Gangtok, Sikkim | It was around 1 am. The six of us were gathered in a small courtyard on the ground floor of our hotel in Gangtok. One of the guys strummed his guitar, singing every heartbreak anthem imaginable. The rest of us drifted between listening quietly and chatting, making promises to stay in touch. I was the first to leave in the morning—off to Bagdogra to catch my flight back home to Delhi.
That’s when we heard it. A deep, conch-like sound rang out—loud, deeper than usual, with a strange, almost otherworldly resonance.
“It’s the Jogi,” the guitarist said, suddenly stopping mid-song. His face took on a seriousness we hadn’t seen all evening.
“Jogi? What do you mean?” I asked, along with the other non-locals in the group.
He set the guitar aside and explained. “Jogis are an ethnic group from this region—Darjeeling, Sikkim, even parts of Nepal. For generations, during the months of Kartik and Chaitra, they walk through neighbourhoods at night, blowing a pheri—that’s a blackbuck horn—and chanting mantras. It’s a ritual to ward off evil spirits and misfortune, to bless homes with peace and prosperity. They never ask for payment directly, but the next day, they revisit the houses and are given food, fruits, money—whatever the families can offer in gratitude.”
Curious, I stood to look out, trying to catch a glimpse of this mysterious figure. But he gently pulled me back. “Don’t,” he warned in a hushed voice. “You’re not supposed to look at them while they’re doing their work at night. It’s said to bring bad luck.”
Outside, the pheri continued to wail, haunting and deep. The dogs had gone berserk, barking wildly into the night. For all our bravado—six grown men, some of us ready to take on the world—there was something unsettling about the sound. It unsettled more than just the dogs.
“Good night,” we murmured to one another, the mood now shifted. We headed to our rooms.
Just before stepping into mine, I paused by a large glass window that overlooked the street. It was empty, save for one lone figure moving slowly in the dark. The Jogi. The horn at his lips. Every home asleep. Another deep call echoed from the pheri. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked. Then another. And another.
By morning, the slightly eerie experience from the night before had transformed into a running joke—though none of us would admit how spooked we’d felt. Over breakfast, we teased each other about how the mysterious sound had rattled our nerves and sparked our curiosity. Someone even suggested using the story to prank a rather annoying member of our larger group, who wasn’t exactly the friendliest presence on the trip.
We were all part of a special expedition: The Great Himalayan Exploration, a Royal Enfield Social Mission initiative in collaboration with UNESCO. The aim was to discover and document the Intangible Cultural Heritage of the Himalayas—a journey that promised a deep dive into traditions, landscapes, and the soul of the region.
Our route through Sikkim began in Bagdogra, moved through the bustling capital of Gangtok, and ventured north to the remote towns of Lachen, Lachung, and Dzongu. Eventually, we returned to Gangtok, where our focus turned to documenting the ancient art and tradition of Sikkimese mask making—a craft as layered as the night we’d just experienced.
Mask-making in Sikkim is an ancient craft, where artisans carve expressive wooden face masks representing gods, goddesses, animals, and mythical beings. These masks, worn during festivals, religious rituals, and ceremonial dances, can range from serene to fierce, or even animalistic in their expressions. In recent times, they’ve also found a place as decorative wall hangings. The masks are typically carved from a durable, lightweight wood known locally as Zaru Shing, found in the higher altitudes of Sikkim.
And so we arrived at the Department of Handicrafts & Handlooms, Government of Sikkim, where a traditional mask-making class was underway—a brief glimpse into one of the region’s oldest and most evocative art forms.
At the heart of the workshop, we met Karma Lepcha, a quiet, focused man who’s been carving masks since he was 17. Seated at a long wooden table, he worked with steady hands, gently scraping a large, half-formed mask with a curved tool, coaxing out its final shape from the pale grain of Zaru Shing wood.
“In our time,” he said without looking up, “we’d practise here and then take the masks to the market to sell. These days, most of our work is for the monasteries—that’s where the demand is now. The monks use them in rituals, so we go straight to them.”
He gestured to the pieces beside him. “The ones I’m working on right now include Mahakala and Kanchenjunga. These are specifically for prayer. Some masks are also made to hang at the entrances of homes and temples—to ward off evil and cleanse the space of negative energy.”
Karma explained that each mask represents a specific deity or protective spirit, and that the tradition is rooted in both scripture and interpretation. “We have an old master book,” he said, “that holds all the original designs and meanings. We used to follow it very strictly. Now, we blend it with our own techniques and experience—and pass that knowledge on.”
There are about 45 different kinds of masks used in monastery rituals, but nowadays, he said, they mostly make those in high demand—Mahakala, the fierce protector, and Kanchenjunga, the guardian spirit of the mountain.
“Not many young people want to learn this craft anymore,” he added, his tone somewhere between resignation and quiet pride. “But here in Gangtok, we still train students. They study for three years. After that, they’re ready to carve and sell in the market.”
Each mask, he told us, takes around 18 days to carve and another six to paint and finish. As I watched him carve the wood with care, it felt like he was passing down a tradition, one stroke at a time.
Not far from Karma, a young apprentice was at work, his hands steady as he carved a smaller mask. Karma nodded toward him with pride. “That’s one of my students—he’s learning fast,” he said, his voice tinged with both experience and hope.
The 18-year-old had been training for two years, having arrived here straight from school with a deep desire to learn the craft. “I grew up watching the older generation carve these faces. When I picked up the tools myself, it felt like I was part of something much bigger,” he said.
For him, the craft was not just about skill—it was about honouring the gods who protect their culture from evil. “Each mask holds meaning,” he explained. “They shield us from darkness, and by carving them, I feel like I’m helping carry their protection forward.”
As the mask-making class drew to a close, it was time to leave Sikkim and head back to Bagdogra for my flight. The last few days had been a blend of moments that, at first, felt distant—like the Jogi's haunting pheri—and others that grounded me, like the steady carving of the wooden masks. Both seemed to reflect something of the region’s character: a quiet, enduring connection to traditions that have been passed down through generations, often in the background of daily life.
We said goodbye to the other riders, exchanging handshakes and smiles after days of shared adventure. Some of the group came to drop us off near our taxi, a final gesture of friendship as we prepared to leave this beautiful place behind.
As we made our way to Bagdogra, I thought about how everything in Sikkim, from the rituals to the art, held a sense of continuity, always moving forward, but deeply rooted in its past. There was something reassuring in that. Our journey had come to an end, but Sikkim, with its rich history and rituals, would continue on, preserving its heritage one mask, one ritual, one sound at a time.