The Reflection & Replacement- A Yuksom Tale

I came to Yuksom looking for solitude. What I found instead… was her.

It started with a trek to an old, abandoned structure behind Dubdi Monastery. Locals didn’t talk about it, but it showed up on no tourist map. Cracked stones, moss-covered walls, and prayer flags that hadn’t fluttered in years. And inside that ruin—was a mirror.

Oddly preserved. No dust. No cracks. Just there..as if, it was just kept or forgotten by someone.. a hiker maybe. 

At first, I laughed. A mirror in the middle of nowhere? But when I looked in, my smile dropped.

The reflection wasn’t mine.

The girl staring back had my eyes—but not my face. She was younger, thinner, her hair braided in a style I had never worn. She wore an old-school chuba, like a girl out of time.

I stepped back.

So did she—but a second too late.

That’s when I knew: she wasn’t copying me. She was watching.

Frozen, I stared, heart hammering. Then—she lifted her hand slowly and traced a symbol on her chest. A Tibetan letter? A curse? I don't know.

And then, she smiled—a strange, sad smile—before mouthing something silently.

I could barely breathe, but I whispered back:

“Who are you?”

The mirror cracked—not shattered, just a single split like a vein across glass.

I stumbled back and blinked.

The structure was gone.

I was standing alone on a hilltop, in full daylight. No ruins. No mirror. No trail behind me.

Only a braid of my own hair—freshly tied—in a style I never remembered doing.

The braid felt tight. Too tight. Like fingers gripping the back of my neck.

My pulse beat at my temples as I touched the woven strands. It was real. Fresh. Precise.

But I hadn't done it.

No one else had been with me. At least, no one I could see.

I rushed back toward the homestay, stumbling down the mossy slope, brushing past rhododendron bushes and prayer flags hanging lifelessly in the still air. Even the birds were silent.

When I finally reached my room, the mirror above the sink greeted me like a threat.

I forced myself to look.

My face stared back.

Sort of.

The mole on my right cheek was gone.

But I could feel it when I touched it.

The reflection didn’t match.

It wasn’t late enough in the day for shadows to be playing tricks.

I blinked hard.

She didn’t.

I snapped the mirror off the wall and hurled it into the dustbin.

But mirrors… have a way of returning.

--

That night, I dreamt in whispers. In my sleep, someone—or something—was brushing my hair. I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. Cold fingers worked through my scalp, weaving, weaving…

When I woke up in a sweat, my braid was tighter. Finer. Neatly done. 

And my lips whispered something I didn’t understand.

A name:

“Khandroma.”

---

The name haunted me the next morning. It echoed like a half-remembered lullaby—old, sacred, and unfinished. Desperate for answers, I walked to a small monastery archive room near Dubdi.

I wasn't sure what I was looking for—just that I had to look.

The monk at the desk, a gentle man with eyes that looked through you, asked softly,

 “Whose name are you carrying?”

When I said it—“Khandroma”—he went still. As if I'd unlocked a door in his mind he had tried to keep shut.

“You must be mistaken,” he said. “That name hasn't been spoken here for generations.”

But then, almost unwillingly, he led me to a worn folio wrapped in red cloth, brittle with age.

Inside: hand-drawn diagrams of protective mandalas, rituals… and a young girl’s sketch.

It was her.

The braid.

The chuba.

The eyes.

And beneath the sketch, in careful Tibetan script, was the story.

Khandroma—a prodigy in the ancient protective arts. Daughter of a lay practitioner whose family guarded the sacred hill behind Dubdi.

During a powerful mountain ritual meant to seal away a rising darkness, something went wrong.

The protective energies collapsed inward, and the ritual consumed her soul.

To prevent disaster, her father bound her essence to a mirror—a portal that could never be opened.

Except…

the seal had weakened.

Because I—someone who had already escaped death once, twice—had stepped too close.

She now waits.

Not alive.

Not dead.

Just… waiting for someone to replace.

---

The next day, I returned to the hilltop. I needed to know what had happened—was still happening.

But it was different this time.

There was no mirror.

No ruin.

Just… her.

She stood exactly where the mirror had been. Same chuba. Same hollow eyes. Only now she looked older—more like me.

No.

Exactly like me.

She had my braid.

My nose.

Even the mole.

I opened my mouth, but she beat me to it.

 “You don’t belong here anymore.”

And just like that—my vision shattered.

---

I found myself back in the forest, but everything was… wrong.

The trees leaned inward like watchers. The monastery bell tolled, though I knew it hadn’t rung in years.

I reached for my phone. Dead.

No signal.

No time.

When I returned to the village, the locals avoided my gaze. They bowed slightly… in reverence. One old woman whispered,

“She has returned.”

I said, “What do you mean? I’ve only been gone for a day.”

The woman’s eyes widened.

Child, you left this village ten years ago.”

---

Back in the homestay, an old newspaper lay on the desk.

The date read: August 4, 2035.

And on the wall above the sink—

the mirror was back.

My reflection smiled before I did.

She lifted a finger.

Traced the Tibetan symbol on her chest.

But this time… I couldn’t move.

My legs.

My arms.

Even my voice—gone.

I was inside the mirror.

And she?

She turned away. Walked out of frame. Laughed.

Then the lights flickered.

And I realized—

I wasn't alone.

In the darkness behind me, dozens of faces turned.

All braided.

All silent.

All trapped.

She never needed just one girl to escape.
She needed many—to stay whole, and to regain her power with time.

And in the reflection of the mirror’s corner, etched faintly in silver letters:

“You saw her. Now you are her.”

----------

On a cold morning, ten years later,

A girl from Gangtok hiked alone behind Dubdi Monastery.

She had come seeking silence.

A break from the noise.

A place to feel… real again.

The trail was overgrown, but she found it—drawn to it, though she couldn't say why.

At the top of the hill, she paused. The trees swayed, but the air was still. Prayer flags hung limp in the mist.

And there, half-hidden beneath ivy and time,

she found the ruin.

In the center of it—

a mirror.

Old.

Untouched.

Waiting.

She stepped toward it, unaware of the braid forming slowly behind her—strand by strand—by invisible hands.

She peered into the glass.

And smiled.

Because the girl staring back at her…

had her eyes.

But not her face.

---

THE END

~Written By Sumita Pradhan