Vajrayana Buddhism being the state religion and tantric practices being commonplace, Bhutan is filled with stories of ghosts and spirits. I often drive across those mountains on my own, in search of an explanation to what might have happened that night. Instead of blaring music and screeching tyres, I now roam in the mountains with much more respect for the environment and deep concern for our culture and religion. I am no longer the insensitive teenager who once left scars of burning rubber along the beautiful and scenic landscape that peacefully rests as the Land of the Thunder Dragon.