Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  “They are all villagers, Apa, they must be finishing Drametsi Ngacham.”

  Tobgay seems satisfied with his son’s prompt answer. He takes pride in teaching his children the real importance of tshechu.

  “Apa,” Wangdi adds quietly, “I think those men had too much arra. Their steps are a little weird.”

  “I know,” Tobgay replies with a shrug of his shoulders. “Some of those villagers cannot dance without the help of arra. I think they are almost finished now?”

  “Yes, Apa,” Wangdi confirms.

  Tobgay addresses us with sorrow in his voice. “Doctor, did you see the tarps outside? What do you think about this new generation?” he asks. Then without waiting for an answer, he continues. “This modern youth, they believe only in drinking and gambling, but not in the truth of the sacred dances.”

  The drums have silenced and the villagers have gathered in the far corner of the dzong. Jigme, Bikul’s friend and the monks’ second in charge, firmly leads them out of the courtyard. The monks want to get on with the preparations for tshechu. The dance rehearsals are over.

  In the hospital, anticipation and excitement stir both staff and patients. Tshechu is a time to ask for blessings. Families, huddled on crowded beds, pull crumbly old ngultrum bills out of their hiding places within the folds of freshly washed kiras and ghos. Entrepreneurial vendors materialize overnight to offer their wares of bananas, packages of butter, and incense sticks. In the evening, the wards turn into a temporary hostel, filled with caretaking family and friends.

  Not many new patients are admitted, but a few familiar faces return just in time for tshechu. When the weekly bus from Trongsa is followed by a hospital vehicle from Thimphu, a small flock of former patients files into the festive town. Among them is a young lady standing upright between the bars of a walker.

  “Lhamo, look at you!” With delight and surprise, I greet Lhamo, my little protégé with her injured knees.

  “Kuzuzang po la, Doctor.” Carefully placing her walker on the uneven ground, Lhamo approaches me.

  At the sight of her slender figure standing nearly as tall as mine, unable to contain my excitement, I rush to give Lhamo a hug. Forgotten are the weeks of frustrating exercises with a whiny little girl. Now I can think only of one thing: We did it! Lhamo is walking again!

  Lhamo mumbles something and blushes deeply. Then her faces turns serious, and she looks at me expectantly, as if I would now pronounce the final verdict over the success of her operation.

  “Wonderful, Lhamo. It’s wonderful!”

  In my mind, there can be no doubt over the success of her trip to Thimphu. The operation report had preceded Lhamo’s arrival, and I know that the fusion of her left knee was a huge victory. The only complication resulting from the surgery was the injury of her common peroneal nerve, which has given Lhamo a drop foot. This new problem, however, can be corrected with an orthotic, and perhaps in time it will even improve further. What matters is that Lhamo is standing upright, supporting her weight on her own legs, even if the right knee is still somewhat contracted from the burn injuries.

  Lhamo’s mother seems as pleased as I am. Repeatedly, she points to Lhamo’s knee and tells me something in an excited torrent of words. I nod, then we both laugh. There is a lot of work left to do for Lhamo, but the worst is definitely over. No more wheelchairs and no more pressure sores! Over the course of a few weeks, Lhamo has grown into a beautiful young lady.

  Three days later, on December 7, the second day of tshechu, I suggest to Lhamo to accompany me to the dzong. Her response, however, is unintelligible to me, lost in the overwhelming speed of her chatter. When her excited gestures finally slow down, I realize that her jubilant attitude is laced with doubt. She thinks that it would be impossible to enter the dzong with her walker. And above all, she does not have a good kira. She would stick out terribly with her simple dress.

  Annoyed with the little trivialities that dare to stand in the way of a great opportunity, I counter—perhaps a little roughly—that certainly Guru Rinpoche will not mind if she attends tshechu in the yellow and orange striped kira she is wearing. And as to the walker, she would have to get used to showing herself in public with it anyhow.

  Her mother agrees immediately, but Lhamo remains unconvinced.

  “I don’t have a rachu,” she points out in a rather sulky voice.

  Puzzled, I look at Lhamo, then turn to one of the nurses nearby. “Is a rachu really needed?” I ask. Sister Gita nods. The rachu is a long red scarf that the Bhutanese women have to wear over their left shoulder whenever they enter a dzong. It is part of the official attire and, just like the wearing of kira and gho, is enforced by the police.

  Lhamo’s mother admits that without a rachu, she will not be able to go to tshechu; however, Lhamo is only thirteen, and for children exceptions are always made. Determined that Lhamo should go and ask Guru Rinpoche for her blessings, the tiny resolute mother puts on her most adamant scowl. Lhamo has little choice but to relent.

  An hour later, we arrive at the dzong and, to my greatest relief, Lhamo’s worries prove to be completely unnecessary. Although she is subject to many curious stares, the faces of the other villagers mirror amazement and respect, nothing of the anticipated suspicion towards her strange walking contraption. After a few kind words from the patrolling police officers, this last imagined hurdle is cleared too, and Lhamo’s face relaxes. Still self-conscious of her walker, she half-heartedly asks a few more times to turn around, but once she has spotted the first dancers through the wide gate of the dzong, her face shines with childish excitement.

  The dzong is packed with people. The very centre of the courtyard is cleared for the spirited dancers, and row upon row of Bhutanese villagers are seated along the outside and fill doorways, balconies, and windows. Everyone is dressed in his finest garments, the crowd turning into a sea of colourful toegos and kiras and meticulously starched ghos.

  Jigme quickly ushers us to the main portal of the central tower, which doubles as the monks’ dressing room. From there we will soon have an unobstructed view of the courtyard; for now, though, Lhamo and I find ourselves surrounded by a lively chattering group of monks getting ready for their great performance of the Shaa Nga Cham, dance of the black hats.

  Open-mouthed, Lhamo and I admire the preparing dancers while sashes are tied, hats strapped to a layer of protective cloth over the shaven heads, felt boots pulled on, and fittings double-checked. One of the young monks grins and shifts nervously from one foot to the other. His red silky brocade robe fluffs and falls elegantly as he practises a few steps and a spin. A wide fur-trimmed hat wearing a scornful face is securely tied to his head. It is topped by a tall spike of a collection of sacred items: the head of a grinning skeleton flanked by two flames and two horns on either side, the moon cradling the sun, and a crown of several peacock feathers. In his left hand he holds a long curved drumstick, and in the right, a big leather drum.

  Jigme pushes the heavy curtain to the side and peers out into the courtyard. A few more monks line up on either side of the curtain and, in response to a secret sign, throw it wide open. With a graceful twirl, the costumed monk dashes out to join the dance.

  Sitting beside Lhamo, I have to smile when I glance at the girl, who is watching in awe as the black hat dancers twirl in the courtyard. Thump . . . silence . . . thump . . . silence . . . thump, thump, thump. The drum’s steady beat measures the steps for each dancer. Thump—three wide steps; thump—a sideways movement to either side; thump—jump on one leg, a little shift of the body; thump—incline towards the ground, jump and twist, resume stance on one leg.

  Most of the ancient dances, called cham, are religious, telling through their actions and music the teaching of Buddha, the dharma, to a population that is largely illiterate and depends on the clergy for instructions in the spiritual path. The dances are extremely powerful and must be taken seriously. Cham calls on the Buddhist deities for protection from misfortune and to drive out evil spirits.
The mere act of watching the cham allows the spectators to gain merit and receive a special blessing.

  The drums of the black hat dancers announce the victory of good over evil.

  Before us, the colourful brocade dresses of the twelve monks lift into perfect circles as they turn in precisely measured steps. To the ringing of cymbals and the blowing of long horns, the black hat dancers purify the grounds of the dzong. Their footwork and their gestures have been practised over many years according to the exact methods of subduing evil. Many of the movements are danced on one foot alone, the other leg bent and held up in front with the sole of the foot pointing forward. They move in a large circle, and each monk rotates within his position, the fancy footwork crushing all evil, the sound of the great drums of Buddhism announcing the victory of religion over demons and evil spirits.

  Across from us, in a corner of the crowd, I notice Tobgay and his son. Both are following the dancers’ movements with rapt attention while Wangdi whispers to his father, probably describing the monks’ appearances, costumes, and masks. Tobgay sways his body to the rhythm of the music. I am sure that in his mind he can see the dance as clearly as I, even aware of the fine subtleties of steps and hand movements, which remain indistinct to my untrained eye. His contented smile tells me that the dances bring light into his darkness, and the colours of the festival shine brightly.

  After the cham is completed, back in the dressing room sweaty boys are eager to unwind the hot cloths from their heads and take off the heavy dancing robes. There is a collective sigh of relief that the many months of rehearsals have paid off and the dance went flawlessly. One monk lost his hat once, but a nearby atsara, a clown, came running over to fix the costume.

  To my great confusion, now an atsara bounces over to our seats. His face is well hidden behind a funny white mask, making it impossible for me to recognize him. He seems to know me, though, and asks Jigme to take a picture of us. Lhamo beside me starts giggling, and with much laughter and teasing, a photo is snapped. A little suspicious, I look for any sign of their party piece—a wooden penis. Atsaras mimic many of the dances and entertain the crowd to lighten the more serious moments of the tshechu. For me, though, the sight of them poking their wooden phalluses into the air makes me feel utterly uncomfortable. Not so my little companion Lhamo. She laughs and claps her hands at the atsaras’ comic antics while other villagers are noisily encouraging.

  In the courtyard, the first dancers now arrive for the Raksha Mangcham, the dance of the judgement of the dead. This dance is very special, and Guru Rinpoche in magnificent robes joins the earthlings. The cham begins with the rakshas, Buddha’s helpers in the form of animals who separate a person’s good actions from his bad deeds. In unison, they prance and hop, they strut and skip, they leap and cavort. Then, out of the interior of the temple, following the trail of heavy incense, a solemn group of monks carries the small seated statue of Amitabha or Oepame, the Buddha of infinite light. He is placed on a pedestal to the left of the tower’s entrance, in front of the continuous row of prayer wheels. In a long procession headed by monks playing trumpets and cymbals, the huge puppet of Shinje, the Lord of Death, enters, followed by his two attendants, the white god and black demon who live with every being. With great ceremony, they seat themselves on the colourful throne of the court of justice.

  The rakshas resume their dance, and old minakpas lean forward to catch a better view. The lessons of this dance will help the old people prepare for their own deaths. A single black-dressed dancer enters, representing the recently deceased sinner who wanders in the Bardo, a state that is reached immediately after death, where one meets the Court of Justice. While the rakshas weigh both his good and his bad deeds on a scale, the crowd hushes. A powerful warning silences the spectators when the sinner is sent to Hell, accompanied by the fearful-looking demon. The next dancer is more fortunate. He is a virtuous man who has followed the Buddhist doctrine, and as a reward for his piety, beautiful fairies accompany him to paradise. He makes his exit in a grandiose and delightful dance, and the subdued crowd relaxes. Across from me, an old abi pulls out a handkerchief and wipes her forehead. The rakshas conclude their dance by performing magnificent jumps and twirls, and then lining up in front of Shinje, the Lord of Death.

  It is now up to the spectators to ask for good fortune, and from a huge crowd set into motion, we are reunited with Lhamo’s mother, who has successfully borrowed a rachu from one of the nurses. Together, mother and daughter join the long line forming to receive wang, a collective blessing. Men carry their toddlers on their shoulders, women help old abis with their canes. Everybody, one by one, bows to the Buddhas. A few monks have set up a tashi gowang, a miniature temple with many tiny doors into which the pious push a few ngultrums for future merits and good luck.

  The crowd seems endless. Hundreds and hundreds of Bhutanese from all walks of life line up for their wang. I wave to Lhamo, then I search the masses for Tobgay and Wangdi, but the two have long since disappeared in the endless line approaching the altars. Judging from the number of people waiting their turns, the blessing ceremony will take several more hours, and I decide to head back to my quarters to fill my empty stomach.

  At the gate to the dzong, leaning on a stone pillar so as not to get pushed over by the crowd pouring in for wang, Ugyen’s little sister Karma Dema is playing with some friends. For a while, I stand on my tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of Ugyen’s telltale wooden crutches, but there is no sign of them anywhere.

  “Karma Dema! Where is Ugyen?” I call to her.

  “Home,” Karma Dema answers with a shy smile.

  “Ugyen did not want to come?”

  “Ugyen busy cooking,” Karma Dema says.

  “Are you having fun, Karma Dema?” I ask, trying to reassure the timid little girl.

  “Yes, madam.”

  Yes, madam. Karma Dema is having fun, but Ugyen is at home. Why is Ugyen not here to receive her blessing? Did she feel, like Lhamo, too shy to come to tshechu? Or is she afraid that she will get pushed over with her crutches? For a moment, I have the urge to walk over to Ugyen’s house and bring her to the dzong too, but then I decide against it. Ugyen is a smart kid, and, unlike Lhamo, she is at home in Mongar. She will take care of herself. With the firm resolution not to meddle too much, I turn around to wave goodbye to Karma Dema, but she has already disappeared in the crowd.

  “Madam! Oieehhh! Madam!” On my way home, someone roars loudly over the hubbub of the road lined with eating stalls and gambling huts. I cannot recognize the voice and continue marching past the flimsy tarpaulin booths filled with cheering and drinking people.

  A girl in a yellow and orange kira pours drinks for a few men sitting around a table. Not much taller than Lhamo, she has a stubborn look in her eyes that reminds me a lot of my little patient who is now standing inside the dzong waiting to receive her wang. At this very moment, I am filled with an immense satisfaction, I am so proud of Lhamo. After all, she found the courage to lumber past the hundreds of watching people, pulling her fused straight leg behind her. Despite her see-sawing gait and the cumbersome walker, she made her way to the courtyard where the dancers were twirling to receive her blessings and merit from the cham.

  It could not have been easy for her, yet, to me, Lhamo’s efforts represent hope for what Tobgay saw as a generation in moral and spiritual decline; the hope that even Bhutan’s younger people—some of whom have been dazzled with pictures and ideas from the modern West—will continue to seek the light of the dances.

  25

  a midnight prayer

  “Doctor, will you bring some blessings for Apa from tshechu?”

  Norbu Ama looks with questioning eyes at Bikul, who is feeling the pulse of a frail, dehydrated man lying with hepatic coma in the ICU room.

  “How can I do that, Ama?” Bikul places the pale wasted hand of his patient onto the blanket and makes a note in his chart.

  “We heard that you always go to the prayer early in the morning. Pleas
e ask Lam Neten for a blessing for my uncle.”

  Bikul nods and turns to his patient. Behind protruding cheekbones, the man’s eyes are closed and have sunk into the deep hollows of his skull. Months of struggle with a deadly disease have left a haunted expression on the high brows, and his skin is waxy and yellow.

  Absent-mindedly, Bikul strokes a few limp hairs off the lifeless face. There is not much hope left for Tshering. Several weeks ago, the carpenter from Trashigang contracted hepatitis B, and now the virus is close to winning the fight over his weakened body. In Mongar, the doctors have neither the necessary equipment to analyze the biochemical parameters of the disease state nor the appropriate methods to keep the body fluid sufficiently balanced. Bikul knows that the man’s chances of survival are slim.

  “I will go to tshechu tonight, Tshering,” Bikul gently addresses the unconscious man. “And I will bring blessings for you. Do not worry.”

  As if he had heard him, the thin, chapped lips of the comatose patient seem drawn into the fine line of a smile.

  “But, Ama, he still needs to take these, okay?” Bikul chides Norbu Ama, who has taken it upon herself to wheel the hanging iv bottle away from the bed.

  Smiling, Norbu Ama shakes her head. “If he gets blessings from Guru Rinpoche, no medicine is needed. We will hold puja tonight.”

  “Ama, please!” Bikul looks at Norbu Ama with pleading eyes. It is her turn to stay at Tshering’s bedside today while Tshering’s wife and children have gone to bring food and supplies from home. But Bikul worries that Norbu Ama will take things into her own hands. Today, any interference could push Tshering past any hope of recovery. Due to severe bacterial sepsis, Tshering needs at least the steady supply of fluids. With despair Bikul reaches for a syringe containing the last dose of ampicillin. After he administers this dose, there will be no more left. The hospital has run out of the necessary antibiotic, and the bacteria invading Tshering’s body have shown to be resistant to all other treatments. Sighing, Bikul starts to inject the remaining medication into the iv drip and watches while the transparent medicine slowly flows through the syringe. Then he holds the patient’s cold hand and the room is silent but for Tshering’s laboured breathing.