Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  For two months I remain on sick leave and time passes in a complete blur. I know that somehow I have to put on weight, regain my strength, but I still cannot eat. All I can think of is how weak I feel. I am always tired.

  “Can I make you some tea?” Bikul touches my forehead tenderly. His face is troubled, and he has dark rings under his eyes.

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “It’s almost nine o’clock. I have to go to the hospital now.” Bikul fusses with my pillow and I try to lift my head a little. Sleep is still dragging me down heavily; I feel drowsy and a little nauseous. I must have dozed off again.

  “Britta?”

  I know the voice, it is dear and familiar to me, but for a moment I cannot identify it. With great effort I open my eyes.

  “Oh, what happened to you? You are looking so thin!” A petite young woman enters the room, frowning with concern. It is Pema.

  “You are back!” I am so relieved to see her, I sit up too quickly. Dizziness blacks out my view and I sink back onto the pillow.

  “Yes, and we heard you were taken to Thimphu. What happened?” In her composed and careful manner, Pema sits down on the bed beside me.

  Still drowsy, I wave her question away.

  “I’ll be okay. But what about Nima? Did they find anything?”

  At first, Pema seems reluctant to discuss their trip, but when I insist, the words start spilling from her lips.

  For the first two weeks in Vellore, Nima underwent many tests and was sent from doctor to doctor, but no one told them any results. Finally, after Nima had a CAT scan, an EEG, and several nerve conduction tests, he was given a temporary diagnosis of athetoid cerebral palsy with seizure activity.

  When Pema pronounces the dreaded words, I can see her swallowing hard. Cerebral palsy—a neurological disease that is caused by brain damage around the time of birth. There is no cure for it, and the only chance for improvement involves continuous therapy and rehabilitation.

  Trying to follow Pema’s choppy story closely, my mind instantly becomes more alert. To encourage both her and me, I touch her elbow gently. Pema continues. After the diagnosis was made, for three months Pema and Karma stayed with Nima at the rehabilitation centre of Vellore and worked with therapists and doctors. Nima was given several long-term doses of medications, including anti-seizure drugs, and Pema was told to bring him back in six months’ time. When Pema explained that it was unlikely that Bhutan would be able to refer him again within the next year, the doctors shrugged their shoulders. Unfortunately, there was nothing else they could do.

  “Do you think it is cerebral palsy?” Pema turns to me with unspoken appeal. I know that she is still denying the diagnosis, that she cannot, simply cannot, come to terms with such a final blow. But it is not my place to sweeten the truth.

  “I think the doctors are right, Pema,” I answer as gently as I can. “But it looks as if it is a mild case. If you work with him every day, he should improve. Definitely.”

  “In Vellore I saw so many equipments,” Pema sighs. “But here we have nothing. So many exercises the therapists did with him there—but I see no improvement.”

  Pema’s eyes fill with tears, and I feel a burning lump in my throat. I cannot think of anything that I can say to lessen her pain. I know that she wanted a diagnosis so very urgently, but now I worry how she will deal with the verdict.

  Yet Pema is always stronger than I think and, as so many times before, she amazes me with her positive attitude. Within a few minutes she has recomposed herself and starts cleaning up scattered clothes and empty glasses from the room. Then, standing tall, she smiles at me.

  “Now you have to get better. You must eat something. I will cook you some rice.”

  Accepting no protests or sweet talk, Pema marches off into the kitchen, and within no time I hear pots clanking and water running. Half an hour later, she serves me a bowl of soft rice and a milky white soup. Then she returns to her duty in the hospital.

  Determined to start making myself useful, I swing my legs out of bed and walk a little unsteadily to the window. Outside my doorstep, the peach and plum trees have come into blossom. It is the end of February, and spring is painting the land in lovely shades of soft pink and green.

  Next week I will have to return to my job. It is high time to continue teaching Pema. If only I did not feel so weak. I glance in the mirror and then quickly turn away. My face looks thin and sickly; everything about me appears tired. Two months of hardly eating have left their marks.

  At lunchtime, Bikul comes running to distract me from my untouched plate of food. “I got the extension. I can work here for another year.” Excitedly chattering, he shows me the official letter from the Ministry of Health. We hug in joy. Now, at last, I know that we can stay together.

  But can we? If my health does not improve, I will have to return to Canada for at least a few months. The doctor in Bangkok had cautioned me not to go back to Mongar.

  A bout of nausea sends me scrambling for the toilet, and I start shaking with the effort of staying upright. I refuse to pack up altogether but I know that something will have to give.

  On Monday, I return to work. It must be the first rainy day of 1998. My reappearance in the hospital is hailed by clouds and fog, wet weather that creeps into your underwear and refuses to leave. No lights, no heater, unpleasant as could be. Only Pema’s presence cheers the dreary day. I visit the office and get a frosty smile from the ADM. When I sit down, the DMO gets up and leaves without a word.

  I try my best to be useful in our physiotherapy room, but over the next few days, I cannot manage to teach Pema. I hardly find the energy to watch her assess and treat the patients. Giving in to my weak body that refuses to recover, at the beginning of March, only three weeks after my return to work, I resign from my duty.

  When I tell Pema about my decision, I feel as if I had sentenced myself to eviction. My days in Bhutan are numbered. I will not be able to complete my placement, I will not even be able to wrap up all my charts properly. And Mongar will continue to be an unexplored mystery. All those walks and visits that I had promised to do will remain excursions in my imagination. Those early morning hours that Bikul and I wanted to spend at the dzong I will soon be spending alone without the sound of prayer and drums to waken a new day.

  My return to Canada looms too close, but I see no other way. My weak body is beginning to frighten me, but I am equally terrified of the uncertainty of the future beyond Paro airport and the mountains of the Himalaya. Yet I have to go home. With a bleeding heart, I accept that choice, not knowing if and how Bikul and I will ever be able to stay together again.

  For many hours and days I cry while trying to come to terms with my pending departure. Then one day, when the first rhododendrons outside my house come into bloom, I realize that I am just wasting precious time. Mustering all my courage, I promise myself to make the most of my three remaining weeks in Mongar.

  A jewel in the mountains: Trashigang dzong.

  27

  Losar new year

  The twenty-seventh of February is a warm day, and I am feeling somewhat refreshed and a little adventurous. The sun is teasing tender new buds, and the fields are sprinkled with a hint of green. Fire-red rhododendrons paint patches of colour into the otherwise still drab landscape. The jovial shouts of minakpas enjoying a game of archery echo across the valley. Old men, young men, small boys, all are out to take part in a bit of friendly competition as a celebration of Losar.

  Walking on this merry day turns out to be more than just a little dangerous. Over the next hill, Bikul and I meet a group of minakpas who are blasting their arrows across our path. Howling and yelling ensues when the players spot us. “Oieehh, o dele? Doctor! Kuzuzang po la!” The cheerful tongues are unmistakably slurred by the heaviness of arra.

  “Kuzuzang po la! Kuzuzang po la!”

  We return the welcoming greeting and join the merry group of players. From there we watch their arrows fly across a field and over
a narrow creek. On the other side of the watershed, the target is barely visible and must be more than a hundred metres away. Players on one team are already on the way to cross over to the other side.

  Beside me, a tall thin man with a scraggly beard laughs and clowns around the next archer, obviously trying to distract the opposition from their aim. The shooting archer, however, a short, sturdy man holding a long bamboo bow almost as tall as himself, does not appear in the least disturbed. He draws the bow tightly, and before I can manage to focus on the target, the arrow flies across bushes and shrubs. Accompanied by the triumphant cries of his teammates, the little man runs a few steps forward and then breaks into a joyous dance. He must have hit the target. The other men on our side join in, jumping up and down on one foot and chanting victoriously from the bottom of their lungs. In unison, happily cajoling, the group runs to the other side, joining their opponents in a companionable rummage through the foliage in search of the lost arrows.

  Farther up the hill, we watch a few more games. The aim of all teams is astounding, their precision quite flawless, and the arra seems to heighten their abilities. Bikul tries his skills once but is outshot by a group of small boys, imitating their elders in the game. Then we are nearly run over by two “cars” booming along the path. Each is steered by a tiny boy, hardly taller than my knees, crashing down the slope on three wheels and a wooden slab. Losar festivities are in full swing.

  A little boy has no trouble mastering a very big archer’s bow.

  Losar, the Bhutanese New Year, is celebrated according to the lunar calendar and generally falls somewhere around February. The Bhutanese name their years with a combination of the twelve animals of the zodiac and the five cosmic elements fire, earth, iron, water, and wood. Today marks the end of the 360 days of Fire Ox, celebrating the beginning of the Earth Tiger year.

  When we reach Norbu’s house, Ama is outside, naked down to the waist, taking a bath from their large wooden trough. Her short wet hair stands in spikes at right angles to her head; she smiles hello.

  Meme Monk sits outside the house on a bench, his large body leaning against the wall. His eyes seem closed, but when we approach, his face lights in recognition. Slowly and deliberately, he rises from his seat and directs us to the house.

  After we cross the three wooden poles that constitute the gates of the yard, skinny old Abi waves to us. Bent over at the waist, walking in a permanent sitting posture, she can barely look up, but still her smile beams in her leathery face.

  Pema welcomes us with the familiar apology: “We are poor and our house is dirty. Nothing to offer for Losar. Please sit down.” I hesitate to stay inside the altar room, but Bikul convinces me that it is necessary to follow the tradition. So we seat ourselves on an old mattress by the window and wait for someone to join us.

  As always, my eyes are drawn to the altar across from us. The big oak table is heavily decorated with butterlamps and offerings. Behind it, Buddha sits in deep meditation. Once Ama tiptoes in to light a butterlamp and to start a fresh incense stick. Meme Monk enters and lowers himself onto the floor; enthroned behind a small table, he starts the ritual prayer.

  Soon the entire family gathers: Pema brings a big pot of thukpa (noodle soup) followed by Ama, who is carrying Nima on her back; Chimmi; Abi; Karma; Ama’s brother Larjap Lopon and his wife; Kinley, Ama’s monk son; and her youngest daughter, Rinzin Tshering.

  Pema offers a cup of thukpa to Meme Monk and then to the guests. Thukpa is followed by arra, again prayer and offerings, then a meal.

  Bikul and I are served a huge plate of rice, fried pork, and fried datsi.

  “Zhe, Doctor, zhe!” Pema smiles and winks at me. Soon I know why. The food is delicious, but the chilli on the meat makes my eyes water and my nose run, and with a few prickly stings, it instantaneously clears my sinuses.

  “You are still not used to chilli, isn’t it?” Pema says and grins. “You see, Nima and Chimmi have no problems.”

  And it is true. Chimmi is happily devouring her meal heaped with meat and garnished with a few raw green chillies, while Nima most contentedly sucks on Norbu Ama’s finger, which she keeps dipping into the red-brown sauce. Neither one shows even the slightest signs of culinary displeasure.

  “Will you be getting chilli in Canada?” Pema inquires with mischief in her eyes. I shake my head emphatically. No chilli—and perhaps I will skip the rice for a while as well.

  Pema misinterprets my rueful smile. “Don’t worry. We will send you some,” she comforts me, then loads another spoonful of sauce and meat onto my plate.

  After the meal, we drink cup after cup of buttertea, accompanied by zao and thengma. Abi puts Nima on her lap, takes a little arra into her bowl, and splashes a few drops on her left side as an offering to the earth deity. Then Larjap Lopon’s wife dishes out the strong alcohol with a big ladle. Bikul is the first to get his bowl filled with steaming hot arra mixed with eggs, and he has to drink and receive his refills until the ladle is empty. Everyone else joins in. Abi contents herself by feeding the home brew to Nima, who sucks the warm liquor with obvious pleasure. Since I firmly resist all offers of arra, my buttertea is generously refilled after every sip.

  After a while the arra takes effect, loosens the tongue and chases away all shyness. Bikul strikes up the notes to his favourite song, “Etho Metho.” The lyrics are for both a boy and a girl and, with a shy smile, Pema joins in.

  “Lay-la gooh-cho au-san bo-rang ga,

  Etho metho leg-pu pho-g pa la,

  Metho photnee nan gaa tsham thong gaa,

  Leg-pu chot-pay mi wa cha . . .”

  Everyone listens intently, their faces expressing the popular lines. At first, a boy asks his sweetheart to look at a flower: “This rhododendron, I want to put it in your hair. You would be so pretty.” The girl answers: “No, I do not need this flower. Please do not pluck it; let it bloom. It looks much more beautiful in the forest.” The boy again praises his love: “You are the most beautiful among all the girls. Let me take you to my home and give you a nice kira.” Again, the girl pleads for him to listen: “I have many kiras, there is no need. If you want to give me something, please give me your love.”

  Bikul finishes and looks at me with a broad smile until I feel myself blush. Luckily, at this moment Ama and her daughters join to sing another love song. Ama’s face crinkles into many fine lines while the arra heats her cheeks. At the end of the song, the girls are overcome by happy giggling.

  Meme Monk takes out his little bamboo flute and toots a few notes. The instrument squeaks and squeals in protest. The old man nods in sympathy, picks up his bowl, and starts feeding the flute hot liquor. With a twinkle in his eyes, he tells us the secret to good music: “You’ve got to take care of your friend. He might be hungry too.”

  When Meme has quenched both his and the flute’s thirst, Bikul takes the cymbals off the wall, and together he and Meme make noise as well as they can.

  The children are sent to fetch the real trumpets and horns, and when the orchestra assembles it is an impressive one. Meme is on his flute and Bikul alternates between the cymbals and another long bamboo flute, while Larjap Lopon and Kinley play the trumpets and Karma, a long horn. There seems to be only one common goal in the merriness: to be heard as far and wide as possible, in tune or out. The noise they produce is awesome. Ama laughs and claps her hands; Chimmi bounces excitedly up and down; Nima, holding Abi’s hands, sways his body either to dance or because of mild intoxication. And Meme Monk interrupts his playing a few times to refresh both him and the flute with a wet little something.

  Leaning towards me in order to make herself heard over the enthusiastic orchestra, Pema asks, “When you reach Canada, you will be coming back again?”

  Surprised, I look at my friend. Although her body is rocking in rhythm to the music, her eyes are downcast and perhaps even a little sad.

  “I hope so, Pema.” My answer is honest, but at the same time I cannot help but wonder how long it will be.

&nbs
p; “Please write to us.” Now Pema’s voice is urgent.

  “I promise.”

  I meet Pema’s suddenly anxious eyes. “And will you send some information for Nima?”

  Again I nod, and we both look at the little boy whose body still sways gently back and forth while his fingers roll his lower lip in tiny circles.

  Then Bikul sets down his cymbals. “Why are you two looking so sad over there? Why don’t you sing with us?” Once more, he launches into his favourite Sharchhop song, completely out of tune with the orchestra. Pema grins. “You are singing very nice, Dr. Bikul. I think you are feeling in love!” And, satisfied to see Bikul blushing deeply, she turns to me and says, “You must also learn the words. I will teach you before you go.”

  Hours later, we reluctantly bid our friends farewell. In front of the old farmhouse everyone gathers for a picture, and the goodbyes are long and heartfelt. Larjap Lopon invites us to visit him at his monastery. Abi holds my hands for a long, long time, and Meme Monk calls me for a picture of the two of us. Chimmi shouts loudly, “Goodbye, Auntie!” while Pema takes Nima’s hand and together they wave.

  The two younger monks, Kinley and Larjap Lopon, lead us in a small procession to the chorten at the village entrance. Ama and her sister-in-law follow us with buttertea and arra. On the chorten’s base, we sit down one last time to drink, eat, and play music. Finally, when the sky darkens and the rain sets in, the horns accompany our descent. Shouts hail through the air. Losar farewell.

  28

  the sound of a conch

  As my departure date nears, I start to count the days with a sinking heart. Every encounter becomes like another goodbye. Phuntshok shows up on our doorstep and decides to stay until I leave. He too seems to feel the enormity of my decision. Through Phuntshok, we ask Lam Neten if Bikul and I may offer a puja at the dzong, a way to wish farewell to Mongar. Lam Neten immediately agrees. He is happy about our timing. He himself will leave Mongar in a few weeks in order to return to his meditation at Sangpu Gompa, a remote monastery where he will spend the next few years in retreat. Tomorrow, he tells us, is one of the most auspicious days in the Bhutanese calendar, tomorrow would be a good day for us to hold a puja. Tomorrow, on Friday the thirteenth of March, the monks will gather to perform the Sangay puja, a prayer to Lord Buddha.