The Wrath Of Labasa
One could feel the breaths of ‘The Sacred Forests of Mawphlang’ like an ancient living-being. A quiet, dainty village in the valleys amidst Purvanchal stood Mawphlang, a beauty to behold.
Towering trees rose from layers of centuries-old Humus. Wild orchids clung to damp barks. Thick moss swallowed fallen branches, while twisted roots disappeared into the forest floors. Hidden among the undergrowth, Pitcher-plants waited silently with mouths half-open like patient predators.
Sunlight barely entered the grove. The Khasi tribe believed the forest just belonged to ancient spirits.
At the edge of the sacred grove stood the Jaka-Knia, the ritual ground where generations had gathered to honour the protector deity of the forest— Labasa.
That morning, the air carried the smell of petrichor and burning incense. The men stood in the inner circle preparing the sacred offerings while the women remained at a respectful distance, simply observant. At the center stood the ancient monolith structure; tall menhirs supporting a flat stone-slab. To outsiders, it resembled an ancient stone table, but to the Khasi people it symbolized the union of Masculine and Feminine energies; a structure portraying sustenance of life.
The Lyngdoh, the chief priest, stepped forward. His silver hair rested against his shoulders as he raised both palms toward the forest. A hush fell over the gathering.
He began chanting in an ancient dialect scarcely understood beyond the tribe. His words flowed like the forest wind.
Marcus watched everything through his camera-lens. An environmental filmmaker from Germany, Marcus had arrived in Mawphlang two days earlier to document the sacred forests and the Khasi tribe’s conservation traditions. Unlike most tourists, he genuinely admired indigenous ecological practices. Beside him stood Tirot, his local village host.
“Do not wander too deep into the grove alone,” Tirot whispered.
“And remember one thing above all.”
Marcus lowered his camera slightly.
“Never take anything from the forest.”
Marcus smiled politely. “Not even a leaf?”
Tirot did not smile back, “Not even a stone.”
The ritual continued.
A rooster sacrifice was offered to Labasa, its blood scattering beneath the monolith.
The Lyngdoh closed his eyes before declaring, “Another year passes under the protection of Labasa. As long as we honour the forest, the forest shall protect us.”
The tribe responded together, “U Ryngkew, U Basa!”
Then suddenly, the bushes near the grove rustled.
A leopard emerged from the shadows. His golden eyes shimmered beneath shafts of filtered sunlight as he stood watching the gathering without aggression.
No one screamed or moved. Instead, they bowed their heads reverently.
The Lyngdoh’s face softened, “Labasa walks among us today. It’s a blessing.”
Again the tribe echoed, “U Ryngkew, U Basa!”
Marcus captured every second of it, astonished by the tribe’s calmness.
Later that afternoon, while filming alone near a quieter section of the grove, Marcus noticed something half-buried beneath damp leaves.
A dark Rudhraksha bead; old, roughened, weathered with age.
He picked it up carefully. The bead felt strangely warm in his palm. Instinctively, he slipped it into his pocket.
By evening, mist rolled over Mawphlang. Marcus sat outside Tirot’s wooden home beneath a sky scattered with sparkling stars. Cricket hummed while the winds whistled an ancient tune.
He replayed the footage from the ceremony, satisfied with what he had captured.
Then before he realised, there was a faint rustling near the grass. Something struck his ankle at terrifying speed. A sharp burning pain seared through his leg. Marcus gasped and stumbled backward. The snake disappeared almost instantly into the darkness.
“Tirot!” he shouted weakly.
But the venom was already spreading. His vision blurred. Sweat drenched his skin despite the cold night air. The world around him tilted violently as numbness crept through his body.
He clawed desperately at the earth. Then suddenly his hand brushed against the Rudhraksha bead inside his pocket.
A terrible realization hit. The warning.
‘Never take anything from the forest.’
By the time Tirot found him minutes later, Marcus lay motionless beneath the stars.
The villagers gathered quickly. Fear and sorrow spread through the crowd. The Lyngdoh arrived carrying a lantern.
One glance at the bite marks was enough.
But when the Rudhraksha bead was discovered in Marcus’ pocket, silence fell heavily across the gathering.
“He did not understand,” the Lyngdoh murmured softly. “But the forest understands all.”
Tirot looked shaken. “Labasa was pleased this morning… why would this happen?”
The old priest knelt beside Marcus’ body, “Because the sacred laws were broken.”
The villagers listened in silence as the Lyngdoh spoke, “This forest is not ours to claim. Nothing leaves this grove— not wood, not stone, not leaf. What rests here belongs to the spirits and to the balance of nature itself.”
He held up the Rudhraksha bead carefully.
“People think these are old beliefs meant to frighten visitors. But fear is not the purpose of the law. Respect is.”
The next morning, Marcus was cremated according to local customs. The tribe offered prayers for the peace of his Soul, believing that death born from ignorance still deserved compassion.
As flames rose toward the grey morning sky, the Lyngdoh whispered ancient prayers seeking forgiveness from Labasa.
After the rites were completed, he walked alone into the sacred grove.
Gently, he placed the Rudhraksha bead back upon the forest floor; to where it rightfully belonged.
Far away, hidden amidst the dense canopy, Labasa, appearing as a leopard, watched silently before vanishing into the heart of the forests.
900 words excluding the title
Glossary:
Labasa- The Forest God known to be a shape shifter; appearing as a leopard when happy and as a snake when angered.
Jaka-Knia- The ritual ground
Khasi- The local tribe
Rudhraksha- Sacred bead found as a nut from a holy tree
Lyngdoh- The tribal priest
U Ryngkew, U Basa- Local tribal chants to hail their forest God
Picture Credits: Travel Trends, Google Images
