THE DEVIL DANCERS OF TUNA

Flat-roofed, arcaded buildings terraced one above the other, with gaily painted walls from which covered wooden verandahs and box-like, latticed windows jutted out, surrounded a paved courtyard, its rough flagstones hidden by shifting, many-coloured throngs of gorgeously vestmented priests, mitred bishops, hideous demons, skeletons with grinning skulls and weird creatures with papier mache heads of bears, tigers, dragons and even stranger beasts.  Wild but not inharmonious music from shaven-headed members of an orchestra of weird instruments—­gongs, shawns, cymbals, long silver trumpets—­deafened the ears.  Crowds of gaily-clad spectators covered the flat roofs of the building and arcades, thronged the verandahs, filled the windows and squatted around the courtyard—­these last kept in order by bullet-headed lamas with whips.

It was the annual ceremony of the Devil Dance of the great Buddhist monastery of Tuna, one of the fantastic Mystery Plays, the now almost meaningless functions into which the ideal faith preached by Gautama, the Buddha, the high-souled reformer, has degenerated.

From all parts of Bhutan west of the dividing line of the great Black Mountain Range, from Tibet, even from far-distant Ladak, the faithful had made pilgrimage to be present at the great festival in this most famous and sacred gompa of the land.  Red lamas from Western Tibet and yellow from Lhassa, abbots and monks from little-known monasteries lost among the rugged mountains, nuns with close-cropped hair from the convents of Thimbu, Paro and Punaka, robber chiefs of the Hah-pa and graziers from Sipchu, townsfolk from the capital and peasants from the fever-laden Himalayan valleys—­all had gathered there.  For all who attended the sacred festival could gain indulgences that would save them a century or two’s sojourn in the hot or cold hells of their religion.

In a gallery adorned with artistic wooden carvings and hung with brocaded silk and gold embroideries sat a fat, bare-legged man with close-cropped hair and scanty beard, wearing an ample, red silk gown ornamented with Chinese designs worked in gold thread.  He was the Penlop of Tuna, the great feudal lord of the province, whose high-walled jong, or castle, crowned the rocky hill on which the monastery and the town were built.  Behind him stood his officers and attendants clad in silk or woollen kimono-like garments bound at the waist by gaily-worked leather belts from which hung handsome swords with elaborately-wrought silver hilts inlaid with coral and turquoises and with gold-washed silver scabbards.

The courtyard was gay with fluttering prayer-flags, the poles of which as well as the wooden pillars of the arcades were hung with the beautiful banners artistically worked with countless pieces of coloured silks and brocades and needlework pictures of Buddhist gods and saints for which the monasteries of Bhutan are justly famed.  From the blue sky the sun blazed on the riot of mingled hues of the decorations and the dresses of spectators and performers.