Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  “The police immediately suspected the caretaker because he had been sleeping nearby, and they arrested him and his brother. The caretaker told the police that he knew nothing and that he always spends the night in that little house after doing puja in the lhakhang, but they did not believe him. The dispute lasted several years. Finally, it was resolved somehow, but then a few more years later, another important statue was stolen. The caretaker got really scared and no longer wanted to be responsible for all the temples. So he gave over the keys to this gomchen from Phosrang.”

  We find the Phosrang gomchen outside his hut, together with his wife and granddaughter. All three are busy separating dried corn kernels from the cob, throwing the yellow grains onto a big tarp. Later they will grind them into kharang.

  “Kuzuzang po la, Meme! Kuzuzang po la, Ama!” Bikul and the gomchen talk for a few minutes while Ama and the little girl continue to pick at the corn. The old man seems in a slightly sour mood but cheers greatly upon my asking if I might take a picture of them. More than willing, the family poses for the camera. Then, by now fully convinced of our friendly intentions, Phosrang gomchen gets up to fetch the lhakhang’s key from his house.

  “Bikul, what was this zee you talked about?” I ask while we climb back up to the temple.

  “Don’t you know cat’s eye?” he asks in return.

  I shake my head.

  “Cat’s eye is a stone found in the China Sea, I think. It is a kind of pearl. The Dzongkha name is zee. Bhutanese women wear zee for good luck. One zee will be passed on from generation to generation—mother to daughter, it goes like that. Your luck and worth depends on how many zees you have. Zees are also considered good for your health and longevity. But the stone is very popular in Taiwan. The price depends on the number of eyes. A zee with one eye might be 100,000 rupees, but one zee can contain many eyes. So you think about the price. That’s why the chortens were robbed.”

  The Phosrang gomchen’s granddaughter separates corn kernels from the cob.

  Once the wooden temple doors creak open, I see that the lhakhang is as beautiful as it is old. Even in this seemingly forgotten place, fresh flowers decorate the altar, and a caring hand has dusted the many antique ornaments. The three main statues of the temple show Lord Buddha seated facing the room. A bright yellow and orange robe draped over the main statue is harmoniously mirrored in vases of flaming marigolds. From his seat of lotus flowers, Buddha’s golden face smiles, serene and forgiving. Bikul points to the special hand positions of each of the three statues. The large central figure symbolizes Buddha’s moment of awakening, while the slightly smaller one on the right talks about the first doctrine of his teachings. The third image symbolizes the defeat of the demon Mara and all earthly temptations.

  Bikul and I prostrate ourselves three times and place an offering of a few ngultrums on the altar. Phosrang gomchen pours a little holy water into our palms. While sipping at it and spreading the rest over my head, out of the corner of my eye I notice a moth-eaten cloth covering the right wall of the temple. I ask the gomchen what is behind it. He only nods and pulls the cloth aside. In the dim light that filters in through semi-covered windows, the wall appears black with golden dots and stripes randomly flung onto the background. I follow some of the shimmering streaks and allow my eyes to refocus. Suddenly, wrathful figures on black slate jump out from the mural. Life and energy flood the dark wall. Fierce eyes glare from terrifying grimaces. Hynotized, I stare at the aggressive stances and drawn weapons. Phosrang gomchen lets the fabric fall back—and the vision disappears into obscurity.

  Back outside we are blinded by the daylight. Phosrang gomchen seems in a sudden hurry to return to his family, and Bikul and I thank him and wave goodbye. Alone again, we stand hand in hand, lost in our own thoughts.

  “You know,” I quietly turn to Bikul, “I have seen many statues and pictures of Buddha—they all look different. Some of them are beautiful and some of them are wrathful. Exactly how many Buddhas do we have?”

  “What kind of answer do you want?” Bikul grins.

  I raise my eyebrows. “Meaning?”

  “Well, I can give you kind of a hand-wash answer, simple. Or else I can give you the real answer.”

  “The real one, please,” I answer. “But let’s keep walking back. Knowing you, the real answer could take some time.”

  “How did you guess?” Bikul laughs and puts his hand around my shoulder, trying to navigate us down the path together. “The word ‘God’ has two very different meanings in the West and in India. In the West, God is all powerful, He created the human being, and He is directly involved in shaping the history of us. We should obey the command of God, and we must believe in Him and His powerful authority. God is merciful, compassionate; He is up there on the summit, always ready to help human beings to live peacefully on earth as well as in heaven.”

  Bikul points at the clouds in a sweeping motion. “In India, God is an intelligent force, a cosmic energy of intelligence, we call it Brahma-shakti or Buddha-shakti, all pervading in the universe, and neutral to human history. The living being, as a part of the cosmic energy, has a natural urge to merge with the Buddha-shakti and the experience of merging with the Buddha-shakti is called ‘enlightenment’ or ‘nirvana’.”

  I look at Bikul, somewhat skeptical. “Am I looking for enlightenment then?”

  Bikul nods. “In your own way. We experience our connection to Buddha-shakti through our day-to-day experience of compassion. For example, you have compassion for your patients, and helping them makes you feel great. This is natural for us, since we are the creatures of compassion. Of course, not all people feel the same. We all have different levels of compassion, different levels of intelligence and perception, and therefore, we all follow our individual paths to nirvana.”

  “So,” I counter, “these temple robbers you talked about earlier, they also strive for enlightenment?”

  “They do. All human beings have deficiencies, and we often tend to forget the real goal of our life. Fortunately, we are blessed with Buddhas of various manifestations to help different individuals of different personalities.”

  “So they choose to worship wrathful manifestations, I suppose?”

  Bikul shakes his head. “No, all manifestations, also the wrathful ones, try to destroy evil. They look angry or violent because they fight the wrathful power of evil.”

  “Then how would a manisfestation help the robbers?”

  “For example, the Buddha of Compassion is the force that operates within us to make us compassionate. A spiritual teacher could help the robbers find a compassionate life. This could help them make better choices and improve their karma.”

  I shake my head, wondering which manifestations would help me understand all these religious intricacies.

  We continue along a winding trail that takes us to a congregation of chortens dotting the hilltop. One chorten leads to the next, and we follow them until the trail winds itself down the mountain. Wanting to engrave this perfect moment in my mind, I linger a bit, and walk around the last chorten. It is a skinny monument. Below its bulging dome, it wears a necklace of handmade miniature structures made of clay and ashes of the deceased. But the back of the chorten is facing the thick jungle, and there, parts of it have been hacked away, the remains of tumbled stones hidden beneath the moss. Like an oozing wound, lichens and ivy trail down from the ragged edge, their roots clutching the remains of broken sculptures.

  Chorten robbery. So much for artistic inspiration for our decorative painting of my new home.

  I look at this scar of an attack on faith and religion, the emptiness that remains after a hunger for money. Who dared to defy the fear of his karma for money in the purse?

  “Is this what you talked about before when you mentioned the stolen treasures?”

  “Yes, this is one of the chortens.”

  “But how can it all be covered in moss already?”

  “It only takes a couple of monsoons,” Bikul answers a
nd points at the thick jungle covering most of the slope below us.

  Suddenly, I feel tired and have the urgent desire to leave this hill with its unenlightened robbers and go back to the safety of my own unruffled world, with Spud guarding the house and yellow walls shining cheerfully. “Let’s go, okay?” I say and try to pull Bikul along the trail.

  “Okay,” Bikul agrees and wraps his arms around me. “Let’s go and paint our home. That’ll be a good change in Mongar.”

  23

  Kadam Goemba

  A few days later, the monsoon seems to have returned and winter is fast approaching. The day is dark and wet—and I am getting sick. In my little physio room the windows are shut, there are no lights, and the deafening growl of the OT generator vibrates through my body. My ears hurt, my throat is sore, and chills make my body shiver. Someone is pounding against the wall next door and a jackhammer goes off inside my head.

  I walk to the duty room to sit beside the nurses’ lovely wood stove for a while. Brother Kumar comes in and makes a long face. Politely, I inquire what the matter might be. His reply is sullen. “No water at all. They broke the pipe.” As if to demonstrate his point, Sister Gita washes her hands with the leftover trickle coming out of the filter. How long will that last? Then Dr. Kalita enters, ranting and raving, but today with good reason. No water means no surgeries, not even putting on a plaster cast.

  The day goes by without even a flicker of lights.

  The prospect of another evening without electricity does nothing to improve my mood. After work, I stare at my own tube lights that hang idly in the middle of the room. Bikul, who accompanied me home, is just about to plop himself onto my bed.

  “Do you mind not sitting on my bed with your dirty hospital clothes!” I scold. “Get off!”

  Obviously confused, Bikul stares at me. I can see that his thoughts are still in the hospital, and my sudden exclamation has taken him by utter surprise. For a moment he continues to sit right smack on my pillow.

  “Get up!”

  I feel a desperate anger rising. Past images from the hospital flash before me. I think of Sonam’s haunting face, the poor girl who was lying in A6. Her skin was peeling off in huge raw patches from an allergic reaction to an antituberculosis drug. Dozens of flies were buzzing around her and feasting on the oozing liquid coming out of her wounds. Probably the same flies that were previously refreshing themselves in the urinal. Several times I swatted them away, trying to ignore the nauseating stench that arose from the body. Sonam’s mother later covered the poor girl under a sheet, like a corpse, to protect her from the pesky insects.

  “Don’t you understand that I need to keep at least my bed clean?” I wail. With one quick stride I cross the room and pull Bikul off. Tears are stinging in my eyes. I look at Bikul’s stained lab coat and envision the wards at their worst, during cleaning time, when dirt and garbage float in a sea of murky water being swept into the drain.

  “I am so sorry.” Bikul hugs me tightly and gently kisses my wet cheek. “I will go to my house and change, okay?”

  Sobbing noisily, I nod.

  “I want to go home.” The words escape without my doing.

  Bikul continues to hold me, and my unpredictable outburst again targets him. “What would my parents think if they saw you? Look at you!”

  I know that I am lashing out, but somehow I have lost control of myself. Bikul looks guiltily in the mirror. His lab coat is open, his stethoscope dangles out of one pocket, his shirt has a small hole in the front, his hair is dishevelled and day-old stubble is darkening his chin. Dismayed, I imagine my dad’s reaction. “Who is this? Don’t tell me that you are in love with him!”

  Bikul smiles ruefully at me. “I am so sorry. Don’t be angry.”

  Tenderly, he hugs me tighter, and with a sigh I lean against him.

  In the end, I can’t bear to let him go to his house at all. We heat a huge pot of water on the stove, and while the wood starts crackling, we take turns with a quick scoop bath.

  Resolutely, I close the curtains to shut out the rest of the world. Then we wrap ourselves in my sleeping bag and huddle beside the bukhari, my metal woodstove.

  “What will happen when your contract here in Bhutan is over?” Sitting together and holding Bikul close, it seems impossible that I could spend even another hour without this man.

  “I have thought about that,” Bikul replies slowly. “Maybe I could ask for an extension.” After a pause he adds, “I am actually finished with my preparations for postgraduate school in India. I was thinking about applying in Chandigarh in January. But I would also like to stay at least until your year is finished. Perhaps we could go to India together after that.”

  “Yes,” I reply quietly. “I can’t think of staying here without you.”

  Slowly, the tension of the day flows out of my body. I close my eyes, enjoying the scratchiness of Bikul’s stubble and the smoky scent coming from the wood stove.

  “Will you call the night nurse and tell her, if there is an emergency, to call you here tonight?”

  I hold my breath, waiting for an answer.

  “You know they will call you Mrs. Das tomorrow,” Bikul teases, referring to his last name.

  I have to smile. Yes, I know.

  “That doesn’t sound so bad,” I mumble, and crawl deeper under the sleeping bag. This seems right to me, whatever anyone else might think. This is where I belong. Beside Bikul, right here.

  “Please stay,” I say, kissing Bikul tenderly. Tonight, I don’t want to sleep alone.

  The temperature continues to drop. Time is measured in armloads of wood for the fire; rekindling the flames interrupts the dark evening.

  The next morning, we wake up to watch our breath in the air. Getting out of bed becomes a battle with willpower, but a little later, sipping some steaming coffee, I hold onto my cup as if my life depended on it. Slowly, the hot porcelain defrosts my fingers.

  In physiotherapy, an old abi with rheumatoid arthritis is my only patient. I struggle with my Sharchhopkha, and Saidon Abi muffles back in toothless sounds. I ask how old she is but the answer gets lost in moons and Bhutanese years. Most likely, Saidon Abi does not know. Most minakpas have no idea on which day they were born; many can only guess at their ages. Time matters little.

  Saidon Abi mumbles that she is from Kadam, an old temple on the hill above Mongar. I nod in recognition. I know a schoolteacher, Kesang Choeki, who lives up there.

  “Kesang Choeki—Kadam?” I ask, and Saidon Abi nods enthusiastically.

  Abi shows me her hands. Her fingers are bent and disfigured by the advanced stages of her disease. “Ngamla,” she repeats a few times. I nod. Then she points to her elbows, her shoulders, her knees, and her feet. She wants me to know that it hurts everywhere. I nod again. Beside me, a cold wax bath and a lifeless infrared lamp look dolefully into the powerless darkness. Parts of the hospital have electricity today, but my physioroom certainly does not.

  A thought strikes suddenly. The outpatient rooms have power. Therefore Bikul has light! If I cannot treat my patients here, we will go elsewhere.

  Abi follows me to Bikul’s OPD chamber, where I deposit my heat lamp beside his desk. Bikul looks at me questioningly.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Well, you have electricity and I don’t. I thought maybe Saidon Abi can sit here under the heat lamp.”

  Bikul agrees. We turn the extra chair to stand sideways along his desk and place a footstool in front. At first, Saidon Abi wants to offer me her seat, but when she finally puts her feet up, she purrs with contentment. Even Bikul’s patient who is watching from the examination table has to grin.

  By the red glow of the infrared lamp, we let the hours tick by. First we warm her feet, then her knees (while Saidon Abi obediently makes little circles with her ankles), next one shoulder after the other, then elbows, and lastly her hands. Bikul’s patients come and go, but no one seems to mind the tiny old abi in the OPD chamber.

  While my d
elightful old patient stretches her legs out under the heat lamp, she and Bikul joke around in fast and, for me, complicated Sharchhopkha. I prod Bikul to tell me what they are talking about.

  “You,” Bikul grins.

  “I know that, but what about me?” I have never liked hearing my name without understanding the rest of the sentence.

  “I am just asking Abi if she thinks you are beautiful.”

  “What?”

  Bikul turns back to Saidon Abi. They laugh.

  “What else?”

  “Abi is asking me if you are my wife.”

  Now I have to grimace. In the Bhutanese way, Abi’s question is only natural. Traditionally, if a young man does not leave a girl’s room in the middle of the night but stays until morning, the couple is considered married. In the minakpa’s eyes, we would therefore be a couple. I smile and for the second time try on my imaginary new name, “Mrs. Das.”

  When the day is nearly over, the Administrative Officer stops his dissatisfied pacing of the front of the hospital to look into matters in Chamber No. 4. I try to smile politely, but his haughty supervision makes me cringe. His disapproval of my appearance in the OPD room is hidden behind an expressionless mask. To demonstrate that I am here with a patient, I turn to my Saidon Abi. “Dakpa mo, Abi?” I ask. Are you better? Saidon Abi beams me a smile. She is loving every moment of the soothing heat. Without a word, the ADM turns around and with hands clasped behind his back resumes his pacing in front of the hospital.

  Saidon Abi rubs the last one of her warmed joints and, grinning, points at her feet. “Again?” she asks. I look at my watch. Nearly three o’clock, and I am ready to go home. Even by the moderate warmth of Bikul’s electric coil heater, my cough has worsened. Helplessly, I shake my head. With a smile, Saidon Abi bows slightly. Then she pulls a rosary from the fold in her kira and, murmuring a mantra, returns to her bed in the ward.