Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  After we climb through a thick wood, we emerge onto a tree-lined field. Here, an old mani wall, a stone wall with inlaid carved or painted prayer stones, links two chortens. Time has made this sanctuary one with the mountains. Tall grasses and mosses have covered the flat roof in patches of green, and the once whitewashed stones have returned to their original yellow and brown. In some places, chunks of rock have broken out of the wall, and the paint is faded on many of the stone slates. Still the edgings of a mantra remain clearly visible. As I pass the wall to my right, I listen for the sound of a murmur. Then, tentatively, my lips form the sounds of six precious syllables: Om mani padme hum.

  Beyond the mani wall, where the jungle again encroaches on the path, we meet an old villager with bowed legs and bare feet. He smiles at us and interrupts his prayer for a greeting, never ceasing to turn the little wheel in his hand. Bikul and the old man exchange a few cheery remarks and the villager nods in approval. He has watched us walk around the chorten, and he is happy that we respect his religion. With a regretful shrug of his shoulders, he remarks that the young people today try to forget the old ways. He points to his prayer wheel.

  “There is a lot of wisdom in a mantra.”

  Bikul asks if I may turn it a few times. With a delighted grin, the old man hands me the wheel and I hold it in astonishment. It is heavier than I thought, yet it spins effortlessly, each rotation creating a sweet humming sound. The old man encourages me with another smile.

  “Om mani padme hum,” he murmurs for me.

  I try to recall the meaning of what he is saying, hoping that if I understand the message, I will feel less self-conscious about pronouncing it myself. Quietly, I ask Bikul to explain again.

  “Padme is the lotus, and mani the jewel,” he says. “Mani can refer to the intention to become enlightened. Or it can mean Guru Rinpoche or Buddha, referred to as the precious jewel, resting in the lotus heart of the devout.” As with so many religious meanings in Bhutan, there seem to be several explanations.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bikul then adds. “Just feel it.”

  I try. Still self-conscious about Bikul and the old man beside me, I listen to the wheel spinning around, and then the need for an explanation vanishes. The more I turn, the more even the wheel’s motion becomes. The old man continues murmuring his mantra for me.

  An old man brandishes his prayer wheel in front of a large chorten.

  After a while I gratefully return the prayer wheel to its owner, who bows with another lovely smile.

  “Lasso la,” he acknowledges my thanks and waves in farewell. Still enrapt by the calmness of the moment, I too raise my hand in farewell. Then I turn to Bikul, who watches me with a tender smile. While the old man retraces our steps back to the chorten, Bikul holds out his hand, and with a little jump of my heart, I put my hand in his.

  Soon, the heavy air makes our walk just a little more difficult, giving our breath a dense, cloaked tinge. Gently, we are reminded to slow down, there is no hurry.

  Moments later, the sun disappears. Twilight guards the mountain’s secrets in a pale blanket of mist and just a few rays of light pierce the approaching nightfall. Only the serenade of a lovesick frog and a cricket choir accompany the peaceful quiet. Around us, the clouds hang so low that after a short walk up the mountain we find ourselves within them, embraced and cushioned. Later yet, we feel the air part, feel a welcome breeze, a coolness, and we look on a sea of cottony white fluff.

  Wordlessly, we watch the mist in the valley as it shifts, lifts, and settles in an endless game of weight and flight, of floating and drifting. I turn my gaze upwards, and in the muted harmony of the evening, I feel close to heaven. The boundaries between here and there seem no longer visible. In my mind, reality becomes a dream and illusion the presence.

  Is this where we feel God? Is it His presence I feel? I do not know—but if God is peace and goodness, soothing and comforting, then surely the silence can be nothing else but God’s words to us. Time slows down and no longer matters. I feel that words are not needed, neither are thoughts nor firm ideas; all that counts is this feeling of complete silence.

  Gradually, the darkness melts all shadows and forms, and the distant mountains sink into the horizon. With the last glimmer of fading light, the birds hush their songs, and the activities of the day move inside. Side by side, Bikul and I continue our path, wandering a road into the vast expanse of the imagination.

  19

  a trulku star

  Amid a twinkling night firmament, a single bright star shone on the western sky. Its light was clear and splendid, cutting through the night like the beam of a lantern. Sparkling and glittering, it reached down, bridging the gap between earth and heaven.

  A little boy in red robes looked up into the night. In awe, he stared at the brilliant celestial body, his mouth opening in silent words of admiration. Unconsciously, he raised his hands, and with his palms joined in prayer, he bowed deeply.

  A few villagers gathered, and together they gazed at the dazzling appearance. In hushed voices, they whispered, and the solemn weight of an auspicious night settled on the land. The mountains rose and fell in deep sleep, and the wind stirred the dozy leaves of a cypress. All was quiet, yet in a village in the high mountainous country, the hearts of a people were awake with wonder.

  For three nights, the star appeared and shone down from heaven. For three nights, its light radiated to every part of the Himalaya. The little monk watched every evening, and joined his hands in prayer. On the third night, with bright eyes and a quivering voice, he turned to his friends. “It is a Trulku star!” he whispered. “Somewhere, a great lama has been reborn.”

  On a chair by the window sits a young man clad in red robes. He flips through the pages of a book, seemingly uninterested, his mind perhaps preoccupied. When I enter, he looks up with a sweet, innocent smile. He studies me quietly with a mixture of curiosity and welcome.

  “Hello,” I stammer, freezing in my tracks. “I just came to, um, to ask Bikul if he has some sugar.” The sight of the unfamiliar figure throws me completely off balance.

  “Bikul is there,” says the young man, pointing at the kitchen. His voice is soft and a little husky, as if I had woken him from deep sleep.

  I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Blushing for no reason, I remain standing fixed to my spot on the floor. Bikul enters to my rescue.

  “Phuntshok, chai piyange?” He addresses the monk as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  “Phuntshok is my friend,” he explains while walking over to where the young monk is sitting. “He is a great Trulku, a reincarnation of an important Tibetan lama.”

  Phuntshok (pronounced as “Phuntsho”) offers me another shy smile. He says something to Bikul in Hindi and, gathering the various ends of his robe, he slowly rises from the chair.

  “Do you want to come for a walk with us?” Bikul translates.

  At first I hesitate, but the prospect is too tempting to turn down. I look at Phuntshok, who is patiently waiting beside the door. I imagine that his grin is almost as awkward as mine, and I nod sheepishly.

  A young monk with a head of closely cropped black hair, a bouncy chattering Indian doctor, and a blond, blue-eyed girl—we make a funny threesome, strolling along the street. The road is busy with girls and boys in school uniforms, reciting something out of their books. For a while, Bikul and Phuntshok converse fluently in Hindi. Then, to my greatest embarrassment, Bikul urges us to start a conversation.

  “Phuntshok speaks a little English. Why don’t you two talk about something? Talk about anything,” he advises, and then retreats into silence.

  My head seems empty, and I am completely tongue-tied. The great Trulku seems to have similar dilemmas and we walk on, each studying our feet, until Bikul again pipes up.

  “Why don’t you ask him about his life,” he says to me and nods encouragingly at both of us.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Phuntshok. He does seem rather like a
normal young man. I gather all my courage. “Are you a gelong?” As soon as it is out, I wish that I could take my words back. The question seems silly, as if I was asking the obvious.

  Trulku Phuntshok poses in front of the entrance door of a temple.

  Phuntshok smiles. “Yes, but actually still a getsul.”

  I ponder what to ask next, but before I have managed to formulate an intelligent question, my tongue gets the better of me.

  “What is a getsul?” Embarrassed, I cough and look to the ground.

  “We live in dzong or monastery. We study Buddha’s words.”

  “Getsuls first have to be fully ordained as monks before they become gelongs,” Bikul explains. “But around here, we call them all gelongs. It’s easier that way.”

  Phuntshok grins and seems to agree.

  “Oh.” Another lapse of silence, and then I ask Phuntshok if he is allowed to marry. He says no.

  “At what age did you become a monk?” I think of the little red-robed boys in the market, tiny monklets, or “little Buddhas,” as Dr. Kalita calls them. How can they decide at such a tender age to dedicate their lives to religion?

  “My mother take me to dzong in Lhuntse when I am six. I always know that I will become gelong. You know because of Trulku.”

  Trulku—the word sounds like “tikku” when he pronounces it. I ask again about the meaning of Trulku. The answer, however, is too complicated for Phuntshok’s English, and Bikul has to translate from Hindi.

  Buddhists believe in the reincarnation of all beings, Phuntshok explains. No one is born for the first time, but has lived through many, many lives, has died, and been reborn since the beginning of time. Trulkus are reincarnations of great masters who are successively reborn in different people. The consciousness of the lama is passed on to a newborn baby, and the child and eventually the grown man embodies this later consciousness. A Trulku still has to learn or relearn many things, but he is able to do so quickly, and has an inborn propensity for the dharma, the “right way.”

  The concept seems rather confusing to me, but over my past months in Bhutan, I have come to understand that the Bhutanese believe deeply in the rebirth of all beings.

  I ask if all Trulkus are monks. Phuntshok shakes his head. Trulkus do not have to take monastic vows, but most feel the need to live in the monastic community and live like the other ordained monks. There they cannot drink or smoke or marry. If, however, a Trulku does not join the monastic community, he can have a family and lead a village life. No matter what his profession, he will always remain a Trulku.

  Phuntshok was born in Kurtoe, a district north of Mongar, in 1970. At that time, a group of monks from the lower Tsangpo valley in Tibet came searching for the reincarnated lama of Samye Monastery. Samye is a place shrouded in historical legends and stories. It is said that Guru Rinpoche built it in the eighth century A.D., signalling the solid entry of tantric Buddhism to the Himalaya. Since that day, Samye has been an important stronghold of the oldest sect of tantric Buddhism.

  The monks of this famous monastery knew only that their lama had been reborn somewhere in Kurtoe, and they searched for several weeks. Guided by time-old rituals and traditions, they visited families with newborn babies. However, none of the children showed signs of reincarnation. The monks employed many techniques to identify the precious child. Besides using landmarks of the baby’s home and characteristics of the family, they checked the infant’s birthmarks and showed him relics of the previous lama. However, none of the children fitted the necessary criteria, and none could differentiate between objects out of the late lama’s personal use (such as his teacups, rosary, or handheld drums) and relics belonging to someone else. Finally, the group of monks returned to Tibet without success.

  In the distant village of Kupinesa, however, soon after the birth of her baby boy, a mother realized that her son was different. His first words were spoken in a language none of the villagers could understand, and his expression was calm and serene, gazing with dark eyes into the distance. As soon as he could walk alone, Phuntshok would go to the dzong and pray with the other lamas. He knew how to pray without being taught, yet the language he had spoken soon after birth disappeared. When he was six years old, Phuntshok’s mother took him to the dzong, and he became a monk. Phuntshok was comfortable in this role. His training and education progressed rapidly, and soon he surpassed the knowledge of many of the older lamas.

  A year later, the Tibetan monks returned and recognized him as the twentieth reincarnation of the great lama Kinley. His formal education began when he was sent to school in Thimphu, where, among other things, he learned Hindi and some English. During his time in Bhutan’s capital, an important minister took him in. Since then, he has been studying at the monastic school of Ngatshang, twenty-five kilometres by road east of Mongar.

  Lhuntse’s dzong, or fortress, overlooks the Kuru Chhu Valley.

  Phuntshok seems to tell his tale in a matter of fact way, and, if Bikul’s translation is correct, without a trace of conceit or boast. While he has been speaking, our steps have slowed, and now we are standing above Mongar dzong, looking down at its gleaming pinnacle.

  “Do you remember your previous birth?” I ask.

  “Oh, no!” Phuntshok smiles.

  Thinking about the monastic school in Ngatshang, I ask him how he came here today.

  “Walk,” he says.

  “You walked all the way?” In renewed respect, I look at his plastic sandals.

  “We take shortcut over mountain,” he says, and points to a ridge beside Kori La.

  The sun is about to set behind the western peaks and throws long, yellow rays onto the high pass. I imagine a red-robed figure, clambering over the rocks and running through the thick forest. I imagine the reincarnation of a great lama getting blisters on the hot pavement of the road. I look at Phuntshok as he and Bikul walk amiably side by side down to the entrance of the dzong. From behind, only the red robes distinguish the Trulku from the familiar figure of the young doctor.

  For nearly a week, Phuntshok comes to see Bikul daily. Often the two young men are absorbed in discussions about the possibility of a trip to Aza, a remote monastery three days north of Ngatshang. Bikul knows that he cannot leave now. The monsoon is still heavy and brings with it a multitude of diseases and conditions related to contaminated water and dangerous insects. The hospital is still filled to the brim, and there is a shortage of doctors who can respond to emergency calls.

  Phuntshok does not question the timing of their trip. He spends his days at the dzong and the late afternoons with Bikul and me on campus or walking through town. I learn to see in him a gentle boy who is eager to please and grateful for friendship. His family is poor, and his mother lives alone in a village in Kurtoe, giving what she can to her distinguished young son. With a little regret, I compare Phuntshok to children of royalty who are born into a certain rank and status, thereby losing the option to lead a regular life. This view of mine is unfounded, though. Phuntshok seems happy with his fate, and Trulku or not, he proves to be a modest, caring young man.

  After a few days, I feel completely comfortable in his company. He is like a steady pole, a soothing presence in the often-tense hospital environment. It is endearing to observe the bond between Bikul and Phuntshok, their genuine admiration for each other. Each in his own way is more experienced, the doctor in the hard lessons of life’s realities, and the monk in the teachings of the dharma.

  On Sunday when Bikul and I return from the subjee bazaar, Phuntshok is ready with breakfast—a huge pot of rice is served to provide the base for colourful curries (and in my case to neutralize the sharp bite of the spicy dishes). Phuntshok has prepared a feast—alu dam (potatoes in a curry sauce), saag (spinach) and onions, ema datsi (the Bhutanese national dish of chilli peppers cooked in the local fresh cheese), and, at the side, chapati (Indian fried flat bread). In Bhutanese custom, our grand cook remains in the background until we are finished. Then he takes his bowl and eats his own meal,
adding generous portions of fresh chilli peppers. Afterwards, Phuntshok even refuses to let me do the dishes. Firmly insisting, he claims possession of the kitchen and starts cleaning up.

  Without any fanfare, Phuntshok’s presence becomes part of our daily outings, and his visit passes all too quickly. I admire his quiet understanding, his unpretentiousness, and his humble respect for everyone around him. Unlike some of the hospital staff who raise their eyebrows when they see me with Bikul, Phuntshok never shows any surprise at my appearance.

  One day, I am told by the hospital administration that it is not suitable for me to be seen walking in the bazaar with Bikul. “You would have to be more discreet. . . . You should be careful about spending time in unsuitable company. . . . It would be better if you go walking with the single nurses.” The comments hurt me deeply and make me withdraw further from the hospital.

  Luckily, Phuntshok has no such prejudices or objections. His unspoken approval gives me new strength. Gratefully, I tell myself that in matters of the heart, the opinion of a monk should count much more. I only wished that Phuntshok would stay.

  On a clear autumn night, we walk Phuntshok back to the dzong. He will take the bus early the next morning to return to Ngatshang. I wonder when we will see him again.

  “Bye!” Phuntshok waves to us in his carefree, unruffled way.

  Bikul and I return his gesture. Not exactly sure why Phuntshok came to Mongar, and even less certain of what he will do next, my eyes follow the Trulku’s red robes disappearing through the gate of the dzong.