Fire Blessing Bhutan

Travel Fire Blessing Bhutan

Please mention The Villager and Town Life when responding to adverts 46 Tucked away in the Himalaya, this small kingdom has boldly stepped into the twenty-first century, but cultural values remain at the heart of everyday life to ensure the ‘gross national happiness’ promised in the constitution. It’s a strong Buddhist culture punctuated by myriad festivals, but most dramatic perhaps is Thangbi Mani, the ‘fire blessing’ held in Bumthang, the country’s spiritual heartlands. Soon after dawn on this special autumn day, townsfolk and farmers come from all directions, beautifully dressed in hand-woven gowns shimmering like rainbows. There are women with babies on their back, old people leaning on bamboo staffs, men in knee-length chequered gho and sweeping white cuffs, and garlands of children whose dark eyes sparkle with excitement. They walk up the valley or tumble down the pinescented slopes to cross the footbridge, like one long line of ants suspended high above the river. Meanwhile in the temple, monks offer fresh water to the gods and butter lamps flicker all around. Now tingling in anticipation, the faithful pour into the monastery for the welcome dance, as village girls in their best finery shuffle on the flagstones to the rhythm of long horns and drums. There is much chanting and praying then suddenly something passes through the air and everyone rushes out into the nearby field, led by dignitaries and red-robed monks. Just feet apart, two ominous haystacks are waiting and as more blessings rise under the deep blue sky an eerie silence falls upon the crowds, a human chain ready to break loose at the first spark. All is set for the purification rite and highlight of the year. Watched by thousands of eyes, the hay is set alight, smoke and ash filling the air, and in one massive surge young and old run through the flames to cleanse their sins and ensure good luck for the coming year. Friends drag each other through, toddlers hold on to their mothers and men pull up their collars to protect their hair. Three times round then they come out, bubbling all over, ready for a fresh start. The flames die down as quickly as they started and great clouds of smoke drift downstream, bearing witness to a faith stronger than pain. Prayer wheels tinkle along the banks, Buddhist flags flutter in the breeze and now, in the valley sprinkled with apple trees and nodding buckwheat, the harvest will be good and the children healthy. Back in the temple there are traditional jesters and masked dancers twirling barefoot on sun-baked stones, in a flurry of multi-coloured brocade and ‘thunderbolt steps’. Hoisted on the wall for a better view toddlers munch sunflower seeds, monks shelter from the midday heat under makeshift awnings and families gather around home-made offerings of marigolds and lucky chapattis to share with friends, as if nothing unusual had happened at all. The haystacks have vanished leaving just a patch of singed grass, and now in this bucolic land the river tumbles crystal clear as cymbals and gongs echo across the hills.

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