A personal journey through the mystical realms of faith and history
I attended A Silk Road Oasis Symposium: Exploring Dunhuang’s Multifaceted Legacy at London’s British Library from 21–22 February. The International Dunhuang Programme (IDP) had gathered minds from across the globe to unravel the mysteries of Dunhuang. At the conference, I met the British Library’s head of Endangered Archives Programme, Dr. Sam van Schaik, a scholar whose work has unearthed secrets long buried in the sandy Library Cave, or Cave 17. Among them, one stood out: magic.
Van Schaik’s translation of the oldest extant Buddhist spell book (IOL Tib J 401), from Dunhuang’s Library Cave, has redefined our understanding of Buddhist practice. The spell book reflects my own journey, from a desperate prayer at Tibet’s Jokhang Temple to witnessing a dakini fire ritual dance in Bhutan’s Paro Valley. Van Schaik’s work tells the story of the practices of ninth-century lay Buddhists. Together, these threads reveal magic not as superstition, but as a timeless bridge between the mundane and the divine.
In the pleasantly lit hall of the British Library, where the whispers of ancient manuscripts seem to echo through time, I found myself seated across from van Schaik. Magic has been consciously “erased from the study of Buddhism,” he told me. He noted that it is often overshadowed by philosophy and meditation, especially in the West. The result is a sanitized, almost politically correct version of Buddhism that is presented to scholars. But the reality is that magic has been tightly woven into the fabric of lay Buddhists’ daily life since at least the ninth century, from healing snakebites to winning wars. As his groundbreaking translation of IOL Tib J 401 reveals, magic was far from a fringe practice. These rituals were as much a part of their world as philosophy and meditation, which are the practices that now dominate our modern understanding of Buddhism.
As van Schaik and I continued to discuss the subject, it became clear that magic in Buddhism was never mere superstition. It was a language of hope, a tool for survival, and a testament to the human desire to connect with forces greater than ourselves. In the spell book’s incantations and rituals, we find not just the echoes of an ancient past, but a reminder that the sacred and the magical are often one and the same. And in that realization, the threads of history and spirituality intertwine, revealing a tapestry far richer than we had ever imagined.
A prayer at the Jokhang: where faith meets the miraculous
My introduction to Buddhist magic began not in a library, but amid a crisis. My own journey into this hidden world began years earlier, in the incense-infused hall of the Jokhang Temple in Lhasa. There, amid the flicker of butter lamps and the low murmur of prayers, I had whispered a desperate plea to the divine: a plea to Shakyamuni Buddha for healing from an ailment that would never fully release its grip; a condition that had left its mark on my face and my spirit. It was a moment of raw vulnerability, a reaching out for something beyond the grasp of medicine, something ancient and mysterious. A month later, I was miraculously healed. Skepticism dissolved into awe, propelling me into a lifelong exploration of Buddhism’s metaphysical undercurrents.
Years later, in the Paro Valley of Bhutan, I stood transfixed as women dressed as dakinis, feminine enlightened beings, dancing amid the flames of a fire ritual. These experiences, I realized, were not so different from the practices of those ninth-century Buddhists. They were moments where the mundane and the divine converged, where magic served as a bridge between the earthly and the transcendent.
From Himalayan pilgrimages in Bhutan to chanting in Tibet’s meditation caves, I have sought answers in places where logic falters. I’ve worn amulets from Beijing’s Yonghe Monastery, commissioned pujas in Ladakh’s Thiksey Monastery, and watched friends’ wishes manifest after supporting monks’ rituals. The petitions have ranged from parents hoping their children have successful graduations, to horserace lovers having near-retirement bets win the Champion Cup. When I shared these with van Schaik, he replied: “You’re practicing what ninth-century Dunhuang Buddhists did.” It felt like validation. Magic, once marginalized, is reclaiming its place in Buddhism’s story. It was never superstition, but rather a language of hope through practice to realization.
In the spell book’s incantations and rituals, we find not just the echoes of an ancient past, but a reminder that the sacred and the magical are often one and the same. Magic, in this context, was not about defying reality but about navigating it—about finding healing in a world that often feels indifferent. And when we can do that, history and spirituality intertwine. The result is a domain where unhealed wounds can find respite, where the unseen and the eternal is always within reach.
Decoding Dunhuang’s spell book
At the British Library, van Schaik—whose book Buddhist Magic (2020) analyzes the Dunhuang spell book mentioned above—explained how dharanis or spells were actually pragmatic, everyday-use prayers. Buddhist magic is not about parlor tricks, but rather about easing pain, from childbirth to hailstorms. I asked him if Buddhist magic was “legitimate” within the tradition. Van Schaik cited the Great Peacock Feather Sutra, where the Buddha himself offers a spell to cure a monk bitten by a snake. This “Queen of Spells” became a Swiss Army knife for healing: snakebites, fevers, even demonic possession. Magic was never fringe; it was the go-to frontline care.
“Among the Dunhuang texts, the Avalokiteshvara Cycle surprised me the most,” he said. “It is a ritual blend of medicine and mantra. With 1,000 eyes, this bodhisattva specialized in curing cataracts.” Spells like the Blue-Necked Dharani spread from Japan’s Koyasan Temple to Nepal’s Swayambhunath Stupa. This is evidence of a pan-Asian healing network.
Another chapter details rituals of the bird deity Garuda, which are Vedic-derived practices to counter snakebites and summon rain. “Imagine a child gazing into a lacquer-coated thumbnail for divination,” van Schaik mused. This reminded me of England’s famous court astronomer John Dee, who worked under Elizabeth I and had an alchemical lab at Greenwich observatory. Dee also practiced mirror scrying as a form of divination to peer into the future.
The texts also prescribe exorcising “dragon possession,” which is blamed for leprosy and tumors, through fire rituals and ceremonial daggers (phurba). “Patients were ‘stabbed’ at limbs and head to expel demons,” said van Schaik. Brutal? Perhaps. But to them, it was neurosurgery.
Magic for emperors: when spells decided the fate of empires
If laypeople used magic for daily woes, rulers wielded it as geopolitical artillery. Consider the Tangut Empire or Xixia (1038–1227), whose lapis-laden esoteric caves at Dunhuang’s Mogao Grottoes depicted wrathful deities such as Mahakala. Historian and Tangutologist Elliot Sperling (1951–2017) noted that Tangut emperors enlisted Tibetan sorcerer-monks such as Sangye Repa, a disciple of Milarepa, summoned Mahakala to defend and protect the Tangut Empire from the Mongol invasion, and hex Genghis Khan during his 1226–27 campaigns. But toward the end, Sangye Repa was told in a dream that he could not use the protection ritual again. He was forced to return to Tibet, and afterward the Mongols eventually razed Xixia. Nevertheless, Genghis’ mysterious death in August 1227 sparked rumors of magical retaliation, an intervention possibly made by the Tibetan monks protecting Xixia.
Centuries later, Sogdogpa Lodrö Gyatso, a Nyingma master, became Tibet’s most feared ritualist. In the 1640s, he deployed Vajrakilaya rites to shield the Tsangpa dynasty from the Fifth Dalai Lama and his Mongol ally, Gushri Khan. Sogdogpa summoned storms, sowed discord in enemy ranks, and even psychically “killed” commanders, delaying defeat until the Tsangpa collapse in 1642. His rituals were more medieval psy-ops than actual sorcery, but they underscore how deeply magic was tied to statecraft.
Magic as daily medicine
Van Schaik’s work debunks the myth that Buddhist magic was the domain of a few elites. Villagers used divination for sick yaks; emperors used it to choose battle dates. “The same ritual—prasena, scrying via mirrors—helped identify Dalai Lamas,” he said. “Magic is humanity’s shared dialect.” He further chuckled, “it is impossible to clearly separate the categories of magic and medicine in these ancient texts.” In other words, they were two sides of the same coin.
The spell lives on
As I said goodbye to the British Library, I thought of my amulets and pujas—threads connecting me to Silk Road sorcerers and Tangut emperors. Buddhist magic, van Schaik reminds us, isn’t about escaping reality but engaging it: transforming fear into love, pain into hope.
As monsoons drench Delhi or deadlines loom in London, perhaps we all crave a little magic. Not to suspend disbelief, but to deepen our faith.
This article is dedicated to the monks of Ladakh’s Thiksey Monastery, who taught me that miracles begin where logic ends.
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