My Tryst With Spirits in the Himalayas (Satis Shroff) It’s not easy to meet a shaman, Unless you know someone who does. Drove in a taxi to Tibet Road, Then to the Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi Marg, And ended in Chaangaon, In the Gangtok suburb. The bongthing I met, Had grown old and sick. He showed me his cardiac capsules and pills, On the palm of his big hand. He was grateful that his daughter looked after him. He advised I should go to another, A bongthing in the neighbourhood. A Bhutia woman was selling sausages and sweets. The fat sausages hung on strings from the ceiling. A blind Nepali minstrel with a sarangi, Was playing ‘Resam Piri-ri,’ A Nepali song you hear along the trekking-trails of Nepal. Ah, it’s so good to hear Nepali being spoken, Where ever you go in Sikkim. I asked myself whether I was in Nepal? Sikkim was once Nepali, Now it belongs to West Be
