Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  Norbu Ama hesitantly clears her throat. Her lips are quivering. “Doctor, will you bring blessing from the dzong?”

  Of course he will bring offerings from tshechu, but in Bikul’s mind it is less for Tshering’s recovery than to make it easier for the family. In truth, there is not much left to do for Tshering, but his wife and children will need strength to face life without him. Perhaps the Guru’s blessings will help them to believe in the future.

  “I will go tonight,” Bikul reassures Norbu Ama again while he uses a piece of cord to tie the iv bottle to the bed. Then he checks the flow of the liquid and counts out the seconds. Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . one drop every two seconds, the medication enters Tshering’s body, fighting against all odds for survival.

  On the last day of tshechu, the clock shows 2:00 a.m. when, with chattering teeth and clumsy hands, Bikul and I peel ourselves out of bed and into kira and gho. Forty-five minutes later, we slowly climb up to the dzong. The night is clear and the faint light of the distant universe underlines the peaceful silence. We walk hand in hand, grateful for the night’s shelter, content in each other’s touch.

  The dzong lies majestically before us, the whitewashed walls taking their solemn stance in the moonlight. No sound is heard until we reach the gate, where dim lights humour the few drunken card players still trying their luck. Inside the courtyard, we hear the echo of drums and horns. Out of a few windows on the middle floor of the central tower shines a faint light.

  The Guru Rinpoche lhakhang is filled with the sounds of prayer, the smell of incense, and colourful decorations in honour of the festivities. Brilliant banners and ornaments hang from the ceiling. The back of the shrine is hidden by fantastic buildings of coloured dough and butter, rich paintings, and glowing butterlamps. Many offering bowls—the tallest ones filled with pineapples, bananas, guavas, oranges, sugarcane, and packages of glucose—line the altar. Prayers are chanted. Music moves the air.

  We are ushered to the far side of the room and settle beside the empty seat of honour. Lam Neten, the head monk, sits high on his throne, his long scarf wrapped loosely around him. Tshering, the umdze, or choirmaster, is positioned a little lower to the left and holding a set of heavy cymbals. The other monks are seated on pillows on the floor in neat rows facing each other. On the other side of the room, in the far corner, I can recognize the faces of the dzong dancers and a few older minakpas.

  The huge thondrol of Guru Rinpoche on the utse of the Mongar dzong.

  It is the fourth day of tshechu, and the long preparations and nights of prayers and rituals are about to conclude. Little monks, small boys in red robes, can hardly stay awake and sleepily follow their elders in prayer. Across from me, someone’s eyes close tightly, a head slumps to the side, and peaceful slumber takes over. A tiny neighbour tries to wake his friend by blowing into the dreamer’s ear. Then the kudung, the master of discipline, swishes his rosary in reprimand.

  Even Lam Neten’s face disappears every few minutes behind a fold of his robe, while he is seemingly asleep. Yet, at a sign not visible to my eyes, he lifts his head and again his powerful voice leads the monks through rituals of devotion and sacred mantras.

  The steady murmur of the prayer is mesmerizing, at times ebbing to a low mumble, then rising to its overpowering crescendo. The soft singing of cymbals accompanies the verses. All of a sudden, the music swells. All instruments join force, and the powerful blowing of the long horns, the melodic tune of trumpets, the quick tock-tock of the handheld, double-sided damaru drum, and the urgent ringing of bells rise to an awesome fanfare—Guru Rinpoche is invited to join the puja. For a moment it strikes me that yes, certainly the noise is big enough to make even the furthest angels aware of the invitation.

  Jigme, with a white scarf tied over his mouth and nose, fills a bowl on the altar with water, then holds a tiny ladle in his right hand; the other hand he lifts above and in front of him, as if greeting the Guru. Prayers quiet with that peculiar slowing of speech that reminds me of a gramophone playing at too slow a speed. To another chish of the kudung’s rosary, little monks rush forward to serve tea and sweet rice. Three times everyone’s cups are filled before the prayers resume.

  From the altar, the glow of many rows of little butterlamps is reflected in the lustrous decorations, throwing fluttering shadows on the polished wooden floor. They sway with the draft of a breeze through the open windows and flicker with the deep intonations of prayer. And then, like a vision bestowed on dreamy sleepers, out of the mysteries of the back of the temple, a fairy springs. An angel dressed in blue and gold shimmering garments, a silver crown on his head, holding a damaru drum and a bell. Soon another fairy joins him, and together they prance and turn, jump and leap in a dance nothing short of magic. Their presence fills the room as they circle around each other, not once lingering to recover but proceeding in a breathtaking vision of beauty.

  I feel uplifted, enchanted, in love with the delight of the moment, inexplicably bound to the wonders of the night. For a second, I am enwrapped by the mystery of the spirit that flees to where no human mind can grasp its essence. Faster and faster the fairies spin, boldly they leap, then their drums pause a moment. Tock-tock . . . tock-tock . . . and the dance goes on. Again they leap, they ring the bells, and, finally, they turn to face Lam Neten, bouncing high to touch both knees almost to their ears, and disappear. Their magic lingers on.

  As dawn sends its first glitters of light through the lhakhang’s windows, the puja ends. In the dim courtyard, a lantern-like vase pours out incense to purify the air. A procession of monks carries a long folded cloth around the central tower. Bikul and I follow them. We circumambulate the building three times, setting many small prayer wheels in motion, before the huge cloth is pulled up to the top floor of the tower. Then, in front of the crowd of villagers watching in awe, the image of Guru Rinpoche unfolds.

  The silence that follows is complete. Through the dim morning air, the Guru’s face looks serenely down on us. We are encompassed by his view; we are enlightened by his sight. To the Bhutanese, the vision of this magnificent thangka is holy. Its name, thondrol, means “liberation on sight.” With deep, zealous belief, their sins are washed away by looking at the Guru’s kind appearance.

  On the stones of the courtyard, seated facing the thondrol as they would otherwise face a shrine, the monks begin their puja. Incense sticks waft heavy perfume in front of the silken image, and hundreds of butterlamps flicker in the light of dawn. Quietly, minakpas gather to witness the precious thondrol. The unshakeable belief in their religion is clearly written on their devout faces. Today is a day of forgiveness and a fresh beginning with a hope for the future. A pink sky in the east welcomes the new morning, and with the first rays of sunlight peeking over Kori La, Guru Rinpoche’s image is withdrawn to the temple for another year.

  “I have to find Lam Neten. Will you wait here for me?”

  I nod and watch Bikul entering the dark rooms of the temple. I know that all night the thought of his patient has weighed heavily on his mind, and he is anxious to return to the hospital.

  When the drums begin to accompany the last day’s dances, Bikul returns with a relieved smile.

  A masked dancer raises his sword.

  “Let’s go,” he says and leads me out of the dzong. He is carrying a bag filled with food and flowers, a package of butter, and a silken scarf. Everything has been blessed on this most auspicious of days, and Lam Neten himself chose each item carefully for the dying man. Now Bikul is eager to present Tshering’s family with a little piece of hope.

  When we arrive at the hospital, the puja in the ICU room is still underway. Butterlamps flicker around the bed and on a makeshift altar beside it. The scent of incense wafts through the door, and I can hear the murmur of a low voice, accompanied by the ringing of bells. Bikul quietly hands Tshering’s wife the temple offerings and, with a small bow towards the altar, retreats. Then we quickly leave for the certainty that, right now, a medicus is neither needed nor
wanted in the ICU. A few days later, before the beginning of rounds in the wards, I accidentally bump into a noisy group of doctors arguing loudly.

  “These villagers are so strong, they’ll fight any disease!” Dr. Pradhan argues.

  “The man was just lucky, I tell you!” Dr. Shetri counters.

  “Of course he was lucky,” Dr. Pradhan agrees, “but all the luck in the world wouldn’t have saved me if I had been this weak.”

  A little unbelieving, I open the door to peep into the ICU room. On the bedside table a butterlamp is flickering peacefully, and a tall vase containing holy water throws a long shadow over a glass with yellow and orange flowers. Beside it, on a grimy blue sheet, our patient’s pale skin is flushed with the first feeble signs of life. Tshering has awakened. And with a trusting mind and perhaps the help of Buddha, he starts his difficult journey towards recovery.

  26

  woes in Trashi Yangtse

  “There, that’s done!” With a lopsided grimace, I hand the envelope to the clerk in the post office. Here goes the last letter of 1997, probably the most important one I have ever written.

  “I really hope that my parents won’t have a heart attack. What do you think they will say?” Searching for some reassurance, I look at Bikul. In his unruffled way, he smiles at me.

  “I don’t know. I think they’ll understand.”

  His answer is not exactly calming me. “When do you figure they will get it?” I ask, even though I am fully aware that mail to Canada can take anywhere between two and eight weeks.

  “Maybe just after New Year’s?” Bikul seems a lot less concerned about the timing of our great announcement than I am. Exasperated, I give him a friendly nudge. This is important! Bikul applied for an extension of his contract in Bhutan, and we finally wrote a long letter to my parents confiding in them about our romance. To say that I am worried is an understatement. How will they react when they hear that their youngest daughter wants to stay with a man she met only a few months ago? And on top of that, he is Indian and not Canadian. Will they approve? I cannot imagine that they would be particularly pleased.

  “Maybe they will get it while we are in Trashi Yangtse,” I suggest, hoping that our absence from the telephone will give my parents some time to think and get over the initial shock before they speak to us.

  “Hmmm.” Now that the letter is on its way, Bikul is obviously no longer worried. Instead he is enquiring with the postmaster about the bus schedule to Trashigang.

  Bikul and I decided to celebrate the New Year in Trashi Yangtse, the easternmost district of Bhutan. Bikul is desperate to finally see the rare black neck cranes, a migratory species of birds that spends the winters in a few remote areas of Bhutan. Our plans seem perfect; the weather is brilliant.

  Three days before New Year, at the break of dawn, we leave Mongar in the cab of a big Tata truck going towards Trashigang. From there, we catch a lift to Chorten Kora. Through narrow valleys and along steep inclines, the road bumps over gravel and stones into the remoteness of Eastern Bhutan.

  Trashi Yangtse has not seen much development. The town is small and simple; there are a couple of stores selling the basic necessities and one “hotel” that features five rooms without electricity or water. We visit a friend of Bikul’s, the Trashi Yangtse District Medical Officer, in his tiny office. The hospital is under construction and instead the DMO works out of a little three-room bungalow, rigged up with the most basic necessities. When we arrive, the doctor is just completing a vasectomy on one of the villagers, under the watchful eyes of the local veterinary assistant.

  Chorten Kora in Trashi Yangtse.

  The DMO extends a warm welcome to us and immediately invites us for dinner.

  “So you and the doctor are walking to Bumdeling to see the black neck cranes.” He smiles at me. “Be careful that Dr. Bikul doesn’t lead you into the mountains. He seems to have a particular liking for exploring our little country.”

  The DMO’s mother packs us a lunch for the coming day, and we are loaded with advice on the best walking route and overnight shelter. Immediately, I feel comfortable in this tiny nest of a town just west of the Indian border of Arunachal Pradesh.

  In the evening sunshine we walk along the Kulong Chhu to Chorten Kora. Smaller chortens and mani walls lead up to the impressive white monument. Chorten Kora is a large Nepali-style chorten that was built after the great Bodnath Stupa in Nepal. Surrounded by a low stone wall, Chorten Kora, with its four step-like bases under a shimmering white dome and spire, is more than 250 years old. For the people of Eastern Bhutan, this site is of great religious importance, and it shows in the many prayer flags fluttering along the riverside.

  Through an open gate in the wall, Bikul and I enter the courtyard surrounding the chorten. The ground here is partially covered in rough stone plates between which mosses and weeds struggle to reclaim their territory. Slowly, we walk around the chorten. For once not worried about what I should do or say to fit in, I let myself enjoy the soothing evening mood. Looking at the steep cliffs that rise on the other side of the river, I feel small and insignificant, and utterly at peace. My mind flits here and there, and no firm thoughts interrupt my contentment.

  When the sun sinks behind the western peaks, Bikul and I leave Chorten Kora and for a while sit on a stone by the water. Rushing over big boulders, the river splashes us with an icy spray. In the evening shade, the temperature drops quickly and, shivering, we walk back to the guesthouse. That night, in our one-room hotel without toilet or water, my nightmare begins.

  I feel the nausea rising from deep within my insides, pushing, tormenting, until I vomit. I scramble down steep steps into the cold night air—where I expel a reeking gush of diarrhea.

  I feel weak; I want to sleep, but vomit and diarrhea alternate relentlessly all night.

  I see Bikul’s worried face as he touches my feverish forehead. He holds a cup of water to my lips; he tucks me tighter into the sleeping bag.

  The next day, I feel lousy but stubbornly refuse to ruin our plans to see the cranes. Although I am weak and fatigued, I convince Bikul that we should still go. We pass hills flowering bushes and rice paddies and, determined, I drag myself along the path. Bikul carries our bags. We manage to see the birds, and I even snap a few photos, but then I collapse. Bikul sets out to quickly find us some accommodation.

  A few hours later, it is New Year’s Eve, and instead of celebrating, we are lying in the only available lodging, an office of the forestry division. I still feel horribly sick, and Bikul cradles my head on his lap. Below us, a family is noisily playing dice. Pain shoots through my head every time I hear the thud of the bowl hitting its thick leather pad. I pray that they will stop soon. Bikul tries to distract me with a children’s tale about a little elephant.

  At midnight I wake up. My stomach seizes in cramps and I am drenched in sweat. Bikul examines me carefully, and now he cannot control his own worries. The pain becomes worse, and convinced that I have appendicitis, I start crying I imagine myself on the makeshift operating table of the Trashi Yangtse Basic Health Unit. Bikul tries to reassure me but cannot find the words. Maybe it is appendicitis.

  Clinging to Bikul, I spend the night in a mixture of agony and panic. The next day, when the pain does not subside, it becomes clear that we need to find proper medication. Somehow we struggle back to town and catch a ride in a vehicle heading to Mongar. My stomach cramps and at every pothole pain shoots through me like a knife. I vomit again.

  When we finally reach our home, Bikul prepares my bed. Then he tries to start an IV, but of course there is no electricity. By the light of a flashlight, he stabs at my arm trying to find my veins. His hands tremble and he too is close to tears. I am dehydrated and my blood vessels have shrivelled up. Finally, Bikul calls a nurse and together they find a vein.

  Later that night, Bikul’s hand lies soothingly on my hot forehead. He sponges me with cold water, then tries to cook porridge.

  Mongar Hospital is out of the necessary
medication and, after conferring with the other doctors, Bikul decides to send me to Thimphu. Almost delirious with fear, I agree. A couple of days pass until the VSO vehicle comes to pick me up, and somehow Bikul manages to get leave to accompany me on the two-day drive to the capital.

  We spend three weeks in Thimphu while the doctors try to come up with a diagnosis. My vomiting stops but I cannot eat. Friends take care of me; everyone tells me that I am getting thin. Medically, they fear that it could be TB of the abdomen or that something could be wrong with my ovaries. Most likely, it is dysentery. At the end of three weeks, still without a diagnosis, VSO arranges for a flight to Bangkok for an endoscopy. Bikul’s leave is finished and he returns to Mongar.

  And yet, despite the most modern equipment and a myriad of tests, Bangkok does not provide a definite answer either.

  “We are not certain what caused your disease, but you need to fly home, be surrounded by your family,” the Thai doctor explains. “Eat regular food, that is the most important. Your intestines are extremely inflamed. They need to settle; you need to rest. I do not think that returning to Bhutan is a wise idea.” The doctor shakes my hand in farewell.

  Exhausted from my rapid weight loss, I try to make a rational decision. I know that the doctor is right. I should fly home to Canada, of course, but it would mean an end to my life in Bhutan. I would have to quit my job with VSO; I would have to leave Bikul. The thought of losing him is unbearable, overshadowing any sickness or weakness. I think about it long and hard. Then, against the doctor’s advice, I return to Mongar.