The Mad Honey Diaries (Pt.4)

Returning to Jogipada felt like returning to a second home. The weariness in my muscles was a badge of honor, and the lingering, soft-focus glow of the mad honey made the familiar stone houses and smiling faces of the villagers seem ethereal, lit from within. I was no longer just a outsider; I was the one who had tasted the harvest, who had walked with the hunters.

That evening, the central courtyard of the village transformed. A great fire was lit, its sparks swirling up to compete with the emerging stars. The air grew thick with the smells of roasting goat, spices, and raksi, a potent, home-brewed rice spirit. This was the Feast of Mahadev, a celebration of a successful harvest and a thanks to the god of the mountains for his protection.

I was given a place of honor next to Kamal and his family. The honey, now carefully stored in sealed clay pots, was treated with a reverence usually reserved for religious relics. As the feast commenced, a small, ceremonial amount was passed around. Each villager, from the eldest, stooped grandmother to the wide-eyed young men, took a tiny taste. It was not for intoxication tonight; it was a sacrament, a binding of the community to the mountain's bounty.

Encouraged by the celebratory mood and a few cups of raksi, I asked Kamal about the visions the old anthropologist had mentioned. He smiled, a distant look in his eyes.

"The honey speaks to each person differently," he said, his voice low. "To a worried man, it brings calm. To a tired man, deep sleep. To a hunter, it can bring sharp focus. The visions... they are for those who need to see something else, to look past the world of stone and wood. It shows you the spirit of the world. But you must be ready to listen. It is a teacher, not a toy."

Later, as the fire died down to embers and the chanting songs faded, I lay on my back on a woven mat, looking at the impossible tapestry of stars undimmed by any light pollution. The combination of the day's exertion, the raksi, and the residual hum of the honey in my system pulled me into a state between waking and dreaming. I didn't see dragons or gods, but the stars seemed to pulse with a slow, conscious rhythm. The mountains were no longer silent giants but sleeping guardians, their breath the wind in the pines. It was a vision of connection, of my own tiny, insignificant yet intrinsically belonging place in this vast, ancient system.

I understood then that the "madness" of the honey wasn't about losing one's mind, but about loosening its rigid grip, allowing the soul to perceive a deeper, older truth.