Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  I slip my fingers into Bikul’s hand.

  “Do you think that I could see a Trulku star if it appeared in the sky?” Questioningly, I look up at the deep firmament.

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Maybe I would need to be more religious, you know, maybe I don’t believe enough in reincarnation and all those things. I mean, I am not a Buddhist.”

  Bikul looks at me seriously. “I am not a Buddhist either.”

  “But you believe,” I counter.

  “Hmm,” Bikul thinks for a while. “I believe in many things.”

  “You believe in Buddha, don’t you?” I press further.

  Bikul seems to weigh his words carefully. “It depends. My traditional Bikul believes in Buddha as an incarnation of God, because I am raised in a traditional Assamese Hindu family. And my rational Bikul believes in Buddha as an idea. The very idea that human beings have this potential to experience the mystery of life, the mystery of enlightenment. I think it is a great idea. We exist because we have ideas. And we create gods to serve our ideas.”

  The idea of Buddha, the idea of enlightenment—why does Bikul never speak in easily understandable sentences? His complicated answers irk me.

  “Well, I am sorry, I still don’t understand. Are you a Hindu or a Buddhist then?”

  “Neither! I follow dharma. It is the essence of Hinduism and Buddhism put together. At the core of dharma is the essence of feeling, and experiencing. You know, Britta, in this world, what matters is what you feel. Not what you believe. I cannot feel reincarnation, but Phuntshok does. So, I respect his feeling. You know what I mean.”

  Okay, I think. He does not really believe in Trulku stars then. I personally like the idea. It speaks to my romantic side. And I want Bikul to feel the same. Isn’t he a romantic? I am longing to have him on my side. Our philosophical discussions are all well and good, but I am frustrated that we never see things from the same angle. Is this the eternal East meets West problem? How can I win him over to my side?

  “But you do believe in love?” I ask hesitantly.

  “Not really. Love is not a religion to believe.”

  Pang. His answer hits me in the gut and I can feel a hot gush of panic rising inside me.

  “You mean,” I lower my voice a bit and dare not look straight at Bikul, “you do not believe in love at all?”

  Bikul seems unruffled. “I do not think love needs to be believed.” With those words, he turns to look at me. I cannot read the expression in his dark eyes. Is he making fun of me now? In defence, I want to pull my hand away from his, but then I feel Bikul holding on tighter. He smiles at me, and I imagine a faint blush appearing on his handsome face.

  “You know, I do feel love, the presence of love.”

  “Do you?” I want to sound sarcastic, but my voice does not cooperate. Instead I stifle a sigh of relief and squeeze his hand lightly. Now I can feel the heat rising in my own cheeks.

  Bikul winks at me and pulls me back towards the hospital. Then he adds, “Let’s look for a Trulku star tonight.”

  A little later, we spread a blanket under an old rhododendron tree in Bikul’s garden. Idly, we lean against the twisted trunk and gaze up into the night. A deep calm surrounds us, hushing even the frogs in the damp leaves on the ground. The stillness is complete and uplifting. I could not describe it as a lack of noise; it is not a soundlessness, but rather it feels like a foundation, the beginning that all else is built on. As if the mountains were brooding on the bustling life, soothing it to sleep while the day turns into night. The peace of the air is almost palpable, reaching for us with a gentle touch, a caress with tender strokes.

  In the east, a bright half moon climbs through the silhouette of branches and trees. Bikul points to a few stars.

  “Do you know that constellation?”

  “No,” I whisper, trying not to disturb the tranquil mood.

  “Over there is Sagittarius.”

  I nod quietly and lean my head against his shoulder. I wonder if he feels me right here. A little wind makes me shiver, and I nestle closer to my trusted friend. I look at the moon. He seems to smile, he seems happy with us too. Drowsily, I close my eyes.

  A soft hand brushes over my head. I can feel the tender touch of Bikul’s fingertips sliding over my hair, careful, a little questioning. For a moment, I keep my eyes shut in delight, but then peep through half closed lids at the sky again. Perhaps we will see a Trulku star tonight. Perhaps under these wrinkled branches of the rhododendron tree, time will stand still for just a little while.

  20

  to school on crutches

  The following day shines with a clear morning after a rainfall late in the night. The air is so clear that everything has been outlined like a sharp pencil drawing, and houses, trees, and even the clouds emerge on the mountains as if carefully placed there by an artist’s hand.

  It feels odd to wake from this magical land of romance to the sobering reality of the hospital wards. As I open the physiotherapy department at nine o’clock, I withdraw into the safety of sweet memories, stubbornly trying to hang on to the tenderness of the night. Although I know that I need to concentrate on my patients, I am simply not yet ready to let go of that new tingling in my stomach. I want to shut the department and run to Bikul’s chamber, if only to confirm that he is there, that he is real, and that he feels as enchanted as I do. My work loses importance. Time spent in the hospital seems wasted on this perfect morning—but then I meet Ugyen, a little girl with spina bifida.

  In her tattered kira, supporting her weight fully on little wooden crutches, she immediately appeals to my sense of motherhood. With callused, disfigured bare feet, she follows her father, a well-known officer with Mongar police, through the hospital. She does not say much, she hardly smiles, and no matter how hard I try, I cannot cheer her. Despite her father’s urgent appeal, she refuses to come to the physiotherapy room—but when I take her to Bikul’s chamber to inquire about her history, she unexpectedly relaxes. Bikul laughs.

  “Ugyen and I are good friends. She comes to see me often.”

  For a few minutes, Bikul and I discuss the gravity of the little girl’s disability. All the while, however, Ugyen is in a hurry to leave. It is obvious that she loathes the hospital.

  “What can I do for her?” Feeling helpless in light of Ugyen’s impatience, I look at Bikul.

  He discusses something with Ugyen’s father in Sharchhopkha, and then comes to my rescue.

  “They have invited us for tea to their house. Perhaps you and I could go there.” Bikul winks at me. “Maybe Ugyen will feel more comfortable once she gets to know you.”

  I look at Ugyen who seems to be waiting for an answer. I nod and just to make certain add “Dikpe!” Okay!

  And to my greatest surprise, Ugyen smiles.

  Although we have walked at least part of the way dozens of times before, today, every sight of Mongar town seems new and unfamiliar. I feel as if my vision has cleared. Walking beside Bikul, I now feel confident, even a little important. After passing the bazaar, we take a road twisting up the slope towards the dzong, and then follow a gravel path to the courtyard of the police quarters. The whole area is teeming with life. A long building stretches before us, the twenty-odd doors each leading to a tiny dwelling, two small rooms per family. The sewage gutter dominates a narrow alley that connects many paltry kitchen rooms. Everywhere there are children in dirty clothes, playing, screaming, running. Older siblings are busy washing laundry or scrubbing the floors. Women look out of the doors of dingy kitchens, the smoke of kitchen fires blurring their curious stares.

  We are greeted respectfully, and children clear the path as we make our way to Ugyen’s home. Bikul questions a couple of people, and we are shown to a door towards the end of the alley. A middle-aged woman with short black hair sticks her head around the corner and blushes. Apologetically, she wipes her hands on her kira and quickly ushers us into her home. In the larger of two rooms, she asks us to be seated on the only bed
and pulls a small wooden table closer. Carefully, she opens a cupboard that doubles as the house altar and pulls out two plastic cups and a packet of cookies. Then she disappears.

  Bikul and I are left alone, sitting side by side on the colourful kira that serves as a bedspread. A little awkward, we both stare in different directions. Nevertheless encouraged by the secure knowledge that no one here speaks any English, I whisper my most pressing concerns.

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Only once,” Bikul answers. “I feel sad to come here. Everything is so crowded. I have a good friend though . . . who lives in a house over there.” He points behind us and away from the camp.

  My mind skips to the thought of my little patient. “How can Ugyen possibly keep her pressure sores clean here?” I have not noticed toilets anywhere, and the lack of privacy is screaming through the overcrowded doors.

  “I think there are outhouses somewhere,” Bikul answers.

  I ponder the problem. Though Ugyen can walk around on crutches and seems to have adapted well to her spinal disorder, she truly is handicapped in these surroundings. Hygiene is not a top priority for most families in Mongar, but here it must be impossible. Bikul had told me that the reason for Ugyen’s frequent visits to the hospital over the last few years has always been an infection of some sort, either a urinary tract infection from a dirty catheter or a bacterial infection in the deep open pressure sores under both of her seat bones.

  Ugyen’s mother reappears with two cups of tea, followed by a shy, quiet Ugyen herself. I try to coax the girl into sitting down with us, but she remains standing in the door, leaning on her crutches and watching. Her expression is neither frightened nor unfriendly, but rather sullen. All attempts at making conversation are greeted with a brief yes or no. Disappointed, I realize that it will take much more than just a visit to gain Ugyen’s trust.

  Ugyen’s mother asks us to stay for dinner, but Bikul and I both apologize and turn down the offer. Bikul needs to go back to the hospital. He has emergency on-call duty. Not wanting to offend the family or lose whatever tiny crumb of favour I might have gained in Ugyen’s eyes, I am left hoping that they will assume that I am needed for emergency duty, too. Ugyen does not say anything, but her mother seems to understand and, gratefully, we escape the noisy camp.

  Once the cramped police quarters are behind us, big trees and the beautiful sight of the dzong welcome silence and serenity. I try to inhale deeply the fresh mountain air, but the smell of urine and rotten vegetables still occupies my senses. I imagine feeling the stare of a set of eyes in my back and turn around. Ugyen is standing at the edge of camp, leaning on her crutches and waving—but not smiling.

  I swallow hard. Urban life, no matter where, is always more congested, more difficult, but never has it been as evident to me as here in Mongar. The pristine beauty of the mountains, the peaceful chortens and temples, and the miles and miles of forest are mocked by the ugliness of cement buildings such as the police camp. I guess we all want to believe that somewhere there is a Shangri-La—and yet the piled-up garbage in town and the dirty stinking sewage pipes are reminders of how fine that line between paradise and suffering can be.

  Ugyen is part of this other reality of Bhutan that I stubbornly try to ignore. As the weeks pass, I grow more and more fond of my little spina bifida patient. Ugyen has never gone to school. Her four-point walk with wooden crutches is awkward, and her incontinence sends her shambling to the toilet at unpredictable times. In the stubborn way of a teenager, Ugyen decided that she does not want a catheter. It labels her, it is troublesome, and she sees no reason why her urine should run into that see-through bag.

  Initially, I cause quite a bit of turmoil in the hospital when I insist that the obviously neglected, pussy pressure sores on Ugyen’s buttock must be treated. With the help of Bikul and some of the nurses, we convince Ugyen to come to the hospital daily for a week. Nodding seriously, her family promises to look after the wounds, and we spend several sessions teaching her parents how to keep the ulcers clean. At the end of the week, Ugyen leaves with a big package of cotton pads and tape, and we even convince her to try a new catheter—but unfortunately the one that is inserted is too big. The hospital has run out of her size.

  The following week, Ugyen returns with fever and a urinary tract infection. Like so many times over the past years, she is admitted to the ward, and again, she occupies B12, the bed immediately beside the toilet.

  I start to sympathize with her reluctance to stay in the hospital. Ugyen is left alone on her wretched bed most of the time. Occasionally, her father comes to visit her, her mother brings her food, and her sisters play with her in the afternoon. Overall, though, she is left unattended. Lonely and forlorn, Ugyen looks like a little heap of misery on her stained bedsheet reeking of urine.

  Once a day, she shuffles along the hallway to come and see me; another time she gets her pressure sores cleaned in the minor OT. She makes no noise, and she seldom smiles. Nurses and doctors look her up and down. Some of the other patients stare relentlessly. I can almost feel her pain. I know now what it is like to be stared at, to be assessed based on appearance and a certain strangeness, and to be labelled as different.

  Whenever I see her, I try in my inept Sharchhopkha to make her smile, but I rarely succeed. The lovely features of her young face are hidden well behind an impenetrable blank mask. Determined to be independent, she allows no one to help her and no one to get close.

  One particularly gloomy afternoon, I ask Ugyen to visit me in my quarters. I make tea for her, and hot chocolate. She sips both politely and then leaves them to get cold on the table. She does not look around and stares unimpressed at Spud. The only thing she takes mild interest in is my tiny photo album with pictures of my family. I tell myself to give her time, to let her relax, but the afternoon passes, and Ugyen sits politely on my sofa and does not say one word. While Spud suspiciously eyes the new visitor, Ugyen turns into a silent statue.

  Exasperated and somewhat disappointed, I dive into my big hockey bag and pull out a package of crayons and a colouring book—my reserves for emergencies such as this one.

  Finally, Ugyen perks up. Her eyes sparkle in surprise, and a smile lights her face. Clumsily, she starts colouring the dress of a girl. Drawing seems foreign to her, and for a while, she fumbles with the crayon.

  Ugyen looks at pictures of Canada in the author’s apartment.

  “Would you like to go to school?” I ask Ugyen.

  Her answer is a little uncertain, but still a timid yes. Yes, she would like to go. When I ask if she can write her name, she says no. Still, if she goes to school, she wants to go straight to class one (instead of preschool) because her younger sister Karma Dema studies in that class.

  I am relieved. Maybe we can make this work. I have thought about it a great deal. Ugyen is a town girl, born and raised among a newly developing working class that does not live in a tight and supportive community. In a village, Ugyen would be surrounded by friends. She might get help and maybe even be pampered, but in the police camp in town she is forsaken.

  Does her hardworking family consider her quite useless, or worse, a burden? I like Ugyen’s parents. They are simple, honest people, trying to make ends meet. But do they understand Ugyen’s disease? I wonder whether Ugyen’s stony face is born out of her quiet suffering.

  The next day, I discuss the issue of education with her mother. At home, Ugyen helps with the washing and cleaning and, silently protesting her dependence, she insists on cooking her own meals. She has shown some interest in weaving, and her mother is teaching her the basics.

  I ask what Ugyen’s future might hold. Would she not be more independent if she learned to read and write and maybe one day hold an office job? Ugyen’s mother seems happy with the suggestion of putting her daughter in school but remarks that she would have no time to help Ugyen. Ugyen’s mother is also going to school in the afternoons. She is part of a group of women who were unable to get an education.
Now they are learning Dzongkha, Bhutan’s national language.

  So, I think, of all people, she should be able to feel how important school is for Ugyen. Still I am not sure that she understands.

  When Ugyen is released from the hospital, for better or for worse, I decide to take Ugyen to school myself. The primary school is located at the end of town. From the hospital it is perhaps a fifteen-minute walk away, from the police camp about the same, unless one uses a muddy path and cuts through the bushes beside the dzong. The main timbered building of the school is four storeys high and holds most of the higher-grade classrooms. Preschool and class one have their own rooms in little cement bungalows further down the hill.

  The vice-principal of the school is very kind and shows me around the campus. He seems in favour of a new student, even if she is arriving at the end of the school year. We discuss the problem with the principal. He too seems in agreement, although I am a little skeptical about his enthusiasm.

  “It is children like Ugyen that should get our help, isn’t it, Doctor?” he exclaims. I nod. “Actually, we owe it to them to try our best.”

  “Yes, you are right.” Again I agree, quietly noting that no one thought of asking Ugyen to join school before.

  I suggest enrolling Ugyen as soon as possible. The principal and I agree on a probationary trial period in class one. The timing of Ugyen’s entrance into school is less than ideal. The school year starts in March and runs through to December. Over the winter, the children go on a long break due to the cold weather that makes studying in the unheated rooms impossible. Now it is already October. The class teacher for IB, a thin, elegantly dressed Indian lady, assures me that she will do her best to help Ugyen, but the girl will have to make up almost two years. Will she be able to do it?

  I have some doubts too, but I know that Ugyen will need the support of a sibling. Class one is better than not trying at all.

  Ugyen still needs a school uniform, and having taken the initiative to enrol her, I want to make sure that my plan does not fail for the expense of buying her outfit. I ask ADM’s wife for help. She explains to me where I can find the material for a kira and where to buy a toego, onju, and shoes. Then, with raised eyebrows, she whispers, “You will pay for everything, sister?” I try to ignore the contemptuous tone of her voice and dodge an answer.