Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  When the sporadic electricity supply to the physio room is restored the next day, I ask for a space heater. “I will try, madam. Maybe tomorrow,” our electrician in charge promises. Despite his honest intentions, my heart sinks. Instinct tells me that his promise for “tomorrow” will turn into the day after or next week, if at all. In partial surrender and partial defiance, I treat most of my patients in Bikul’s OPD room by the warmth of his pathetic heater. The stares from administration continue but no one makes a comment.

  One day, Sister Rupali rushes towards me, heaving her corpulent body along the hallway in excitement. “Sister! We received telephone from Sister Pema.” Mongar does not receive many long distance calls, and when one arrives the entire hospital is informed within minutes.

  “Oh, did she call from Vellore? How are they?”

  “Yes, sister,” Rupali confirms. “They are still in Vellore. I think they must be fine, but only worried about the expense of accommodation and food all the time.”

  “Did she say anything about Nima?”

  “She didn’t say, sister. But they will not be coming back this year.”

  Shocked, I stare at Sister Rupali. It is the end of November, and Pema has been gone for nearly two months. If she does not come back until January, she will have missed more than three months of her training. And I will continue to be cold and lonely in our physio room. Depressed and a little annoyed, I leave Sister Rupali standing in the hallway to continue spreading the news.

  On one particularly dreary afternoon, when Bikul is busy with inpatients and my mood sinks to an all-time low, I decide to escape the hospital campus and make a “home visit” to my Saidon Abi at Kadam. High on the hilltop, Kadam Goemba is surrounded by dozens of little huts and buildings. Many of them are home to the monks, but old men and women who want to spend their retirements in meditation and prayer also live there.

  The climb is long and slippery, and after every few steps I have to stop and wait while my chest is rattled with spasmodic coughing fits. Once, on a steep and muddy stretch, I consider turning around, but for some reason I push on regardless.

  Prayer flags hang from long poles in front of Kadam Goemba.

  A middle-aged woman dressed in red robes meets me on the path. I ask if she knows where Saidon Abi lives. “Eh?” is the only response. Obviously, my Sharchhopkha is incomprehensible to her. I gesticulate wildly that I am looking for an abi with pain in her arm—and finally the nun nods. In her bare feet and turning her rosary, she leads me to a wooden shack, no bigger than my bedroom.

  Inside the dimly lit walls, I have to blink. An old woman sits in a corner on a mat of animal skin, cradling her right wrist in her lap. Her husband rises to welcome me.

  “Kuzuzang po la, Doctor!” the woman greets me with respect and gratefully holds her thin hand out to me.

  “Kuzuzang po la, Abi! Hang eh?” Not wanting to disappoint the old lady who looks completely unfamiliar to me, I carefully examine the obviously broken wrist. The fracture must be severe and cause tremendous pain. Her hand is limp and hangs at an odd ninety-degree angle from the rest of the arm, but it is warm and otherwise intact. I try to find out how old the injury is.

  “Hapta nigzing,” her husband replies.

  Two weeks? That cannot be, I think, but then consider otherwise. Yes, it can be. Judging from the look of her skinny calves, the old woman likely can no longer walk the path down to Mongar, and she avoids a trip to the hospital at all costs. Still, I try to convince them that she has to see a doctor. I mimic an x-ray. The old man nods in surprising comprehension. “x-ray?” he asks.

  “Yes! x-ray!” I repeat excitedly. Then I fall silent. Even with an x-ray, I am not sure that anything can be done for the old woman at this stage.

  The couple tries to invite me for tea, but I excuse myself because I am looking for my Saidon Abi. Another old woman takes my hand. She seems to know Saidon Abi.

  We pass the new building of the goemba to our right, and the woman leads me once around the temple, setting the long rows of prayer wheels in motion. Then we walk past Madam Kesang Choeki’s house on the left and arrive at a small but off on its own, nestled under the huge branches of an enormous evergreen.

  The hut is filled with smoke from the fire, and a single faint light bulb illuminates black-stained wooden pillars and walls. A few whisky bottles filled with arra, the home-brewed alcoholic drink, and some dried chillies in a bamboo bangchung stand in the shelves. An old grandfather alarm clock ticks away the wrong time. Ancient-looking pots and pans hang from the wall, boasting charcoaled bottoms to the world. A variety of spoons and ladles are lined up neatly in a row. A number of empty bottles await filling. Above the fire, a bamboo grill, most likely for drying meat, is now used for the storage of some indefinable objects of antique value. Everything has its place, probably assigned years ago, and now lovingly returned there after every use. Around the corner stands a single bed with a collection of blankets and kiras, all looking as old and as worn as Saidon Abi herself.

  A now familiar odour welcomes me at the door; it is that unmistakable smell of unwashed bodies, a smell that greets you miles before a smile can shine through, and leaves its traces on clothes, sheets and rugs. It is the smell of sweat and datsi (cheese), of chillies and arra, of fire smoke and slightly rancid butter; the smell of generations in wooden huts and houses without chimneys and with the windows closed.

  Saidon Abi is pleased to see me and painfully unfolds herself from the seated position by the fire. Her husband, the caretaker monk of the old temple of Kadam Goemba, immediately takes over the supervision of their grandson, a tiny toddler whom Abi had been cradling. Meme puts the small boy in his lap and, holding his prayer wheel, murmurs a few mantras. The boy crows happily and grasps for the exciting toy. When he finds that he cannot reach it, he breaks into an angry howl. Meme laughs and folds the boy’s fingers around the handle of the wheel. Immediately satisfied, they turn the prayer wheel together, the boy settling deeper into Meme’s arms.

  Saidon Abi pulls out a piece of bamboo and blows into the amber. Within moments, the flames lick happily at a small black pot with boiling water. The wind keeps blowing the smoke back in through the door, and Abi creates more by stirring the fire.

  I present Saidon Abi with my gift: a woollen scarf that should help to keep her warm over the coming winter. With delight I notice that its green-and-redcheckered design matches Saidon Abi’s red dress perfectly. Saidon Abi’s red robes are similar to those of a monk, although she is obviously not a nun; rather, she has earned them by having retreated into meditation for many years.

  With a crinkled smile, Saidon Abi hands me a cup of buttertea in a chipped porcelain chalice and places a plate of fancy biscuits before me. With great difficulty, I try to convince her that I would be happy to share their thengma and popcorn kernels. She laughs at my absurd wishes and hands me a bangchung with sweet zao instead. After all, I am an honoured guest and must be served with only the finest she has to offer. Still she continually mumbles expressions of regret, apologizing that she has nothing worthy to give. I, however, munch on the thengma most contentedly and decide that buttertea has never been so tasty.

  After tea, Meme takes me to the ancient Kadam temple. To my surprise, I find a young monk seated in one of the temple’s corners, poring over sacred books. He looks up, and I recognize Tashi, a monk whom I met a few days ago in Bikul’s OPD chamber. I remember that he has come home to Mongar from his studies abroad. Meme leaves to continue his chores, and Tashi proudly shows me around the temple.

  Though small, there is nothing simple or cheap about this lhakhang. The walls disclose intricately sketched motifs, while the ceiling and supporting pillars are richly decorated with ornaments and thangkas, canvas paintings surrounded by colourful brocade borders with a wooden stick on the top and the bottom for hanging. For protection and storage, these paintings can also be rolled up. Most thangkas show a main image of a Buddha or deity, or else a mandala, the wheel of life, or som
e other religious shape.

  Time has faded the most glorious of colours and coated everything with the mysterious dusty haze of years gone by. There is much to look at but even more to discover with the imagination. The moment I enter, I feel the need to simply let my thoughts wander to the world of religion outlined on the walls.

  From the main shrine, the golden features of Guru Rinpoche look down on me, not gently as I expected, but rather questioningly stern. The dimness inside the temple intensifies the white of the Guru’s eyes to a powerful light, drawing my gaze to the golden features. To the right of the main statue, the image of another Buddha is unfamiliar to me. “The Buddha of Compassion,” Tashi explains, while pointing at the eleven heads and numerous sets of arms of the image. “And this one is a protector of the Buddhist teachings.” This time he points to the red statue of a terrifyingly wrathful-looking deity.

  Quietly, I sit down beside Tashi. He is already busy writing into the book spread on his lap. What I had mistaken as a prayer book turns out to be his practice drawings of the face of a Buddha.

  “We have to follow the old instructions precisely,” Tashi tells me. “We are not allowed to change any of the features or even colours of a drawing. We must draw everything just the same.

  “I am not very good,” he adds, trying to close his book. I appeal for another look. On a blank page, Tashi has drawn geometric shapes and lines and, within these, he is now sketching the features of a head. On the little wooden table in front of him, a printed book serves as his guide.

  “Do you have a teacher who helps you with these drawings?” I ask.

  “Yes, madam, at our college we study. I will take many years to draw well. Actually, we are supposed to draw these figures under a tree and not inside a lhakhang,” Tashi said. “If you draw it in daylight, you have a better chance to match proper colour. In India, where I receive my training, we always draw outside. But here in Bhutan, it is cold and filled with clouds.” He makes a gesture that seems to express his relief that no teacher is watching him drawing the precious Buddha while sitting inside a lhakhang.

  Fascinated, I watch the developing artist at work. Without much artistic talent of my own, I find it incredible that one day he will be able to reproduce the precise and colourful paintings of gods and deities that brighten all Bhutanese temples and decorations.

  Tashi walks me back to Saidon Abi’s house. Coming from the temple, I discover decorations on Abi’s home that had escaped my eyes before. Two rusty bicycle frames are propped against the wall, and a large collection of empty bottles, some old oil drums, a few corrugated iron sheets and a worn-out shoe protect the rear of the house. Some distance off to the side, a few children are standing beside a big wooden bowl, stomping long poles onto kernels of something resembling wheat. In perfect rhythm and incredible speed, they alternate their pounding.

  “Making arra,” Tashi explains with a smile, but I am not sure if he is joking.

  Inside Abi’s house, the activities are no less bustling. An old woman with leathery hands is grinding corn in a huge wooden trough. The grain resembles popcorn kernels before popping, and in fascination I watch them disappear under a plate-like millstone. Slowly, the old woman turns the wooden handle until fine flour appears in a bowl below the trough.

  In the back of the hut, Saidon Abi’s grandson is joined by his elder sister for a game of catch. Everyone breaks out into hearty laughter when the toddler slides his feet into Abi’s slippers and shuffles around the room, half falling, half supporting himself on everything in reach. One stumble sends him within inches of the hot ashes of the fire, and I think of the terrible burns that I have seen in the hospital. Saidon Abi must have similar worries, for she determinedly pulls the little boy back into her lap.

  When dusk bids me to return home, Saidon Abi pushes a big plastic bag of thengma and a few walnuts into my hands, all the while apologizing that she has nothing to offer. She asks me to come again, and holding her tiny hand in both of mine, I promise another visit soon.

  Hesitant to leave, I linger by the chorten in front of Saidon Abi’s house. Below me lies the town of Mongar, so close that I can see the individual rooftops—and yet a world away. A couple of villagers bring in their cows for the night. At the communal water trough, a few women wash the day’s laundry. In the surrounding huts, fires are lit to cook an evening meal. Birds twitter a goodnight song, accompanied by the echoes of a puja. From the mountain behind me sounds the chanting of prayers.

  24

  the dances of light

  In a dark corner of the courtyard of Mongar dzong sits a blind man. Every day from morning until night, he turns a large prayer wheel, keeping the huge drum in rotation and sending prayer after prayer into the world. The man is quiet and inconspicuous, and I would hardly know of his presence were it not for the steady sound of a bell, which strikes on each rotation of the wheel.

  His world consists of prayer. The wheel and a rosary are his companions. He is oblivious to the daily comings and goings of men in starched ghos with long white scarves draped over their shoulders. The hustle of the administrative officers marks his day only at 9:00 a.m. when they stroll into the dzong and at 5:00 p.m. when the government employees return home. The blind man’s work, though, remains until it is time to sleep, and starts again when the first daylight illuminates a world that for him has turned into darkness.

  Tobgay Dhendrup shifts his sightless gaze upwards, and a smile plays around his murmuring lips. Unfaltering, he recites an ancient Buddhist script, a prayer so pure it makes his heart dance. Not a hint of disappointment or bitterness reflects in his features. Forty-two years of age, he has attained wisdom out of reach for many who could grasp life with all of their senses.

  Eight years ago, a viral infection of the optic nerves took Tobgay’s eyesight. Over the period of one long month, he marked the days when he would last behold the sight of his lovely wife and three children. Since then, their features live only in his imagination. His busy life of a farmer ended when he could no longer find the edge of his fields, and slowly he turned inwards, to the world of Buddha’s words. He searched for a meaningful task in his darkened days, and found it in the honourable role of turning the dzong’s prayer wheel.

  Tobgay feels deep gratitude that the disease attacked only his eyes. Over the years in the dzong, he has found his hearing to be his trusted ally, a window that has opened his mind to the sounds of prayer. From his spot in the courtyard, he listens to the monks chanting. He follows their recitations and rituals and embraces each word in his memory.

  Now, the blind man nods quietly in rhythm with the drums that echo through the courtyard. Although he cannot see the monks practising the intricate steps of ancient dances, he knows each movement by heart, and in his mind he sees their bare feet leaping high through the air. Excited, he turns the prayer wheel a little faster, matching the tempo of the dance.

  While in Canada Christmas is nearing, everywhere in the district of Mongar people are busy with the yearly preparations for tshechu, a lively four-day festival in honour of Guru Rinpoche. Tshechu is celebrated in the dzong with dances, performances, and prayers, but it is also a popular social gathering, a time to chat, feast, and show off the finest clothes.

  Now, two days before the big event, preparations are in full swing. On the clay stoves in village homes, colourful dishes are spiced and seasoned, there are pots of simmering rice and boiling potatoes, and bags are filled with zao and thengma. From the road, you can hear the diligent knocking of looms as young women feverishly try to finish their new festival garments. Even the hospital is caught in the industrious calling of the upcoming celebration. Patients in the ward ask to be discharged, and the outpatient chambers remain empty. No one wants to miss the commemoration of the great master Guru Rinpoche.

  From within the dzong’s walls, I can hear the drums of dances. It is the last day for rehearsal of the religious performances of tshechu. Tomorrow the dancers will take a day of rest before the festival be
gins. Inside the lhakhang, there is much to do. Offerings are made and butterlamps filled for many hours of midnight prayers. Fruit and baked goods line the altar; packages of Dalda and sugar join a huge variety of fresh produce. Villagers offer even the most precious items for merit during this sacred festival of dance and prayer.

  Although the rites of tshechu date back to the beginnings of tantric Buddhism, outside the white walls of the fortress, a new kind of fair is prepared. Blue tarps are spread over wooden poles to construct makeshift huts. Pickup trucks bearing tables and chairs sputter up the peaceful roads. Men carry boxes and crates full of beer and liquor to be placed behind temporary bars. Dice are unpacked and cards stacked on tables. Outside the dzong, a transient casino has been erected.

  The Phosrang gomchen carves a tshechu mask.

  Tobgay’s son Wangdi leads Bikul and me into the dochey, the inner courtyard of the dzong.

  “Apa,” Wangdi gently puts his hand on the blind man’s shoulder, “I am back.”

  Tobgay smiles and stretches a hand out towards his youngest son.

  “Come sit,” he says, and shuffles aside to make a little room.

  “Dr. Bikul is here, and Madam,” Wangdi explains.

  Tobgay’s smile broadens and, tentatively, he reaches out for us. Bikul takes his hand and holds it between both of his palms.

  “How are you, Tobgay?”

  The blind man nods and smiles. Bikul introduces me to Tobgay. Again, the blind man’s face radiates honest joy.

  “Will you come to join tshechu, Doctor?” He points to the courtyard where several men are still prancing in swaggering steps, bowing deep, then twisting their bodies in a slow rolling motion.

  “Yes, of course,” I answer.

  Tobgay nods, and turns towards his son. “Which dance are they practising, Wangdi?”