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| Beside him on the bench is his drum and
on the table with the tsampa is his prayer print block,
with which, when covered with ink, he can imprint prayers
on paper or wood. He, perhaps, is in his late fifties,
with a wispy beard on his round deeply etched face. He
pays no attention to me.
There are three thin sticks around fifteen inches in
length with alternate clumps of black and white yak fur
wrapped around each one. He took two sticks of
different lengths and placed one over the other to form a
cross and, with multi-colored yarn, made a diamond like
design. With some of the tsampa, which at first I
thought was his dinner, he made a base for this in the
middle of a pewter plate and stood it up, along with the
three sticks. |
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The
Monk Preparing Himself for the Casting out of Evil Spirits |
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| Then carefully, from the same tsampa paste, he divided
this paste into eight four inch pancakes and from these he
molded eight figurines, each seven or eight inches in
height, and placed them on the plate. Finally three
candles were placed in front and lit. An hour or more was spent on this endeavor. And then he
chanted.
The clouds rolled up the steep slope and ravens, like
winged phantoms patrolled close by.
The matron of the house brought a smoldering twig from the
fire and filled the room with a small amount of smoke.
After receiving instructions from the monk she place white
powder, probably flour, in a line on the floor from the
monk to the door. |
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A village boy with a long curved knife called a khukri,
with three smudges of butter on the blade (three being a
lucky number, and butter, a symbolic gift to Buddha), and
a conical hat on his head
charged the door, swinging the weapon. As he knifed the air he would
join in with the monk chanting short phrases. The monk, picking up a
handful of whole grain, walked to the patron, and while chanting,
tossed the grain on her and the walls of the home. At
this point, as if choreographed, Dawa picked up the tray with the
figurines and headed for
the door, closely followed by the boy still holding the knife, the
monk playing the drum and chanting, three children
appearing from somewhere, and myself taking up the rear
and trying to be unobtrusive while attempting to record
all of this with the camera. The odd procession wound it’s
way along the trail, past the homes, around the stupa, in
low, swirling clouds to |
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