Chapter 3: The Beginning of the Calamity

But fate, cruel as it often is, had other plans.

One storm-lashed evening, the skies turned a shade too dark, too fast. A fierce wind tore through the valley like an ancient curse awakened, howling with the voices of those long buried. Thunder cracked like splitting bones, and lightning danced far too close to the earth. The people of the hills had never seen a storm so furious, so determined to break the world apart.

Then came the sickness. It moved swiftly—through breath, through water, through the silence between one heartbeat and the next. By morning, it had swept through the village like a fire through dry leaves. Crops withered in hours, turning black and crumbling to dust. Birds vanished from the trees, and forest animals bolted from the woods as if chased by unseen terror. Even the river—the lifeblood of the land—ran thin and still, refusing to flow as though it, too, mourned.

The villagers were uneasy at first, but not afraid. They followed tradition.

When the first child fell ill, the elders called for a Kapherem — a sacred healing rite of incantation. It was performed by a woman known to possess spiritual sensitivity, someone believed to have a connection to the supernatural.

She sat before the ailing child, eyes closed in deep focus, she began chanting ancient verses — sacred invocations calling upon the village’s guardian spirits and deities for protection and healing.

The people watched in silence; their hopes pinned on his murmured words.

But the illness did not stop.

Then came fear.

They turned to the old ways — their faith, their rituals, their gods.

Sang Kelang was performed next — the ancient rite of sacrificial divination, always held under the cover of night.

By the flickering light of bamboo torches, a white rooster was brought forth. The elders and the priest stood in solemn silence, adorned in full ceremonial attire — the Seleng, a white cloth with intricate motifs wrapped as a dhoti; the Choi Hongthor, the traditional V-neck jacket — white for the married, navy blue for the unmarried; and the Poho, the sacred turban tied with reverence.

As chants filled the night, the bird was sacrificed — laid with care. The priest placed its body upon banana leaves and examined the entrails. He studied the liver’s sheen, the curves of the intestines, the texture of the bile — searching for signs, a warning, a name whispered by the unseen.

But the signs gave nothing.

The spirits remained silent.

And the village held its breath.

In every home, families performed Hem Angtar Karkli — a sacred rite meant to honour the household gods believed to guard prosperity and safety. Within the Karbi community, the Hem Angtar spirits are regarded with utmost reverence, as a family’s well-being is thought to depend on their continued favour. Each year, these rituals are carried out with solemn devotion to appease deities like Arnam Kethe, Hemphu, Mukrang, Rasinja, Peng, and Rit Anglong.

At the top of the Karbi spiritual order stands Arnam Kethe, the supreme deity, Hemphu. Just below him are Mukrang, and the compassionate goddess Rasinja, forming a divine triad of strength and grace. Peng, protector of the household, is invoked to shield the family from illness and misfortune, while Rit Anglong, guardian of the jhum fields, is worshipped to ensure the fertility of the land that sustains them.

Yet despite the offerings and hushed prayers, the winds continued to howl — wild and unrelenting. It seemed the spirits had not yet been moved.

Then came Rongker, the village-wide ritual held to honour the territorial deities who had long safeguarded their lands — and to give thanks for the harvest.

The villagers shaped dovan — low, dome-shaped earthen mounds — with care and reverence. Upon these sacred altars, they laid offerings: rice, meat served on clean banana leaves, and rice beer poured into bonkrok.

Chants rose into the night.

The scent of incense curled through the trees.

The village danced in circles — not in celebration, but in urgent, pleading hope.

Karjong Kekur was invoked for the sickest among them—those who seemed to drift further from life each day. The elders feared their souls had wandered too far, snared by malevolent spirits. Priests were called to retrieve their ‘karjong’, their essence, but many did not return to consciousness.

Still, the sky remained dark.

Still, the winds would not rest.

The spirits, it seemed, were still waiting.

People began to fall like brittle leaves in winter. Children burned with fever, sweat pouring from their skin. Mothers wailed into the night as they rocked lifeless bodies. The village square, once a place of laughter and gossip, echoed with silence and the low murmur of grief.

The calamity deepened. It was no longer just the illness. The women, those whose strength had always been the heart of the village, began to feel the first signs of the strange affliction. Their long black hair, thick and flowing like the rivers of the land, began to fall. It started with a few strands, then whole handfuls, until their heads were nearly bare, the soft black sheen of their hair fading to brittle strands in their hands.

It was as if their very essence was being pulled from them, strand by strand. At first, the village whispered it was a sign from the gods—an omen of a deeper curse. But it soon became clear. The women grew weaker with every passing day, their bodies slowly wasting away. Their faces lost their lustre, their eyes dimmed with the same fever that struck the children. Some fell into deep, unending slumber, never to wake again. Others succumbed to the emptiness within, their bodies hollow shells of what they had once been.

The villagers watched in horror as their loved ones — wives, husbands, daughters, sons, and elders — withered before their eyes, the very source of their strength and warmth torn away by an invisible force. Hair fell in clumps, skin grew pale, and vitality drained from even the youngest among them. No prayer, no offering, no sacrifice could halt the slow unravelling. The hair kept falling — until at last, all that remained was silence, as one by one, they succumbed to the calamity, leaving behind only grief and unanswered questions.

Death was everywhere in the village. Four or five funeral pyres burned each day. The cremation ground, once a place of reverence and quiet reflection, now knew no rest. With no space left, the ashes of the departed were cleared away daily — only to make room for the next soul, as the cycle of loss continued unabated.

It was then that Sintu understood—this was no ordinary plague. This was a wound in the world, a breach in the balance she had sworn to protect.

She stood before the white-stone shrine that the villagers had built for her years ago. Wrapped in her Pe Honki, a silk robe woven with the yarn of silkworms and dyed in Sibu extract, she looked like a figure from myth. The village weavers had gifted the robe to her, embroidered with moon flowers-delicate blossoms that only bloomed once every seven years.

Her robe shimmered under the stormy skies, the indigo hues blending with the shadows of the earth. The weight of her responsibility settled upon her like the fabric itself, yet it was a weight she had long accepted with grace and devotion. With the Jambili Athon on her hand, the title she had sworn to uphold, she had vowed to protect the village for as long as she lived.

Her bare feet touched the earth, and she closed her eyes.

The wind whispered first—frantic, confused, searching for calm. Then the soil beneath her hummed with sorrow. The trees, stripped of birdsong, leaned closer. Even the clouds above, swollen and restless, seemed to wait.

Sintu listened.

And the earth wept.

What she heard was not just pain—it was betrayal. Somewhere, something had been disturbed, a sacred order broken. She remembered her vow, the promise she had whispered the day her father crowned her with the Jambili Athon, when the people sang and wept, and the wind lifted her hair like a halo.

That day, she had sworn to protect the land, the people, and the spirit of balance.

Now, the land was calling that vow in.