Trance and transcendence: Anu Malhotra on her new book ‘Shamans of the Himalayas’

Filmmaker Anu Malhotra’s stunning new book Shamans of the Himalayas (Om Books, ₹500) takes forward from her four-part documentary series about the unique culture of Dev Bhoomi in Himachal Pradesh’s Kullu Valley.

The series, which was the result of three years of filming, aired on the Discovery Channel in 2013 and the Gaia Channel in 2018. During the research, she realised she was documenting a unique reality of a lived culture that was hidden and largely ignored by modern India.

“Awareness, understanding and appreciation of their wisdom traditions gave me an enhanced perspective and insight into the value of honouring the sacred in nature and community,” she says.

In this remarkable book, Malhotra delves deeper into the research into different aspects of the unique culture of the shamans of the Kullu Valley, especially the state of trance, divine possession, sacred healing and nature spirits. We reached out to her about her experiences and research.

eShe: You’ve described Shamans of the Himalayas as a deeply personal and life-altering journey. Could you share any transformative experience that particularly stayed with you during your years of research and filming?

Anu Malhotra: Shamans of the Himalayas emerges from years of deep immersion – over a hundred interviews, countless journeys, and several unusual experiences. One of the most personal and transformative experiences was the intimate pooch session conducted by the Goor of Naag Devta (Snake God).

During the session, Devta addressed me and, through Goor, detected my chronic health condition and informed me of the possible cause. My illness was something that was not disclosed to anyone there until the Devta pointed it out.

The Devta culture of the Kullu Valley is largely hidden from mainstream view. What were the challenges you faced in gaining the trust of local communities and being allowed into these sacred, often secretive rituals?

Respect and consent were crucial. Being open and curious with an empathetic lens, genuine respect and reverence for their culture, mingling freely and easily with locals, eating in their homes, accompanying them while working in fields, and participating in their festivals helped me win their trust.

Most importantly, I had to get the Devi and Devtas’ permissions through a divination process done by the Goors, before I was allowed to film anything. My local guide, Meru, helped me communicate and interview the locals. I was always conscious that these people were sharing a deeply intimate part of their lives, for which I am really grateful.

As a filmmaker and writer, I had to be a bridge, not an intruder. That required extensive ground research and constant self-review, both creatively and ethically, to translate everything authentically.

One of the striking aspects of the book is that it avoids romanticising the subject matter. How did you strike a balance between analytical distance and personal immersion, especially given the mystical and emotionally charged experiences you encountered?

I constantly reminded myself that I was a guest in their world. I have tried to look at it with empathy, but also with a critical lens. I couldn’t lose myself completely in the experience. I had to reflect, question, and frame things in a way that was responsible and honest. The key was to remain open and to let wonder and analysis coexist.

You write about altered states of consciousness and spirit possession from anthropological, psychological and spiritual perspectives. How do you think Western scientific paradigms can begin to understand or reconcile with such phenomena?

Shamanic traditions are a universal form of cultural practice around the globe. They represent humanity’s earliest spiritual practices, going back about 30,000 to 60,000 years!

One of the central aspects of the form of shamanism found in Asia and Southeast Asia is divine possession. Divine possession has been a widespread and enduring phenomenon across cultures for centuries, deeply rooted in spiritual traditions. During my research, I was struck by how prevalent divine possession is across the world. It has been studied and documented by a plethora of eminent anthropologists around the world. And yet, how little most of us know about it, let alone understand this phenomenon.

Spirit possession occurs upon the belief that demons or spirits can take control of a human body. It was fairly common in ancient belief that a human being might become possessed by a supernatural power. Indeed, virtually all cultures have some tradition of belief in the existence of spirit entities and spirit possession.

An eminent anthropologist, Erika Bourguignon, sampled 488 societies and found spirit possession traditions occurring in 74 per cent of them. In other words, a five-year study examining contemporary cultures uncovered roughly 375 different traditions of spirit possession. This number would grow exponentially if one were to look at the thousands of cultures not included in Bourguignon’s study.

Despite the rich tapestry of divine possession practices across India, many of us grow up unaware or disconnected from these local traditions. One reason for this disconnect, I believe, lies in our English language-based, Western-oriented education system. This system often privileges Western frameworks of knowledge and rationality, marginalising our own worldviews and practices.

As a result, cultural practices like divine possession are often overlooked, under-researched, or dismissed entirely, leaving many of us with little awareness of the diversity within our own heritage.

Divine possession is a powerful and deeply rooted tradition in many indigenous and rural communities of India, and during my research, I was amazed by how vividly it’s expressed. For example, in coastal Karnataka, the Tulu people celebrate the Siri cult during the Ayaana Festival, where women enter trance states and become possessed by the spirit of the goddess Siri – it’s seen as both therapeutic and socially empowering.

In Assam, the Deodhani Festival at the Kamakhya temple is another striking example –shamans called deodhas become possessed by fierce forms of the goddess, dancing wildly to intense drumbeats and wielding weapons.

Then there’s Theyyam in Kerala, where performers are possessed by local deities and are revered and worshipped even by the locals. These traditions show just how widespread and culturally significant divine possession is across India.

Early accounts of spirit possession by Frazer and Oesterreich closely describe what I witnessed during several episodes of divine possession among the Goors: the exaggerated body movements, the contorted facial expressions, the sudden intrusion of an unfamiliar personality, and the amnesia following the episode.

Iamblichus, a third-century Neo-Platonist, also identified types of divine possession tied to specific deities, noting signs like anaesthesia and immunity to pain as evidence of divine influence. Divine possession was an important phenomenon even in the early polytheistic Greco-Roman religion. Plato categorised such inspired states into prophetic, mystical, poetic, and erotic, linked to gods like Apollo and Dionysus.

Ancient Greek Oracle temples were not just religious places; they were actual centres of guidance, both for individuals and even state leaders. The Oracles were believed to be “inspired” or “possessed” by a god, goddess or daimon (a type of semi-divine spirit). The most famous oracle was Pythia at Delphi, whose body became a medium for the god Apollo’s voice. The Delphi Oracle Temple is a tourist favourite these days.

Another example of Divine possession is the Nechung Oracle, who serves as a spirit medium of Dorje Drakden, Nechung Monastery’s central protective deity. When possessed, the oracle offers prophetic advice and guidance to the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government on matters of national security and politics.

This tradition, which dates back to the sixteenth century during the era of the fifth Dalai Lama, continues to play a vital role in Tibetan society. If you read the Fourteenth Dalai Lama’s autobiography, Freedom in Exile, you will learn that it was the Nechung Oracle who gave him crucial guidance to escape the impending Chinese assault, whilst in a divine possession trance! The Oracle not only urged him to flee but also provided detailed instructions for his journey to India.

There is a widely held misconception that spirit possession is more common in folk aspects of Hinduism than in classical Hinduism. However, a careful reading of the shastras reveals that spirit possession was not only a part of Sanatan Dharma but, until the medieval era and even later in local literature, it was quite acceptable and commonplace.

Professor Frederick Smith in his excellent book, The Self Possessed: Deity and Spirit Possession in South Asian Literature and Civilization, observes that linguistic references to possession are found in the oldest Vedic texts, the Samhitas, around 1500–1000 BCE, where the Sanskrit words avesa, grahana, and pravesana indicate different modes of possession.

Even the Mahabharata has various instances of possession! Like the case of Aswatthama, who, when possessed by Bhairava, the ferocious form of Shiva, goes on to massacre the Pandava camp. Similarly, the Linga Purana describes Shiva’s possession of the body of a dead Brahmin, Lakulisa, using his yogic powers (pravishtayogamaya).

Spirit possession also occurs in the yogic context, where an adept practitioner can enter another and take control of the latter’s mind or body. Like the story of Adi Shankara, the eighth-century Vedic scholar, who possessed the body of a dead king during a celebrated debate. In Patanjali’s Yogasutras, a chapter deals with siddhis, or “supernormal powers” that are gained as a result of yoga, allowing the avesa, or “entrance”, of one’s chitta, or “feelings”, into another’s body.

Essentially, the phenomenon of spirit possession amounts to connecting and communicating with the spirit world. In recent times, outside the mainstream religions, there has been a plethora of mediums and channellers who have claimed special abilities to contact the spirit dimension.

Psychologists and medical professionals often explain spirit possession as a dissociative state or link it to disorders like schizophrenia, epilepsy or bipolar disorder. But there’s a growing recognition that these interpretations can be limited, especially when they ignore cultural context.

Earlier views pathologised possession, seeing it purely as a mental-health issue, but more recent psychological and psycho-social approaches suggest that in cultures where possession is common, it can support psychological well-being.

Anthropologists, in contrast, generally don’t see spirit possession as a disorder. Instead, they view it as a meaningful and functional part of the local culture, especially when the possessed individuals are respected as healers, oracles, or ritual specialists. These roles give them social value and power.

Even contemporary researchers like Dr. Wahbeh have found that people who channel or experience possession don’t necessarily show signs of mental illness and often live healthy, functional lives.

The idea of cultural erasure under global homogenisation is a recurring theme in your work. At a time of ecological and spiritual crises, your book argues that ancient belief systems might hold urgent relevance. What insights from the shamans’ worldview do you think the modern world most needs to hear right now?

My initial interest in documenting India’s indigenous cultures stemmed from a personal quest to understand why traditional communities often appear more content than urban societies. Unlike modern urban life, driven by consumerism and speed, traditional societies are rooted in community, nature, and a sense of the sacred.

These communities are self-sustaining, eco-centric, and emphasise moderate living, harmony with nature, and collective wellbeing. Elders remain productive and valued, and care is extended to all members, including the vulnerable.

However, modern development has begun to erode these cohesive systems. As the world faces ecological and spiritual crises, I feel that the tribal worldview, which emphasises holistic interconnectedness and sustainability, offers valuable lessons for a more balanced, meaningful way of living.

The Devta system in the valley is not just rituals but a philosophy of living. It encompasses ancestral knowledge, myths, oral traditions, and folklore transmitted through generations, binding the community together. The Goors don’t just mediate between humans and spirits; they represent a worldview that sees nature as alive, sacred, and inseparable from the human community.

If we lose that, we lose a way of relating to the Earth that is rooted in respect and reciprocity. At a time when we face both ecological and psychological crises, these indigenous systems might hold the very wisdom we need to survive and perhaps even to evolve.

Shamanism teaches us that we are not separate from nature, nor each other, and places a heavy emphasis on community. In their worldview, illness is not just physical; it’s social, spiritual and ecological.

Hence, healing involves the entire community as well as unseen forces like nature spirits that animate the world. It is a radically different paradigm, and if we could approach the world with that kind of reverence, perhaps we could start healing not just ourselves, but Earth itself.

You’ve worked on diverse indigenous cultures across India, from the Apa Tani to the Konyak. How did the Kullu Valley’s shamanic traditions compare or contrast with other indigenous belief systems you’ve explored?

The months and years that I spent filming the Apa Tani of Arunachal Pradesh, the Konyak of Nagaland, and the Maharaja of Jodhpur were some of my most memorable and precious learning experiences. And then Shamans of the Himalayas happened! Although I had spent 15 years exploring this diverse country, it was a revelation to discover a worldview that was so alien to anything that I had experienced earlier.

Cut off for much of its history from most of the outside world by its natural mountain barriers and a lack of proper roads and communication, the people of the Kullu Valley evolved a complex culture based on a unique series of interlinking mythic and magico-religious belief systems.

They have come to combine the local with the orthodox cult, resulting in the widespread worship of a number of local animistic deities in addition to divinities of the more mainstream religions. The local Goors, or shamans, are at the core of the community’s spiritual and social existence.

Every indigenous culture has its own cosmology, yet there are shared themes like reverence for nature, ancestral wisdom and ritual healing. What struck me in the Kullu Valley was how deeply embedded the Devta system is in daily life. Devi and Devtas don’t just reside in temples, they are living Gods! They travel in palanquins, walk among people, settle village disputes, and even decide wedding dates.

The deities are consulted on matters ranging from weather to disputes. The daily life decisions in the village are guided by their gods, who communicate through trance and other rituals.

Your encounters with shamans in the book are sometimes described as disturbing. Could you elaborate on what made them unsettling and how you processed those moments?

Seeing a shaman go into a violent trance or speak in a voice that didn’t seem his own were moments that were emotionally and energetically intense. The incident that shook me was witnessing a mass exorcism in the village of Nao Panao.

The temple hall was packed, charged with sound and energy as the drumming and devotional singing intensified, with many people going into a trance simultaneously. Amid the smoke of smouldering juniper, the atmosphere became electric.

A woman in a bright green salwar-kameez stepped into the centre and began to dance. At first graceful, her movements soon turned wild and frenzied, her eyes closed, hair flying, seemingly taken over by another force. And then, all around me, chaos erupted.

People began screaming, some rolling on the ground, others convulsing, crying, shouting in strange voices. A woman writhed in visible pain, screaming in a voice that didn’t seem her own. A boy jumped and shouted with vacant, stunned eyes. The sensory overload, the cries, the thick smoke, and the raw emotion were overwhelming. The entire experience overwhelmed me, but I came to see these experiences as part of the initiation into their world and way of living.