?ri’-reāl Died & Returned While They Attacked Dad – Ch.9
The wind whipped around us, carrying the mournful cry of a woman. We turned to see a figure stumbling down the path, her clothes torn and ragged, her movements erratic and desperate. As she drew closer, the flickering torchlight revealed blood staining her palms, a sight that sent a cold wave of dread through me.
“Mom! Mom!” I cried, my voice choked with fear and desperation. Tears streamed down my face as I started down the slope towards her, my heart pounding in my chest. The falling snow, which had been drifting lazily moments before, seemed to freeze in mid-air, as if startled by the urgency in our cries. Drakos, usually alert and responsive, stood motionless, his golden eyes blinking slowly, uncharacteristically still. He rarely barked, and in this moment, his silence felt heavier than any sound.
“No!” Master’s voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. She reached for me, her hand outstretched, but I was already moving too fast. I stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet me, a searing pain shooting through my leg as I fell. Before I could register the impact, Master’s arms were around me, pulling me close, her strength surprisingly immense.
“What’s wrong, Mom?!” I gasped, clutching her tightly, my breath catching in my throat. Drakos approached cautiously, his gaze shifting between my mother and me, his usual canine curiosity tempered by the gravity of the situation. This was the first time my mother had encountered him, and the unusual silence hung between them, thick and heavy.
“Your sister!—Master, help her! Please, help her…” My mother’s voice was a trembling whisper, her words laced with desperation. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with a terror that mirrored my own.
Master, her face grim, steadied us both, then guided us down the path towards the village. It was supposed to be our way home, but earlier, overwhelmed by a sudden wave of grief and longing, I had begged Master to take a detour, a detour that now felt like a cruel twist of fate. Passing by my mother, grandmother, and sister’s home without visiting them would have been unbearable, a burden I couldn''t bear to carry.
The sight that greeted us as we entered the village square was chilling. A large crowd had gathered, their faces somber and hushed, their movements slow and deliberate. They were assembled for a funeral ceremony. Some wore towering, brightly colored hats, two or three feet high, a stark contrast to the somber attire of the others. The elegant robes of some were juxtaposed with the worn, humble clothing of others, a poignant reminder of the vast social strata within our community.
“Sister!” I cried, my voice cracking, as I spotted her lying motionless in the center of the gathering. My breath hitched in my throat, a wave of nausea washing over me.
I lunged forward, desperate to reach her, but Master’s hand shot out, stopping me in my tracks. Her voice, usually calm and measured, was sharp and commanding.
“Don’t touch her, ?ri’-verā,” she barked, her tone leaving no room for argument. “You should have known already!” Her words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.
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“You, too,” she added, her gaze shifting to my mother, who recoiled, her hands trembling as she took a step back. The unspoken accusation hung between them, a silent testament to the complex web of family secrets and unspoken tensions.
“Why is she here, Drakos?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. It was a question I knew Drakos couldn''t answer, even if he understood the reason. Master had no time to respond, even if I had addressed the question to her.
Master moved with a strange, almost hesitant grace, as if treading on hallowed ground. She seemed to sense the hostility emanating from some of the other clerics present, their eyes narrowed and judging. Then, as if in response to my unspoken question, a voice spoke, not from Drakos, but from within me.
“Now, I know, Drakos, it was this. I was sent to Master to get away from this tradition. As for ?ri’-reāl, she defied, as I did, but in a different direction, under different circumstances.”
“Well, twins and triples run in your family, yet defying the nature of humans can still go many ways.” The voice continued, its tone shifting, a strange mix of amusement and understanding. It was a conversation that felt both surreal and strangely comforting.
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The B?n tradition, known in Tibetan as ???? (pronounced p???? in the Lhasa dialect), places greater emphasis on ceremonial practices than Master’s lineage, which focused on scripture chanting and doctrinal exposition. Over the centuries, these traditions have alternated in prominence, each supplanting the other in influence, creating a complex and often contentious relationship between them.
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But there was no time for Master to dwell on the subtle power dynamics at play. He had to act swiftly, decisively. He recited a few short Gatha verses as part of the Vajra Diamond Mantra Chanting Practice before turning his attention to my uncle, my mother’s brother.
Master seated himself in the Lotus Meditation Posture, taking out the Pecha Text Block he had used when attending to Tashi. The long, narrow, rectangular form made the scriptures easier to read and chant from the Daphne Bark Paper. He began to chant intensely, but in a manner different from what I had witnessed before. His voice resonated with power, a force that seemed to cut through the tension and grief that hung heavy in the air.
My sister stirred, one finger twitching. Her skin turned a deep crimson, and slowly, her eyes fluttered open, her gaze settling on Master and us. She seemed to attempt a smile before closing her eyes again.
My mother sobbed, her body wracked with grief and relief. I gently shushed her, and she nodded, wiping away her tears. I was terrified, fearing my sister might already be gone, but then I saw
Master’s face turn towards us, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“Don’t worry. She will come around,” he reassured us, his voice calm and steady.
Mom and I immediately knelt before Master, the other relatives following suit. Master helped us to our feet, signaling for others to assist in carrying my sister back to our stone house next door.
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*****
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As they carried my sister away, I suddenly stopped, a wave of memory washing over me. The white wall of our childhood home, stained with blood…
The howling wind and the bitterly cold weather had forced us to live in the basement, alongside the animals that provided us with milk, cheese, and ghee. Their dung fueled our fire, their fur kept us warm. As my father sang folklore songs praising nature, I danced, and my sister laughed, her joy a bright flame in the darkness.
Under the ‘one child policy’, a family was allowed only one child. Fines and jail penalties were imposed on violators. We knew it was for the good of the country, for the greater good and happiness.
But my family lineage was reluctant to abide by it, especially when their firstborn was a girl. My parents had to endeavor to have me, and they had me as the second child. I felt a pang of guilt, a weight of responsibility for the tragedy that had befallen my family.
One day, they came. I was asleep, awakened by shouts and the sounds of a struggle. Peeking through the cracks, I saw white-dressed people attacking my father…