In the Shadow of Crows Read Online Free PDF Page B

sipped at the brew of tea leaves spiced with black cardamom, peppercorns, cloves and ginger root. It was sweet, milky and deeply comforting.
    â€œI remember when you made this journey once before, sister,” the jhankri smiled, “when the monsoon took your husband. So what brings you back today?”
    â€œI need your help, dajoo ,” Bindra stated, with newly restored composure. “There is something wrong, elder brother. There is something very wrong with me.”
    He looked her kindly in the eyes.
    â€œFear diminishes understanding,” he offered. “It reduces man’s inclination towards compassion. Fear only gives rise to conflict, both within and without. So do not be afraid, bahini . You are Durga. You are Shiva. You are Kali Ma.”
    Bindra laughed and wiped away more tears. “I used almost those very words this morning to someone else who was afraid. It is a lesson indeed to have them returned to me.”
    The jhankri left her sitting on the temple steps. She looked out to the relucent peaks of the Kanchenjunga, whilst he prepared himself. He donned his jama pagri white tunic, then the headdress stitched with feathers and precious kauri shells, symbols of the Goddess, the active force of the universe. He began to intone the mind-focusing syllables of mantras as he opened the red doors of the little shrine.
    Kushal Magar took up his mura , the sanctified drum that would take him into trance, enabling him to perceive beyond the boundaries of mere intellect, beyond the debilitating confines of petty ego.
    He unwrapped the thurmi from its cloth binding and raised the ceremonial dagger with both palms. He repeated resonating syllables and clasped the rock-crystal handle between firm fingers to draw a circle on the dry ground with its iron tip.
    â€œ Aung satom bhi dhumba damdim ...”
    This was now the ritual space, the focus for all his will and power, for all the knowledge bequeathed to him by innumerable preceding generations.
    Kushal Magar sat cross-legged, facing the than altar. He burned handfuls of mountain herbs in metal bowls. He lit cones of heady dhup incense in scorched clay cups. And all the while he muttered an endless stream of anciently configured “seeds” of sound, bijas with the vibratory power to effect a change in consciousness.
    To Bindra, the air seemed to thin, the air seemed to shine, as the jhankri closed his eyes and started to tremble.
    His journey beyond all limitations had begun.
    ***
    She was found by children on a muddy track we often cycled together.
    She had been crushed against a tree.
    The driver was never discovered. The accident never explained. Beautiful, bright, funny, loving Priya - she who had become the reason for my every waking hour, my every breath - had died alone. None of us had had the least idea. I thought I might have felt it.
    It was my mother who had to tell me. Ringing from a distant telephone. Line crackling. Voice strained.
    Two days later, Grandmother slipped away into her lawless reaches for one last time.
    She never again awoke from sleep.
    ***
    Kushal Magar’s drum lay silent. He blinked vaguely towards the mountains.
    â€œ Bahini ,” he whispered. “I have passed through Akash , the world of the gods. Through Dharti and Patal , the worlds of man, of water and crystal upon which all else sits. But, there is nothing I can do. You are bearing the one affliction I have no power to heal. Forgive me.”
    Bindra dared not take another breath.
    The jhankri moved decisively. He threw a length of scarlet cotton over her head and gave the instruction that she was to listen with her heart.
    He drew her close, lifted one corner of the cloth and whispered an urgent but precise stream of sounds directly into her right ear. “ Aung tato purushaya bitnay madevarcha . . .” he began.
    Three times he repeated the same torrent of syllables, blew smoke from newly ignited plants into her face, anointed her