Mro Folktale — Story of a Witch

In a remote hill village, a brother and sister lived alone. Their parents had died when they were very young. They had no one but each other. Living off the land, they survived by growing rice on the jhum fields of the mountain.

One year, they cleared a new patch of hillside to sow rice. The seedlings sprouted, and golden sunlight danced on the ripening grain. But before the harvest, flocks of parrots descended and began pecking away the crop. The brother said to his sister,
— “You keep watch over the field. I’ll look after the chores at home.”

The next day, the sister went to guard the jhum. As she tried to shoo the birds away, she suddenly heard a voice—one that mimicked her own—crying out from across the field,
— “Oh birds, don’t eat our rice!”

Frightened, she ran back home and told her brother. The following day, the brother went to the field himself. Mimicking his sister’s voice, he called out, and sure enough, a voice—exactly like hers—answered back. Alert, he ventured into the forest in search of the mimic. Deep in the woods, he found a strange witch sitting beneath a tree with her child.

The witch glared at him and hissed,
— “If you don’t marry me, you’ll be my next meal.”

Terrified, the brother agreed. That evening, he brought the witch home as his wife. But each day she demanded something new—greens, vegetables, a banana flower. Then one day she said,
— “Bring me that little chick from the yard. I’m craving it.”

The brother understood at last—what she truly craved was his sister. He asked his sister,
— “Which flower have you never worn in your hair?”

The sister replied,
— “The lassa flower.”

At dawn, they set off to find it. Reaching the tree, he told his sister to sit beneath it, and covered her head with a bamboo sieve so she couldn’t see. Then he climbed the tree and began dropping branches. But each time, he made sure they missed her.

Tears welled up in his eyes and dripped through the sieve.

— “Brother, is it raining?”
— “No,” he said. “Just mist from the hills.”

At last, he dropped a branch straight onto her head. She fell lifeless. A squirrel scurried up, snatched a small piece of her flesh, and ran off.

That night, the witch—joyful and hungry—cooked the sister’s meat and ate it with delight.

Days passed. The witch began devouring everything in the field—pumpkins, vegetables, whatever she could find. Her belly ached, and she writhed in pain before falling into a deep sleep.

Meanwhile, the squirrel carefully wrapped that tiny piece of meat in cotton. After seven days, from the soft bundle, a baby girl was born. She grew into a beautiful young girl, spending her days playing the flute alone in the forest, hidden away by the squirrel so no one could find her.

One day, the brother heard a haunting tune and followed it to the squirrel’s cottage.
— “I’m the one playing the flute,” the squirrel said.

But the brother saw a girl whose eyes, whose face—held the memory of his lost sister. In time, he learned that this girl was indeed her reincarnation. But the sister refused to return home, afraid the witch would kill her again. The brother whispered,
— “I’ve already killed the witch.”

To prove it, he first showed her pig’s blood. Then chicken blood. But she didn’t believe him. Finally, he truly did slay the witch—trapped her, ended her—and brought his sister home.

Before leaving for the jhum field, the brother said,
— “Don’t step outside for seven days. No matter who calls, do not open the door.”

Seven days later, the squirrel returned to find the girl missing. Searching high and low, it reached the brother’s house and called from the porch. But the girl replied,
— “My brother has forbidden me to come out. I won’t.”

Furious, the squirrel—eyes blazing, machete in hand—burst out,
— “Your brother’s not here. Who are you listening to?”

It smashed the fence, the windows, the pots and pans. Then demanded,
— “Bring me water! Can you survive with a dry throat?”

But the girl shook her head, trembling.
— “My brother stored water for seven days. He said if I touch the river water, I’ll turn to earth.”

The squirrel smiled slyly and stepped closer. It pierced every gourd the water had been kept in, then pointed,
— “Look! There’s no water left. They’re all empty.”

Deceived, the girl believed there truly was no water. So the two of them walked down to the stream. Mist swirled gently over the surface. The moment her fingers touched the water, her form began to melt into the earth—as though a forgotten shadow had dissolved back into silence.

No scream. No cry. Only a single dolonchampa flower bloomed where she once stood.

The squirrel, tail held high, vanished into the hills.