It had been 20 minutes since Vaishnavi Rathore and I had begun our little trek in a dense forest in Dzongu in North Sikkim. We were lucky the rain had stopped just before we began, but the wet mud was a challenge we city folks were not ready for. I was worried about slipping, not just because of the risk of injury, but also of damaging the expensive camera in my bag.
We were being led by Mayalmit Lepcha, an environmental activist and local resident, whom we had met earlier in the day. We had been reporting on the impact of a glacial lake outburst flood that devastated parts of Sikkim in 2023 and on the broader consequences of hydropower projects in the ecologically sensitive region. As we spoke about what the construction of dams in the Himalayas meant for indigenous communities, Mayalmit said she wanted to show us a Lepcha ritual.
As we continued our trek, the sun had begun to set, and by the time we saw a small house emerging amidst the wild ferns, the sky had turned a purple-blue. It was the house of a shaman, a spiritual leader of the Lepcha community.
The ritual was to take place inside a small hut near the main house. The family was preparing for the upcoming ritual, and the house was bustling. As soon as we said "Khamree" to the family, a Lepcha greeting, I took out my camera and began shooting - I did not want to miss a single moment of the evening.
Almost immediately, there was a power cut and the lights went out - this, we learnt, was a regular occurrence.
The Lepchas are an indigenous community of North Sikkim, whose culture is deeply rooted in nature worship. Those we met told us that for them, mountains, forests and rivers are divine entities. The ritual we were invited to witness is performed every year to welcome the spring season. During it, the shaman interacts with the "spirit world" to bring prosperity to the community. The ritual this year was particularly special because it was being performed by a young shaman.
As preparations for the ritual were underway, a wisp of smoke rose from a nearby outdoor kitchen. Men and women were cutting vegetables and preparing for a special dinner. We also helped with the cooking. Families had come from around the village, and some from as far as Gangtok, to participate in the ceremony. Their shy smiles and curious eyes followed me around as I photographed them.
The hut where the ritual was to take place was made from natural material, such as mud and bamboo. Mayalmit explained that this was a requirement for the ritual. Inside, I saw the young shaman helping his family with the arrangements. He was around my age and seemed very calm - yet I sensed a hint of nervousness as the time for the ritual drew closer.
As we waited, we met a diverse group of people, including a senior shaman, an environmental activist, a Buddhist monk and a farmer. They were united by a strong resistance to dams. The Lepcha shaman told us that the community believes that the Teesta river is sacred, and that it is the path towards salvation for departed souls in the afterlife. Building dams, he said, would block this passage. So far, ten large hydropower projects have been built on the river.
When it was time for the ritual, everyone headed towards the hut. It had started raining again, and the smell of wet earth filled the air. The hut was dark inside, lit only by oil lamps. There was an altar in the middle, in front of which the older shaman and the young shaman sat. The younger shaman was playing a traditional instrument while the older shaman was chanting and praying.
I sat on the left side of the altar in the front row, wanting to capture the ritual. I had also placed my zoom recorder in front of me. After about 10 minutes, the young shaman suddenly stood up. Mayalmit told us that an older ancestor had entered him.
The young shaman's demeanor changed completely. He crouched and walked with the support of a stick. I raised my camera to film this, but it was not recording. The display showed it had overheated, which surprised me, since this usually happens when I record long takes or shoot in high temperatures.
Neither was the case here.
The young shaman slowly walked around the altar, swinging his stick in the air to ward off evil spirits. As he approached us, he looked up and stared at Vaishnavi and me for a few seconds. I met his gaze and felt he knew we were outsiders.
Mayalmit gestured for us to lower our eyes.
The shaman lifted his stick. For a moment, we thought he would strike us. Instead, he brought it down on my Zoom recorder. I immediately switched it off. My heart raced. He then turned away and continued circling the altar.
Vaishnavi and I looked at each other, shaken, but awed by what we had witnessed. Through the hut's single window, a flash of lightning lit up the sky.
I realised how deeply the community's identity was intertwined with nature, an identity now under threat from the growing number of hydropower projects built in the name of development.
For them development is not what is added, but what must not be lost.
For the two days we stayed in Dzongu, the electricity did not return. When night fell, the village would return to darkness, lit only by night lamps.