Sikkim, India | It was around midnight when I first felt it—my toes and the soles of my feet had turned oddly sticky, as if I'd stepped into gum or something just as unpleasant. But I was too caught up in conversation with the others, the bonfire crackling beside us, and the familiar tune of John Denver's Country Roads, Take Me Home floating through the night air. So I shrugged it off.
Another hour slipped by before I finally made my way back to the small, cosy room at our homestay. That's when I realised what had actually happened. As soon as I took off my slippers, I saw it: the sole of my right foot and half of my left were smeared with blood—the leeches had done their work silently.
But really, what else could I expect? We were staying atop a mountain in Dzongu, a triangular region in North Sikkim, about 76 km from the state capital of Gangtok, surrounded by wilderness. "Damn it," I muttered to myself. I cleaned and dried my feet, grateful that at least it wasn't hurting. Before drifting off to sleep, I consoled myself with the thought that I had received an impromptu leech therapy session—something that easily costs a few thousand rupees in the big cities—free of charge.
We had arrived in Dzongu that morning, coming down from Lachung—a mountain village about 120 km from Gangtok—just hours before my unexpected leech therapy session. Our journey was part of a special expedition: The Great Himalayan Exploration, a Royal Enfield Social Mission initiative, in partnership with UNESCO, aimed at discovering and documenting the Intangible Cultural Heritage of the Himalayas. For those unfamiliar, UNESCO defines Intangible Cultural Heritage as the living traditions, expressions, knowledge, and skills communities recognise as part of their cultural identity—from oral traditions and rituals to craftsmanship and practices linked to nature.
The journey was a rich blend of culture, natural beauty, and unforgettable experiences throughout Sikkim. Starting from Bagdogra, we made our way through the bustling capital of Gangtok before heading north to the towns of Lachen, Lachung, and finally, Dzongu, where we were tasked with documenting the Bhumthing Prayers for the Deification of Kanchenjunga.
The next day began early for us. After a quick breakfast, we geared up and set off on a short but challenging hour-long trek to the top of the mountain, where the prayers were to take place. Though the trek wasn't long, my city-dwelling muscles (and honestly, every bone and joint in my body) were put to the test. The only comfort was knowing I wasn't alone in my struggle. Aside from the local Sikkimese, everyone else in our group seemed to be feeling the strain.
At one point, as someone huffed and puffed their way up, they cracked a joke: "Pahado par aaya tha mental health sudharne, yaha aake pata chala physical health bhi kharab hai ("I came to the mountains to improve my mental health, but upon arriving here, I realised my physical health is also poor"). It lightened the mood a bit, and together, with our shared exhaustion, we finally reached the top.
There, we waited for the Bongthing. In Lepcha spiritual practices, shamans, known as Mun (priestesses) and Bongthing (priests), perform rituals to honour the deities and spirits linked to Kanchenjunga, seeking blessings for both the community and the land. These rituals include offerings, chants, and dances, highlighting the connection between the Lepcha people, the indigenous inhabitants of Sikkim, and their sacred mountain. It's worth noting that Dzongu, where we were, has been designated as an official reserve for the Lepcha people, whose population in India was recorded at around 80,316 according to the 2011 Census.
We had been waiting for about 15 minutes for the rituals to begin when things finally kicked into motion. Two men, who we later learned were the Bongthing's assistants for the day, arrived and began constructing a makeshift elevated platform using local tree stems and bamboo—essentially a small temple. Soon after, the Bongthing himself appeared—a charming man, possibly in his 60s, in traditional Lepcha attire, exuding the warmth of a neighbourhood uncle who sometimes forbids you from playing cricket, yet spoils you with sweets to make up for it.
Once he arrived, everything sped up. A fire was lit, and local leaves were added, filling the air with a sweet-smelling smoke. The Bongthing began to decorate the platform, adding more leaves, yellow flowers, and blue and yellow flags. As offerings, he placed rice, local sweets, candies, and bamboo candles.
After an hour of preparation, the chanting began. The Bongthing, speaking in Lepcha—a language with around 30,000 speakers, according to a 2018 report—recited prayers in a style that reminded me of old Mongolian songs, with long, drawn-out syllables and a slow tempo, almost like throat singing. Lepcha, one of 197 Indian languages listed as endangered by UNESCO, is unique in that it has its own indigenous script, unlike most other Himalayan languages.
Once the ritual ended, we were handed sweets and candies as blessings from the Bongthing. As the group began to disperse, I took the chance to approach him, hoping to understand more about the ritual and its significance.
"The Lepcha people hold Mount Kanchenjunga as sacred, seeing it as the guardian of our spiritual and cultural identity," he explained, as we sat on a rock. "We call it Kongchen Kongchlo, meaning The Highest Over Our Head. According to our mythology, the first humans were created from the pure snows of Kanchenjunga, and we call ourselves the Children of the Snowy Peaks."
He went on to explain that the prayers were dedicated to Kanchenjunga for protection, especially during difficult times like the pandemic. The prayers are meant not just for individuals or specific groups, but for the entire community's well-being. Kanchenjunga is seen as a guardian of all Sikkimese people.
The Bongthing also spoke of his childhood and how he was introduced to these rituals early on. "These traditions aren't only religious," he explained, "they also address aspects of daily life, including healing and community welfare. We regularly meditate to invoke Kanchenjunga and the guardian spirits, seeking their blessings for the well-being and protection of our community."
It was essential, he emphasised, for the younger generations to carry forward these practices, ensuring that the blessings and protection would continue for the community.
By the time the ceremony ended, the sun was setting, casting its final rays on the mountains, turning them a beautiful greenish-gold. We began the trek down, our tired bones and muscles creaking with every step. Soon, a light drizzle began to fall, transforming the landscape into a misty haze—exactly as I had been warned. In Northeast India, the weather can change in an instant. By the time we reached our homestay, the rain was pouring heavily, but we were relieved to be inside, gathered around a bonfire sheltered under a metal shed.
Soon, we moved to the homestay's kitchen, where our hosts graciously treated us to a feast of momo. They had prepared a mountain of them, and each of us ate no less than 20. I even joined in the preparation, rolling the dough, stuffing it with filling and placing them in the big steamer. Unlike the previous night, there were no leeches, no blood—just laughter, jokes, and in the distance, the lingering echoes of the Bongthing's chanting still drifting through the air.
