KALINGCHOK MAI – KALI’S CALLING
The shrine of Kali – the female energy, set at Kalingchok 12513 ft. on a treeless hilltop in the heart of eastern Nepal, and a place where one can see a panorama of hills, mountains and clouds far below that obscures all signs of human habitation.
It is early and faint streaks of golden light glitter in the mist as the sun prepares to come out for another day. This however is no ordinary day, for it is the full moon of the auspicious day of “Janai Purnima” – a day when spirits enter our material world and through pilgrimage, prayers and offerings, it is considered possible to gain favors from them.
Today, however, it is bustling with activity. People living in far-flung villages have walked for days to get here. Their reasons for making this journey are as varied as the languages they speak. Some have come to ask Kalingchok mai for a son, some to pray for a good harvest this season. There are others whom, seeing the opportunity, have come to set up tiny ‘restaurants’ catering in tit-bits ranging from tea, noodles and potatoes to cigarettes and home brewed ‘raksi’ for the hungry and thirsty pilgrims – all in the name of commerce. Others are here to thank the gods for wishes granted, while some have just come to see the ‘mela’. Animals seem to be out in equal numbers as people have come with goats, chickens or pigeons as offering to Kalingchok Mai, either to please her into granting a boon, or to thank her for blessings bestowed. “You have to bring her something because Kali Mai (mother kali) asks for blood.” says an old woman with a goat slung on her shoulders, ‘otherwise how can you expect her to grant you your wishes?’
Those that have spent the previous night in caves and shelters meant for yaks are the first to emerge as they jostle for position around the shrines. Roughly thirty meters in length and fifteen meters wide, the place houses bells of differing sizes and huge mounds of tridents left behind by pilgrims from yesteryears. There are three shrines, two of then placed back to back and made of slabs of an oblong and a circular stone where chickens and goats are sacrificed. The oblong stone for the chickens, the round one for the goats – in that order and never mixed. The third shrine, a little distance away, is a hollow in the ground filled with water and it is where pilgrims offer milk and fruits. “The water never dries up nor does it freeze in winter,” says a young man who has been coming here for the past three years. “This is where Kali mai bathes her self and we ray here to wash away our sins”. There is no arguing with his comments. The mystery which surrounds this place, the utter faith and devotion of these pilgrims and the awe the events here command are proof enough.
The hilltop is now a swathing mass of bodies without an inch to spare. It is no wonder that the authorities have built a railing around the shrine this year for safely because a drop from here would take one to the point from where it could be an hours trek to the top again – provided of course that one survived such a fall. “Even a hundred thousand people can fit here, it is the power of Mai”, was the observation of one. A statement that surely needs to be taken with a pinch of salt taking into account the long list of people that have never made the hour trek back after a fall from here.
The air is filled with cries of “Jai Kalingchok Mai” (praise mother Kali) and the hymns of the devotees. Despite the crowed, everyone is cocooned in their own personal worship – vying for the favors of the supernatural. People chant prayers and light tiny lamps while others invoke the gods by ringing giant bells. In one corner streams of blood gush out as petrified animals are sacrificed at the shrines. Little drams take place everywhere. Children from surrounding villages fight each other over coins offered to the goddess, risking at the same time the heavy hand of some angry pilgrims. Frequent quarrels beak out among those who consider it their right to make the actual sacrifice. An old man pushes and tugs in order to get near the shrine – spilling his offerings in the process, but his protests are lost in the din. The opportunity to ask for blessings will not come for another year, causing the frenzy of activities unfolding here.
Then one hears it – as the sun heaves itself over the horizon bathing the entire congregation in its pale light – the unmistakable sound of jhankri (shaman) drums. Even the clamor around the shrine fails to mask it. Looking down at the hills below one sees lines of people, and in their midst, scores of jhankris. Beating their drums and dancing as they climb the treacherous and narrow paths carved by the rushing waters – they are lost momentarily in the swirling must that heralds the arrival of these spiritual healers.
Their majesty is fully revealed as they enter the gates to the shrine, dressed regal attires of flowing white frocks with red headbands that gracefully drop to their feet. A crisscross of bells and beads on their bodies jingle with every movement – and fittingly crowned with bright peacock feathers and porcupine quills. Each troop of jhankri from different villages is led by a bearer who carries a ‘bumba’ or a copper vase filled with flowers. The hills around reverberate to their drums and the magical air is filled with the pilgrims behind singing “saio’saio’ saio le bumba saio” – “dance, dance, dance, dance shaman dance”.
The events now take on a different look. The sacrifices continue but the people make way for the jhankris, as the proceedings are now dominated by them. It is now a field of waving drums and colorful jhankris as they circle the shrine. Dancing to the rhythm of their drums, they jump and swirl around as their bodies shake with uncontrollable bouts o tremors. These are signs that spirit has entered tem and people try to touch them to receive magical healing. Children and adults alike stare at them with fright and fascination as the jhankris beat their drums and throw themselves at the shrines with an almost hysterical rage.
The proprietors, mostly women, count the days taking amid grumbles about nonpayment by some. It has been a successful day – not only for them but for the gods who have had their blood and devotion, the restoration of fait among the pilgrims who go back contended with renewed hopes of a good harvest or perhaps of a son for support during weary days. The jhankris have paid homage to their spiritual manifestations and have danced their way back brimming with renewed powers to heal the sick. Kalingchok is at rest again – free for the spirits to play.
It is early and faint streaks of golden light glitter in the mist as the sun prepares to come out for another day. This however is no ordinary day, for it is the full moon of the auspicious day of “Janai Purnima” – a day when spirits enter our material world and through pilgrimage, prayers and offerings, it is considered possible to gain favors from them.
Today, however, it is bustling with activity. People living in far-flung villages have walked for days to get here. Their reasons for making this journey are as varied as the languages they speak. Some have come to ask Kalingchok mai for a son, some to pray for a good harvest this season. There are others whom, seeing the opportunity, have come to set up tiny ‘restaurants’ catering in tit-bits ranging from tea, noodles and potatoes to cigarettes and home brewed ‘raksi’ for the hungry and thirsty pilgrims – all in the name of commerce. Others are here to thank the gods for wishes granted, while some have just come to see the ‘mela’. Animals seem to be out in equal numbers as people have come with goats, chickens or pigeons as offering to Kalingchok Mai, either to please her into granting a boon, or to thank her for blessings bestowed. “You have to bring her something because Kali Mai (mother kali) asks for blood.” says an old woman with a goat slung on her shoulders, ‘otherwise how can you expect her to grant you your wishes?’
Those that have spent the previous night in caves and shelters meant for yaks are the first to emerge as they jostle for position around the shrines. Roughly thirty meters in length and fifteen meters wide, the place houses bells of differing sizes and huge mounds of tridents left behind by pilgrims from yesteryears. There are three shrines, two of then placed back to back and made of slabs of an oblong and a circular stone where chickens and goats are sacrificed. The oblong stone for the chickens, the round one for the goats – in that order and never mixed. The third shrine, a little distance away, is a hollow in the ground filled with water and it is where pilgrims offer milk and fruits. “The water never dries up nor does it freeze in winter,” says a young man who has been coming here for the past three years. “This is where Kali mai bathes her self and we ray here to wash away our sins”. There is no arguing with his comments. The mystery which surrounds this place, the utter faith and devotion of these pilgrims and the awe the events here command are proof enough.
The hilltop is now a swathing mass of bodies without an inch to spare. It is no wonder that the authorities have built a railing around the shrine this year for safely because a drop from here would take one to the point from where it could be an hours trek to the top again – provided of course that one survived such a fall. “Even a hundred thousand people can fit here, it is the power of Mai”, was the observation of one. A statement that surely needs to be taken with a pinch of salt taking into account the long list of people that have never made the hour trek back after a fall from here.
The air is filled with cries of “Jai Kalingchok Mai” (praise mother Kali) and the hymns of the devotees. Despite the crowed, everyone is cocooned in their own personal worship – vying for the favors of the supernatural. People chant prayers and light tiny lamps while others invoke the gods by ringing giant bells. In one corner streams of blood gush out as petrified animals are sacrificed at the shrines. Little drams take place everywhere. Children from surrounding villages fight each other over coins offered to the goddess, risking at the same time the heavy hand of some angry pilgrims. Frequent quarrels beak out among those who consider it their right to make the actual sacrifice. An old man pushes and tugs in order to get near the shrine – spilling his offerings in the process, but his protests are lost in the din. The opportunity to ask for blessings will not come for another year, causing the frenzy of activities unfolding here.
Then one hears it – as the sun heaves itself over the horizon bathing the entire congregation in its pale light – the unmistakable sound of jhankri (shaman) drums. Even the clamor around the shrine fails to mask it. Looking down at the hills below one sees lines of people, and in their midst, scores of jhankris. Beating their drums and dancing as they climb the treacherous and narrow paths carved by the rushing waters – they are lost momentarily in the swirling must that heralds the arrival of these spiritual healers.
Their majesty is fully revealed as they enter the gates to the shrine, dressed regal attires of flowing white frocks with red headbands that gracefully drop to their feet. A crisscross of bells and beads on their bodies jingle with every movement – and fittingly crowned with bright peacock feathers and porcupine quills. Each troop of jhankri from different villages is led by a bearer who carries a ‘bumba’ or a copper vase filled with flowers. The hills around reverberate to their drums and the magical air is filled with the pilgrims behind singing “saio’saio’ saio le bumba saio” – “dance, dance, dance, dance shaman dance”.
The events now take on a different look. The sacrifices continue but the people make way for the jhankris, as the proceedings are now dominated by them. It is now a field of waving drums and colorful jhankris as they circle the shrine. Dancing to the rhythm of their drums, they jump and swirl around as their bodies shake with uncontrollable bouts o tremors. These are signs that spirit has entered tem and people try to touch them to receive magical healing. Children and adults alike stare at them with fright and fascination as the jhankris beat their drums and throw themselves at the shrines with an almost hysterical rage.
The proprietors, mostly women, count the days taking amid grumbles about nonpayment by some. It has been a successful day – not only for them but for the gods who have had their blood and devotion, the restoration of fait among the pilgrims who go back contended with renewed hopes of a good harvest or perhaps of a son for support during weary days. The jhankris have paid homage to their spiritual manifestations and have danced their way back brimming with renewed powers to heal the sick. Kalingchok is at rest again – free for the spirits to play.
posted by Upadhyay @ 7:40 AM
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