by Britta Das
“Yes, I am going to try. Can I have, um, maybe five?”
“Five chillies, madam?”
“Yes, only five.”
Rinzin Tshockey grins from ear to ear. “Please,” he says handing me five green chillies. “For you. No need to pay.”
I toil over the gas cooker, sweat over the chillies, and cry from the onions. I pray and talk to the pot in the sweetest of voices. I run back and forth between the kitchen and the living room in nervous anticipation. Did I set the table nicely? Are the potatoes done yet? Will the lights stay on long enough for us to finish dinner? I had better get some candles, just in case. Then again, candles? A little bit too romantic for a simple shared dinner. Nevertheless, this is Mongar; everyone eats by candlelight. No, better use the kerosene lamp; better not give him any wrong ideas. He is simply going to have dinner with me because I have to cook anyway.
A little girl displays chillies for sale. The spicy pepper is a mainstay of Bhutanese cuisine.
To my surprise, the chilli turns out quite tasty. However, if I heat it any longer, it will surely transform into another ugly mess of overcooked everything. I fret and worry and experiment with the low settings of the gas cooker. I turn it off and, a few minutes later, back on in a panic that the food might be cold. I watch the clock as if it was going to jump out at me. Spud comes by and I share some potatoes with her.
At nine o’clock I sit at the empty table and try to eat a bit of my by now cold chilli con carne without carne and without company. The disappointment tastes bitter.
The lights flicker and dim a shade. Without much thought, I strike a match to light my candle before the room gets lost in complete darkness. A spider sprints across the floor and hides under my shoes, another one drops from the wall onto my bed. Get off! The thought of finding myself locked under my mosquito net with this creepy-crawly sends me clambering across the room, shooing the unbidden guest off my property. In the kitchen, a metallic sound makes me wonder about rats. I remember the odd hairs on my cutting board yesterday. Did I close my meat safe properly? How can I stop the fruit flies, and how can I slow the mould? Did I boil my water for filtering? No, I forgot. Will it be enough for tomorrow morning?
Almost asleep, my mind starts spinning around the same annoying question: Why did Dr. Bikul stand me up?
12
friction
It is barely say yet and already I have spent a full hour, and then some, hunting my most dreaded enemy—the flea! First I wanted to snuggle back in bed after, half-starved, I devoured the better part of my dinner and a bar of chocolate (all at 4:30 a.m. when the first rooster in the neighbourhood woke up). Then I felt something on my leg, and when I shone the light on it, it jumped.
Now, after a fortnight of agony, scratching myself every day and night until I bleed, there is no way, simply no way, I can go back to reading when I know that my blood enemy is still somewhere out there. So, reluctantly, I get up, take my sheets and blanket outside, shake them hard, and hang them on my under-the-roof line for the day. Then I am off to the bathroom where I diligently check myself and my nightgown—but to no avail. The little bugger has escaped.
Okay, I think, I will get dressed. I pick up one sock and immediately recognize this suspicious black dot. I set off to crush it successfully. Then, however, I notice another black dot on my leg (at this point, I am standing stark naked in the bathroom). With much skill, I catch it. Knowing how quick those critters are, I immediately squash it in some toilet paper, but when I carefully open the paper, nothing is there. Was the cushioning effect so strong that the paper ate the insect? But no—boing! It jumps out towards me and is gone.
There is a certain paranoia that goes along with losing one of those bloodthirsty tiny creatures, and it prompts me to go on a search for the bug’s whereabouts. With no result. So in the end I got one and lost two, rather an average outcome for most of my hunts, especially considering that there are probably still half a dozen or so sitting in my room, my clothes, my everything, waiting for me to walk by so that they can hurl themselves at my innocent flesh. I spread the mothball powder everywhere. That means they jump from there to somewhere else—big success.
Have I become too violent? I know the Buddhist philosophy demands respect for all sentient beings—and I do feel guilty. Normally, I would not hurt a fly, but lack of sleep makes me cranky. Praying for forgiveness, I submerge my entire heap of worn clothes in my oversized bathing bucket.
The hospital is filled to the brim. Twenty-one new admissions overnight! Patients are lying on mattresses on the floor everywhere, absolutely everywhere. IV poles are set up in the middle of the hallways and attendants are crowding the already scarce free space. Dr. Bikul is busy giving instructions and briefing the incoming day shift of nurses. There is no apparent order to the chaos, but somehow everyone understands to stay quiet. There is no complaining or nagging; no one demands immediate attention. Patients and attendants alike passively wait their turns.
At 8:30 a.m. I unlock the doors to our physiotherapy rooms. The blue double doors squeak open and I flick on the lights. A clean sleepy room welcomes me. On the bed, some donated stuffed animals for the children greet me with their never-failing grins: a furry Gremlin-like ball of fluff, a green frog that makes a noise when you shake it, a little dog, a handmade cotton bug whose red eyes are about to pop out of his head. The doctors raised their eyebrows when they first saw them, but I like our little squad. They are the guardians of Pema’s and my castle.
The lights wink at me, flash brightly, and then turn off for the day. I throw open the windows towards the courtyard and survey the scenery from within the safety of our refuge. I feel at home in the physiotherapy department. Here in these two rooms, Pema and I are allowed to make decisions, to assess, treat, and discharge as we see fit. As soon as we leave these walls, we abide by the unspoken laws of Mongar Hospital; we bow to rules of rank and respect that do not always have an obvious connection with wisdom or the best interest for the patient. Out there we have to play the politics, but in here we talk freely and openly. There are no secrets in physiotherapy.
Proudly, I examine the new parallel bars in our exercise room. The yellow paint gleams from the long iron bars, and the whole construction has an air of prized solidity. At the end of the bars, a half-length mirror has been fixed on the wall and, for a minute, I look at my somewhat distorted reflection. Sister Britta, here you are. Only three weeks in Mongar, and already I feel almost at home. With a smile, I give the bars one last shake to reassure myself of their sturdiness, and then walk over to Ward B to tell Choden that I am ready.
The atmosphere in the wards is lively. Some patients and attendants are still having breakfast, while others make a bed, line up for the toilet, or try desperately to continue a bit of slumber. They have half an hour left before the doctors start their rounds, half an hour of unhurried morning business.
Choden is not quite ready for me, and the hustle of the ward occupies my senses. Across the aisle from where I am standing, a naked toddler starts peeing on a pillow, and within seconds her mother swoops her up and holds her over the side of the bed. Urine splashes on dangling feet and the neighbour’s plastic slippers. A small puddle forms on the floor. No one takes notice. Satisfied with her save, the quick-witted mother settles on the bed, unbuckles her kira, and starts breast-feeding the now contentedly suckling little girl. All continues as before.
Then a bit of commotion attracts my attention to Ward A. Two nurses are arguing loudly with a small group of people standing around the bed of an old, wrinkled abi who is slowly getting dressed with the help of a young man. I know from yesterday’s rounds that this abi is suffering from a severe ulcerated stomach and is scheduled for surgery today. However, by the looks of it, she is leaving. I ask one of the nurses what is going on.
It turns out that Abi’s family wants to take her home to perform a puja, a religious ceremony to ask for a quick recovery. They do not want an operation today. It is not a good day for surgery,
they say. After the puja, they will come back, but now they have to go. The nurses continue trying to convince Abi to stay, but it’s no use. Her family does not want to hear what the doctors say; they have heard enough. Their lama told them to come home, and so they must leave. Before anyone can stop them, Abi’s son carries the little lady out of the hospital.
I return to Ward B. Choden is ready now, and together we head to the physio room. For three days we have tried the same routine, and I feel that we are making progress. I can now move her legs throughout their full ranges without too much difficulty. Choden has learned to relax, and I have learned to go slowly. Today I want to try something different. The new parallel bars are waiting in all their glory in the exercise room, and I have planned for Choden to try standing for the first time.
As soon as Pema arrives, we tackle the challenge. First, we secure a transfer belt around her waist. Then we manoeuvre the wheelchair to the open end of the parallel bars. From there, Choden transfers onto a wooden stool, which has been placed at the entrance of the bars, facing the full-length mirror at the opposite end. We explain to Choden what to do. I will kneel in front of her and steady her feet to prevent them from slipping. She will hold onto the parallel bars with both hands. Then on one, two, three, go! I will pull her towards me while she pushes herself out of her wheelchair and straightens her legs. If all goes according to plan, she will stand securely between the parallel bars, supporting herself as needed with her arms.
Choden is obviously nervous. I kneel down and motion to her to put her feet between the bars. Tentatively, Choden tries to extend her toes to the floor, but her thigh muscles contract and she forcefully kicks the air. Again she tries—unsuccessfully. Finally, I guide her foot to the floor, and then push it down with all my might. Her muscles relax. We try the other foot. This foot, however, does not budge off the footrest. Again we have to trick her muscles, and it seems like hours until finally we have both feet firmly planted on the floor. Choden is sweating. Her palms are damp, and I can feel her grip tightening on the bars. Her strong forearm muscles are contracted into tight bundles; her whole body is shaking in anticipation.
“Dikpe?” Ready?
A quick sideways shake of the head and a nervous smile say yes. Ready. With an encouraging “Up!” I pull Choden towards me. She lurches forward—and her knees buckle. All of a sudden, I am holding her entire body weight in my arms. I groan and my back starts screaming, and then Choden recovers and suspends herself between her powerful arms. Pema comes to our rescue. Gently, she pushes Choden’s knees into a locked position and holds them there firmly.
Choden is still shaking, but I think this time it is out of fear. She mumbles something that I think is a plea to stop, but I tell her to wait. In my best Sharchhopkha, I ask Choden to look up. No response. Choden is leaning forward onto me, watching her disobedient legs as her muscles try to pull her feet out from underneath her. Again I ask Choden to look up, and at last she lifts her head and stares at the mirror behind me. First surprise, then disbelief, and finally joy washes over her face. Gradually, her tension eases, and she starts talking in excited tones to her little daughter Yeshey. I cannot understand what she says, but I know that it is good news. Her words are filled with smiles, and her voice speaks of giddiness and pride. Choden can see herself standing up properly for the first time in years.
A few more seconds of well-deserved triumph pass, and then we help Choden back into her chair. She is exhausted but wants to try again. I look at her legs. The continuous ebb and flow of muscle contractions is flinging her legs off the footrests, and her toes splay and curl without any apparent rhythm. Choden might be ready for another try, but her body needs some rest.
A small, frightened face peeps around the corner. Lhamo must have watched our difficult exercise and feels scared now that she will have to face the same trial. I smile. She too has made a lot of progress already, and I am proud of her. With a shake of my head, I wave her in. Not too agile yet with her wheelchair skills, Lhamo crashes against the doorframe a couple of times before she comes to a halt in the middle of the room. I leave it to Pema to direct our stubborn patient to the bed.
The daily whining begins. I never know if it is fear or pain, or both, that turn Lhamo into a heap of quivering anxiety as soon as she lies on the treatment bed. I can tell from the level of her vocal cords at which point she really starts to hurt, but the background sobs do not seem to have a specific cause; all the same, I cannot take all of the pain out of our treatment.
Upon seeing her x-rays and discussing her left knee with the surgeon, I know that any work on that leg would be an excruciating waste of time. Nothing other than an operation will ever move that knee again. So far, every surgeon has refused to touch her knee. Dr. Kalita says he would try, but in Mongar, we simply do not have the surgical equipment required. I am told to forget about the left knee.
The right knee, however, has minute potential. Though Lhamo’s burn scars are massive, and several surgery efforts were of no benefit, she is young enough that she should be able to stretch them by several degrees. Even if we can never restore her leg to normal, maybe one day I can get it strong enough to support her with the help of crutches. Anything is better than her present condition.
Pema has designed a strengthening routine for Lhamo’s wasted muscles, and every day after her stretches, we supervise our little patient’s exercises. Through her repetitions, I learn to count in Sharchhopkha: thur, nigzing, sam, pshi, nga, khung, and so on.
Sitting over the side of the bed, dangling her legs, Lhamo reclaims the happy nature of a teenage girl. Her head is always filled with nonsense. Flashing a bright, mischievous smile, she tries to cheat a little, forget a few repetitions. A little scolding or a warning look from us seems to enhance the value of skipping a few counts. To my utter surprise, though, she always completes her exercises. She is far too lazy to strain herself or overly fatigue her muscles, but she ploughs through her routine in her own time. Some days it takes hours, and I get the definite feeling that she is prolonging her routine in order to stay with us and have some company.
I can understand her longing for some excitement. The ward does not hold much appeal for a young girl. The times when I have visited Lhamo there, she has always been sitting on her bed, playing with her mother. Mostly, her games are simple. One amusement consists of someone tying some rope into a knot and the other person trying to undo it. Another favourite is using a little bowl and some small stones to play catch.
Now, however, nothing compares to physiotherapy. Here, she can explore an unknown creature. Sitting beside me, she questioningly touches my blond hair, wrapping it around her finger or watching it against the light. She observes my blue eyes, comparing them to Pema’s, and voicing her opinions loudly. Gently, she feels the pale skin on my arms and stares at my freckles in wonder. She wants to see how I write, how I assess other patients, what exercises others have to do.
She welcomes my attempts at speaking Sharchhopkha with a delighted giggle and soon becomes my impatient teacher. Together, we memorize the body parts one by one. I point at something and she tells me the name of what I am indicating. Then I repeat it. She laughs but will not say it again. I have to try different pronunciations, different ways of twisting my tongue into bizarre positions. I say the same thing repeatedly, until finally I am rewarded by a satisfied smile from her, and we move on to the next word.
When other patients come, Lhamo retreats onto the vacant bed and watches. Sometimes she continues her exercises but mostly she sits there, with a perplexed look on her face, studying the world of our physiotherapy room. These four walls have become her second home in the hospital, and whenever she is not in the room, I expect to see her face peeping through the windows. Her wheelchair has given her a new freedom, and physiotherapy a new travel destination.
13
are you feeling boring?
I have just returned from the hospital when the telephone rings. It is Dr. Bikul.
“Do you want to play badminton?”
I am torn between saying yes just to be brave and the overwhelming lump in my throat when I think about the all-male, every-man-for-himself attitude during the games. Embarrassed I excuse myself, admitting that I am not a very experienced player.
“Please come, you will like it,” Dr. Bikul insists.
Nervously, I play with the cord of the telephone. I am glad that he cannot see me now. Mustering my utmost courage, I ask if he would like to go for a hike instead.
There is a little pause before Dr. Bikul answers. “Well, I’m on emergency duty today, but maybe after five o’clock?”
I am relieved and agree quickly. Thankfully, he does not mention badminton again.
We meet in front of his quarters and slowly climb the muddy road around the helicopter pad to the bazaar. Once we leave the hospital campus, the air seems lighter, fresher.
My steps carry me eagerly up the hill. The clouds have moved back in, and a soft, warm drizzle dampens my hair. The road is deserted; reaching the first few houses, I marvel in the calm around me. Only an old man sits in front of one of the shops, faithfully turning a large prayer wheel filled with mantras. A little wooden peg on top of the wheel strikes a bell on each turn, reminding me to include an act of compassion or devotion in the day. The man looks past us somewhere into the distance while his thumb moves bead after bead on the rosary. Never interrupting his prayer, he slides deeper into the corner of the bench, and continues turning the large cylinder with a steady rhythm. Cling . . . cling . . . cling, the bell echoes through the market place, each pause filled with the complete silence of the mountains. Dr. Bikul and I adjust our stride in unison as the mesmerizing sound begs us to listen more closely. Slowly, step by step, I can feel my body relaxing.
The bazaar behind us, we again climb towards Kori La. Lost in our own thoughts, we walk silently into the clouds. The rain-soaked branches wave at us, and the clouds seem to drift along with our steps, enveloping us in a peaceful cocoon. As if we were the only two people on earth, walking a path that has never been trudged before.
