Ah, home—the Practice House.

The name resonated with me, especially after the exhausting effort of keeping up with my strong Master. But the piercing shriek shattered my fragile desire for consolation, pulling me abruptly out of my lethargy. Yet, something about the voice felt strangely familiar. It stirred something deep within me, jolting me awake.

“Rain Po-share! … Rain Po-share!!”

We turned toward the sound. A woman in shredded clothing was stumbling down the path, waving her hands wildly. There was an eerie, desperate energy about her movements. As she came closer, I saw her palms were bleeding, and my stomach clenched with a sickening realization.

“Mom! Mom!” I cried out, tears streaming down my face as I bolted down the slope.

The snowflakes, which had been drifting lazily moments before, seemed to halt midair, as if startled by our cries.

“No!” Master shouted, reaching out to grab me, but his hand missed. I stumbled, the ground rushing up to meet me. Blood smeared across my skin as pain shot through me, but before I could process it, I felt her arms around me, pulling me close.

“What’s wrong, Mom?!” I gasped, clutching her tightly.

“Your sister!—Master, help her! Please, help her…” she pleaded, her voice trembling with desperation.

Master steadied us both, then guided us down the path toward the village. It was supposed to be on our way home, but earlier, I had begged Master to take a detour.

Passing by my mother, grandmother, and sister’s home without visiting them would have been unbearable.

As we arrived, a chilling sight awaited us. The village square was crowded with people gathered for a funeral ceremony. A few wore towering, colorful hats, two to three feet high, while the rest were dressed in somber attire—some elegant, others in weathered, humble clothing.

“Sister!” I cried out, spotting her lying motionless in the center of the gathering.

I moved to rush toward her, but Master stepped in front of me, his voice firm and commanding.

“Don’t touch her, Śir’rer men!” he barked, his tone sharp enough to freeze me in place.

“You, too,” he said to my mother, who recoiled, her hands trembling as she stepped back.

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Master had no time to respond, of course.

He moved slowly, as if treading on the brink of a dying state. It was such a strange thought to have in that moment...

He sensed hostility from other clergies of the Bön tradition.

It was known in Tibetan as བོན་ and pronounced as pʰø̃̀ in the Lhasa dialect.

The Bön tradition places greater emphasis on ceremonial practices, in contrast to Master’s lineage, which focuses on scripture chanting and doctrinal exposition.

Over the centuries, these traditions have alternated in prominence, replacing each other in influence."

But there was no time for Master to dwell on the intimidation.

He had to recite a few short Gatha verses as part of the Vajra Diamond Mantra Chanting Practice before turning his attention to my uncle, my mother’s brother.

Immediately, Master seated himself in the Lotus Meditation Posture, took out the Pecha Text Block that he had used when attending to Tashi Def the other day, just before we crossed into this part of my parents' neighborhood.

I knew why they were bound in long, narrow, rectangular forms: it made the scriptures easier for the masters to read and chant. Reading from the Daphne Bark Paper with ease, Master began chanting intensely, but in a manner different from what I had witnessed before.

My sister moved one of her fingers. Her demeanor turned a deep red, and gradually, her eyes opened wide, looking at Master and us. It seemed as though she tried to smile before closing her eyes again.

Mom sobbed. I stopped her, shushing her gently. She nodded and wiped away her tears. In truth, I was scared. I feared that my sister might have already passed away, but then I saw Master’s face turn towards us.

“Don’t worry. She will come around,” he reassured us.

Mom and I immediately knelt before Master, and the other relatives followed suit. Master helped us to our feet, signaling for others to assist in taking my sister back to our stone house next door.

Stone House!

As they carried my sister into my childhood stone house, I suddenly slowed my pace and then stopped altogether.

The wall...

The wall was as white as death, stained with blood, the sight of it flashing back in my mind.

The howling wind and the bitterly cold, spiraling weather forced us to live in the basement alongside furry animals that provided us with fresh milk, cheese, and ghee.

Their dung was not only used as fuel for burning but their fur was woven into clothing that kept us warm. As my dad sang folklore songs praising nature, I danced to his melodies while my sister laughed brightly, her joy lighting up the dim space around us.

If you know that under the ‘one child policy’, a family was allowed to have only one child.

Fines or even jail penalties could be imposed against violators.

Of course, we knew that it was for the good of the country. A county had to control the population for their greater good and happiness. However, my family lineage was reluctant to abide by it, especially when it’s first child born was a girl.

My parents had to endeavor to have me, and they had me as the second child.

As such, I could be said to be the guilty one that cause tragedy to my parents.

As one day, they’d come. I was asleep. Awoken by shouts and morning, I peeped through the cracks seeing white dressed people hitting on my dad.