Buttertea at Sunrise

by Britta Das

  Lam Neten smiles throughout our unofficial preparations for a farewell. He confidently reassures us that we will meet again, if not in this life, then sometime in another reincarnation. I so much want to believe that he is right.

  In the late afternoon, Sangay, one of Bikul’s monk friends, accompanies us to town to buy food for the puja. We pay for the rice, butter, biscuits, some vegetables, milk powder, sugar, and tea, all of which Sangay takes back to the dzong. Meanwhile Bikul and I add a few more items to our shopping bag: incense sticks, Dalda for the butterlamps, two white ceremonial scarves, and a yellow fleece sweater as a present for Lam Neten.

  “Let’s bake chocolate cakes for the monks!” We are in high spirits, and it is out of our overboiling excitement that this ridiculous idea is born. Bikul makes the suggestion and promises to help. “How many monks are there?” I ask. “Oh, maybe seventy-five.” That means eight cakes! Bikul reassures me that it will be no problem.

  By the time we reach home, it is past 7:00 p.m.; there is no electricity, only candlelight, and then, of course, no oven, only my doddering woodstove bukhari. I take out my big aluminum pot, which is lined with stones, and measure the diameter. Only one smaller pot containing the cake dough will fit into the interior. The whole construction will then have to heat up on top of the bukhari until the stones inside the large pot create enough heat to bake my cake. The whole procedure can take over an hour, so somehow I have to manage to construct two ovens and bake two cakes at once.

  My kitchen turns into an assembly line of wet dough, aluminum pots, and Bikul scuttling back and forth between the bukhari and the sink. The first two cakes burn and refuse to come out of the pots. Though my baking crew of Bikul, Phuntshok, and his friend is eager and willing, they are quite useless. They do not even smell the charcoal when smoke starts rising from the bukhari!

  It is madness. Bikul is sent to the kitchen to scrub pots while I stand at the dining table trying to peel burned paper off the bottom of the next two cakes. More and more cakes follow the fate of the first two, ending up in larger and smaller chunks with crusty bottoms. By midnight, when we shove the last two cakes onto the bukhari, Phuntshok and his friend are fast asleep, and I collapse on the bed. Bikul reassures me that he will manage the rest.

  Nothing can go wrong now, I think to myself before sleep overtakes me.

  I was mistaken. The clock shows 3:45 a.m. when Bikul finally comes to bed. “What took you so long?” I ask drowsily. Bikul does not answer; he has already passed out beside me. We are supposed to be at the temple by 5:00 a.m., but Bikul is sound asleep.

  Finally, at 5:30 a.m., still drowsy, we stumble up to the dzong carrying huge pots of what should have been chocolate cake. At the entrance to the Sangay lhakhang, by the light of my head-torch, I try my best to cut my work of wonder and package it into individual papers. At first, I am told that there is no rush, but then all of a sudden, it cannot go fast enough. Consequently, Lam Neten does end up with the biggest piece, but also with the only one that still has paper stuck to its bottom.

  I join the puja and take my seat of honour beside Bikul and Phuntshok. After a while, though, our motionless position proves to be more painful than I had anticipated. As the minutes pass, my hips start to burn as if they will fall out of joint, and the hard wooden floor seems to push my anklebones deep into my tender flesh. My back starts aching, and leaning against the wall behind me, I can feel every single one of my vertebrae outlined against the wooden pillars.

  Even the prayer starts to sound somewhat disjointed. Although I know that all the monks are praying the same words, I cannot shake the impression that everyone is doing his own thing. Some speak loudly, some low, some deep, others high. And many a time, a little monk will join in way off cue and quickly stutter his lines to catch up with the others.

  Yet, listening to the enthusiastic voices of the small monks, I travel back to my own childhood, baffled at how different my upbringing was to theirs. For better or for worse, these little fellows are beginning a life of prayer and ritual. Not just today, not just this night, but for years and a lifetime to come. They will chant sacred words; they will devote their days to the Buddha’s teachings. They will meditate in seclusion; some of them might achieve great skills and become honoured masters. Their world lies within the walls of a monastery, though their minds might yearn to travel. They will learn about truth and suffering, about abstinence and desire. And some day, ordinary folks will come to them to seek their blessings.

  Today, however, the naughty little boys in them are not quite subdued yet, and daringly they make balls out of the cake paper and throw them at each other. Jokes are whispered at the chance of being discovered by the kudung, the temptation proving just too delicious.

  At about 6:30 a.m. we all get up for a break. The only girl among the red robes, I have to trudge all the way up to the Mongar’s guesthouse to find a private spot. Although I run, my trip takes a long time. Back in the temple, Jigme ushers me past a group of monks into the lhakhang. There, before Lam Neten’s quiet eyes, Jigme asks Bikul and me to light the butterlamps.

  “This is a really great honour,” Bikul whispers excitedly, and I realize that all of the monks have filed into the door frame, watching us and smiling. The lhakhang is still empty but for Lam Neten, Jigme, and the two of us. When the last wick has been lit, I look at the sea of lamps, and I wish that there were more lamps to light, a longer time to stand beside Bikul and take part in this time-old tradition.

  Phuntshok joins us, and together we return to our seats. The monks stream in, and within moments, the puja is underway again. The low drone of the long horns and the thumping of metal rods on leather drums gently lead my mind to places and times centuries ago, to the ancient rituals of pure belief, of enlightened beings and wrathful deities, and of the power to rise beyond our mortal understanding. Time ceases to exist, loses itself in the steady drums of history.

  In the dzong, monks arrange food that will be blessed later.

  Finally, even the horns hush and the voices of the monks slow down and become quiet.

  An expectant silence settles. Phuntshok pokes me gently in the side. “You go to Lam Neten,” he whispers, and we walk with bowed heads past the altar to the middle of the room.

  “What is happening?” I ask Bikul, but he only shrugs his shoulders. The monks are all grinning. Standing with our backs to the altar, we prostrate to Lam Neten. Jigme pours a little holy water on our right palms and we sip at it before spreading it over our heads. Then we present Lam Neten with our white ceremonial scarves. Jigme motions us to sit, and we kneel facing the great lama, while the room becomes so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

  His gaze fixed upon us, Lam Neten starts to speak. I have never heard him by himself, quietly intoning the powerful words of a sermon. Still my mind flits to somewhere else. How should I kneel? If I copy Bikul, I will be taller than Bikul, which I would like to avoid, but surely it cannot be appropriate to sit back comfortably on my heels. Thankful that my long skirt is hiding my legs, I remain half kneeling, half leaning forward, until my thighs start screaming. I want to concentrate on Lam Neten’s words, but I am too aware of the fifty pairs of eyes watching us closely. Lam Neten continues to speak, and now at regular intervals all of the monks join him for a single word spoken in unison. It sounds like an agreement, as if they are reinforcing the lama’s words.

  Then Jigme asks Bikul to get up and walk over to Lam Neten’s seat. I follow close behind. Still speaking softly, Lam Neten lays the ceremonial scarves around our necks and shoulders, as if presenting us with a medal. I am so nervous I can feel my hands shake, but Lam Neten’s warm smile reassures me. I still do not know what is happening, and I am perplexed by the grin on the faces of dozens of monks.

  Confused and delirious, we walk back to our seats. Phuntshok too is grinning. The monks’ chants now rise in volume, and the words seem spoken faster and faster. There is no music, and then all becomes quiet, only Lam Neten’s voice murmurs deeply. The
others join in again, and their words are now accompanied by the ringing of bells, the horns, the low om of the conch, and finally the sound of cymbals. Then the instruments hush, and only the horn introduces another thump of the big drums.

  Everything feels a little unreal; perhaps a lack of sleep and the smoke of heavy incense have tricked my mind. Phuntshok whispers to us, and after a slight pause, Bikul turns to me.

  “Lam Neten just gave us his blessings for a long life and many children.”

  For a moment, I think my heartbeat stops.

  “You mean . . . ?”

  Bikul nods and grins. Then he reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. Our fingers remain locked.

  Desperately, I try to focus my mind, but it seems that all thoughts have begun to bounce around in complete chaos. I want to picture the moment again. We prostrated, there was a prayer, Lam Neten presented the scarves to us—and all the monks were grinning. Suddenly, I feel jubilant and victorious. At last, Mongar has accepted our love! In front of Buddha and some of his faithful disciples, we have just been married.

  After the puja, Bikul and I linger for a while in the silent room. Outside the window, the deep call of a conch echoes through the valley. The soothing stillness of the mountains awake in me a sense of peace and contentment. Around me lives history, and yet this is the reality too. Somewhere another bell is ringing for prayer. It reminds me that it is time to let go. I know that I am saying goodbye to Bhutan; it is time to move on.

  I look at Bikul and see the tiny reflections of candles in his eyes. I have to smile. My goodbyes are not for Bikul. The world is a big place. Somehow, somewhere, we will find a spot for both of us.

  No, today I am quietly thanking Bhutan. Over the last year, this tiny Himalayan kingdom has been my home. For one year, I have worked, fought, and wept here, and I have dreamed, laughed, and loved. I have come to appreciate the kingdom’s struggle for survival and the King’s quest to preserve its unique and ancient culture. There are many things about Bhutan that to this day I do not understand. It is no Shangri-La, and yet it is a special place that casts a spell on most who have entered.

  As I listen for the echo of the conch calling through the valley, I know that a small part of me will always long for Bhutan, for the mountains, the trees, and the prayer flags. I am sure that even if far away, I will reach out for the simplicity of this life that measures time in moons and counts the years with animals and elements.

  There are people here who have touched my heart and moved my soul more than I ever thought possible. They are our friends in the villages, the minakpas and the monks, and a few kind spirits in the hospital. I know that I will miss them, their gentleness, their generosity and smiles, and their peaceful religion, which is so much part of this life in the mountains. And with all of my heart, I hope that someday we will meet again.

  Yet I wonder what I will find if I return. Will I look back on this past year as my only true glimpse of a secluded Himalayan kingdom and a religion that has carried man through the centuries of change? I worry about the destructive nearness of technology. I am scared that the charm and innocence of the villages will soon be lost. How far will development spread? Is there hope that this ancient kingdom will survive its launch into the modern times? So many questions left—and only a few vivid images to guide my answers.

  Perhaps one day, time will spread its lazy haze over my memories. Details will lose their shapes, and fantasy will dress the remaining pictures. Maybe one day I will question the reality of those special nights, hidden behind the walls of a fortress, in a small country that is bowing to change. And still, I believe that the dream will remain. It is a dream of ancient times, of harmony and traditions. A dream filled with the hope that the voice of Buddhism will survive, here in the mountains of everlasting snow, where it is carried to heaven by the chanting of a mantra and the song of the prayer flags in the wind.

  epilogue

  From the state of Assam in India, Bhutan is no more than a day’s drive, and from a hill high above the banks of the river Brahmaputra, I can see the Himalayan foothills shimmering blue in the rising heat.

  “Look! Beyond those mountains lies Mongar! Can you believe that my home is so close to Bhutan?” Excited, Bikul points towards the north.

  “Yes, but what a long road it was for us,” I reply, thinking about a journey that spanned two years—from the isolated valley of Mongar to the comforts of my home in Canada, and finally back across the Pacific to the wide floodplains of Assam.

  Beside me, in a white dhoti and looking more handsome than ever, Bikul—my courageous friend, my husband, and my true love—nods seriously.

  “It seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it?”

  I squeeze Bikul’s hand lightly.

  Yes, it seems like forever since the day Bikul gave up his job in Mongar and his plans for postgraduate studies in India to follow me to Canada, where, while my stomach recovered, we fought our battle with bureaucracy for eighteen months. We were ready to start a new life together, but where and how proved to be more difficult than we had expected. Our first hurdle was Canadian Immigration, who doubted Bikul’s intentions of staying with me and the sincerity of our love. My poor health did not allow me to return to India, and to avoid a lengthy and uncertain separation, we quickly married in a court of justice near my hometown. An Indian wedding ceremony as we both had wished was out of the question for the time being. Still, the immigration officials were not convinced, and after a year without permission to leave and re-enter Canada, by default, we began to settle in Toronto.

  Unfortunately, Canada also forced Bikul to change his career. Not only would he not be able to continue his postgraduate oncology courses, his Indian medical education and licence were not recognized in Canada, effectively annulling his position as a doctor. Still, my health left us no choice. While Bikul waited for his Canadian residency papers, he continued to study at our home, trying to find an alternative path that would allow him to work in the field of cancer research. Finally, when his papers cleared, he started work on a Ph.D. at the University of Toronto, while working in the pathology laboratory of the Hospital for Sick Children.

  I returned to work at a small physiotherapy clinic and while, slowly, my stomach settled and my strength returned, I began writing about my impressions of Bhutan, which would later turn into the pages of this book.

  Things had not turned out the way we had expected, but despite all odds, we managed to stay together. During this time of readjustment and healing while Bikul and I started anew, Bhutan withdrew into a bittersweet nostalgia. Letters, though lovingly written, were often lost on their journey across the Pacific, and only Pema, my trusted friend, has managed to keep in touch. Yet her words often saddened and worried me, and one of her letters has remained deeply etched in my mind.

  Dearest Britta and Bikul,

  I was very happy to see your letter and photo you had sent, but when the reply was delayed, I thought you both had forgotten me. But I am very happy that my love and remembrance are still in your heart. Chimmi always talks about you two. She took one of your photo. Nima is almost same, he understands us little only. I am worried only for Nima. Day and night, I am thinking only of Nima, my tears fell when I think of more . . . About here, both the roads are blocked from landslides, no way to escape from Mongar. These days I am not going anywhere, staying only in physio. I feel like crying when I think of the past days with you . . . Ugyen is in class II but her teacher says that she is very poor in studies. Every time I met her, I am telling her to come for dressing but she never comes . . . What about your stomach now? Are you getting better? Do take care of it because you have to be a mom soon. If it is so, please inform me. I am very eager to hear the news for both of you . . . If you come to India, phone me so that we can meet each other . . .

  Your friend always,

  Pema

  When we finally planned our Indian wedding in Assam, we invited Pema to join us in the celebration, but sadly, she could not
make it. From Dr. Pradhan we heard that Nima is not improving and the trips to Vellore have only resulted in more bad news, more prescription drugs, and insurmountable expenses. In some ways, I share Pema’s helplessness; perhaps if Pema and Nima stayed in North America, Nima could receive better rehabilitation, better equipment, and Pema would get more support—but I do not know if it would be worth the cost of tearing them from their familiar environment and family. So all I could do was to send Pema some educational books and videos, but even then, I wonder if the pictures of fancy equipment and descriptions of modern rehabilitation tools would not add to Pema’s frustration, knowing how such treatments are out of reach for her son.

  As to my other little patients, time and distance have severed the already tenuous connection with the villages of Bhutan, and I can only hope that the absence of bad news heralds success.

  The final drafts of these pages have taken me into the beginning of the new millennium. In the meantime, Bhutan has taken its own huge step towards modernization, and through the weekly newspaper, the Kuensel, I have been following Bhutan’s developments with mixed emotions.

  On June 1, 1999, with the help of foreign funding and a brave look towards the new millennium, Bhutan opened its doors to the media by hooking into the Internet and for the first time ever legalizing television and satellite dishes. The floodgates to the dangers of a new generation of boredom and dissatisfaction have therewith been unbolted, and Hindi songs and Hollywood action will more easily dilute a precious but fragile heritage.