Buttertea at Sunrise Read online

  An old man in the Mongar bazaar turns a prayer wheel and prays with his rosary.

  Halfway up to Kori La, we turn back. The rain has become heavier, and Dr. Bikul in his T-shirt and jeans is soaked through. Still, he seems to enjoy the rain, as if it too were his friend. I glance at him from the side. The stern doctor, who generally looks aloof and ready to fight, has been left at the hospital. Instead I see a young, joyful man with a merry step who embraces life all around him. The dark eyes that can blaze with such conceit are now deep and vulnerable, so much more like the ones of a boy, refusing to grow up.

  “Dr. Bikul,” I start, but he interrupts me with a frown on his face.

  “Please do not call me doctor. I am just Bikul. Okay?” He smiles pleadingly at me.

  “Oh, okay,” I stutter with a mixture of pride and excitement. “Bikul,” I try out the sound and find that the name rolls softly off my tongue. Then I push myself, for better or for worse, to broach the question that has been nagging at me all day.

  “Why didn’t you come for dinner last night?” I hope that my voice sounds matter of fact and that my disappointment will not show through.

  His steps hesitate. “You mean, you really invited me?” Do I imagine dismay in his voice? I nod.

  “You cooked for me?” he asks.

  “Well, I cooked enough for both of us, and I thought that you would come. Did you have dinner somewhere else?”

  Now Bikul looks truly upset. “Actually, I didn’t eat anything at all. I had to go back to the hospital for a case that arrived from Lhuntse, and then I stayed in my OPD room and studied.”

  Confused and somehow relieved, I am at a loss for words.

  Meanwhile, Bikul studies his feet intently and then confesses, “I thought that you were joking.” He looks at me apologetically. “I am so sorry. You waited for me long?”

  “Not that long,” I lie. Actually, I had wanted to tell him how rudely he had behaved. Last night I had envisioned a stern confrontation, or else just ignoring him today. Obviously, I had already failed my first intentions, but now I find myself relieved, too ready to forgive and forget, just to see him smile at me. Has he really gotten under my skin so deeply already? I want to dismiss this as ridiculous, and yet, when I look at him, his beautiful dark eyes, I have this urge to reach out, to touch. I wonder what it would feel like if we walked hand in hand . . . I jolt myself back to the reality of Mongar. If someone was watching us, the gossip mill would run endlessly.

  So instead of continuing to admire the two lovely dimples in Bikul’s cheeks, I turn my eyes to the sight of Mongar’s bazaar, and by the time we pass the first houses in earshot, I manage to resume my official attitude.

  At Rinzin Tshockey’s shop, we part ways. I still want to buy a few things for dinner, and Bikul has to return to the hospital to check on some of his patients.

  “Bye,” I whisper a little hoarsely and then repeat it louder to reassure myself and everyone else. “Bye, see you later.”

  Bikul turns around and waves, and a tiny bubble of joy starts bouncing around in my stomach.

  “How are you today, Doctor? Where you and the doctor went?” Rinzin Tshockey looks at me quizzically. Despite my nervousness, I have to laugh. Of course, I should have known that my every move is an open book to the nosy stares in the bazaar.

  “We just went for a walk,” I answer honestly, and then quickly comment on today’s new arrangement of the furniture. Rinzin Tshockey surfaces from behind the laden counter and grins. “Nothing to do all day, so I look after shop.”

  That much seems obvious. He has somehow relocated all the goods and food into the left side of the store, and built a little bar with a table and a few chairs on the right. Already a couple of older, skinny-legged villagers occupy half of the seating arrangement. Satisfied, they chew betelnuts, each cradling a nearly empty bottle of beer.

  “Not much to do in Mongar, isn’t it, Doctor?” complains Dema, Rinzin Tshockey’s wife. “So boring here.”

  Then, as if she understands how miserably unexciting my life must be, she says, “Come, we go to see my friend Choden Karma.”

  On the way to her friend’s house, we pass Mongar’s petrol station—a prehistoric hand pump, which (on good days) will dispense some petrol to the desperate driver. A big blue Tata truck pulls up beside the pump, and a group of boys immediately surrounds the gloriously decorated vehicle, viewing the worn tires and dented bumper in awe. Dema and I skirt several puddles filled with rainbow coloured gasoline rings. The entire vicinity of the station reeks of diesel and kerosene.

  Inside Choden Karma’s house, the smells of the petrol station are replaced by heavy incense that threatens to make me dizzy. Gratefully, I sink onto a small bench. As if our arrival was expected, our host, a short lady wearing a resolute posture, immediately offers a bowl of zao and two cups of tea. She is full of news and gossip and wants to know all about my reasons for being in Mongar.

  Between lengthy explanations, I contemplate the dilemma of how to eat the offered rice. Choden Karma instructs me to scoop it into my cup. Thoroughly embarrassed, I show her my dirty hands and refuse politely. Choden Karma gives me a quizzical look and inspects my pale skin, which must appear perfectly clean. Then, with a cheerful “Just wait a moment!” she disappears, only to return moments later with a bowl, a can of water and a bar of soap. While she pours the water generously over the bowl, I awkwardly wash my hands in the middle of her sitting room. Water droplets and soap splash everywhere but that seems of little consequence. My host smiles, well satisfied, and continues to urge me to have more tea.

  Dema and Choden Karma launch into an animated conversation in Sharchhopkha, and I take the chance to quietly study the room. Across from our bench, there is a little house altar with offering bowls and a few flowers. A shelf to its left bears a TV and a VCR. Television programs are not allowed in Bhutan, a ban that is strictly regulated and reinforced. However, Hindi films and western movies found their way into the kingdom a few years ago and have obviously spread to a few select houses as far as Mongar.

  Choden Karma follows my eyes and then proudly nods at her TV. “Watching movie is the only thing you can do in Mongar. It is so boring here.”

  She tells me that her husband has been transferred here from Paro, a larger town on the other end of the kingdom, and that she dislikes the move a lot. “You must be very boring here, Doctor. Mongar feels not good, isn’t it?”

  I look at her red lipstick that seems so out of place in this modest town and shake my head. I try to explain that I like the silence and the serenity of the mountains, but I get the distinct impression that we are on different wavelengths. Both women only stare at me in obvious confusion. Then they repeatedly tell me how boring Mongar is and that there is nothing to do here. They inform me about the advantages of living in Thimphu or Phuntsholing, two large towns in Bhutan. Although we chat amiably, our conversations run in different directions, and we fail to meet at any crossroad. Trying not to seem too much an outsider, I keep my opinions about city life to myself. When I finally take my leave, I have to promise to return soon. The ladies are still worried that I will be too boring by myself.

  There is no electricity that evening, and by the flickering light of a candle I pour my heart out to my diary. A knock interrupts my thoughts. Startled, I check my watch and only tentatively open the door. I am greeted by a big cardboard box from the bakery and an apologetic Bikul peeping over its edge. He thrusts the box into my hands. “I brought these for you.”

  I open the lid and find myself ogling several lovely pastries. A peace offering for last night’s misunderstanding? Or perhaps . . .? To answer my unspoken query, Bikul apologizes for the missed dinner. Then he looks sheepishly at his feet.

  “Do you want to come in?” Self-conscious and acutely aware of the impropriety of the situation, I hesitantly open the door all the way. Spud jumps up from beside the bed and with a loud, annoyed bark disappears into the darkness. My guest settles onto a chair beside the
door.

  “Have you had dinner?” I ask.

  “Not really,” Bikul mumbles.

  I suggest eating some of the cakes now, but Bikul refuses immediately, insisting that he has brought them only for me. Despite his protest, I fetch a knife from the kitchen and divide each pastry into half. Having successfully manoeuvred around the Bhutanese social formalities of turning down offered food at least twice before accepting, we devour most of the cakes in a few scrumptious bites.

  Then Bikul reaches for my little photo album, and together we study the pictures. I imagine a new closeness between us. Bikul seems to be delighted with my photography. He admires each scene at length and then comments on it. To my dismay, however, he quickly reverts to his know-it-all attitude. I try not to let it get to me and remember the look on his face earlier when he arrived with his box of apologies.

  We talk about this and that and the evening rushes by. At times I wonder if he is stalling his departure, if he is looking for a reason to stay, but at a little past ten o’clock, Bikul lets himself out through my front door.

  My “Goodnight!” is partly relieved, partly disappointed. Spud sets off into another barking concert, and embarrassed, I look around to see if anyone noticed my late evening guest. In the quarters around me, all the doors are closed and the curtains drawn—but still, I get the uneasy feeling that the walls have ears.

  14

  Minakpa Ama

  The first sound that penetrates my comfortable cocoon of peaceful slumber is the proud, piercing morning call of the neighbour’s rooster. The second is a loud knock on the door. Drowsily shaking off the insistent memory of my unfinished dream, I stagger to the door. Dorji, a cheerful wardboy dressed in blue hospital uniform and grinning from ear to ear, heaves a bucket into the room. “Your water, madam.”

  Perplexed, I stare at him. He continues grinning.

  “Why are you bringing me water?” I inquire. Still fighting off sleep, I try to understand the meaning of this hallucination, doubtfully gaping at the pouring rain outside my doorstep.

  “Pipe broken, madam. No water,” he explains. Then he adds, “Doctor said to bring you.”

  Too bewildered to ask which doctor, I stutter an embarrassed thank you and carry the bucket to my kitchen. Unbelieving, I confirm the state of affairs and, indeed, the faucet spews out only a few gurgles, then croaks and hisses accusingly until I turn it off again. Interesting. The outside world is drowning in downpours, and we have dried up. I am discovering another one of the monsoon’s little idiosyncrasies.

  An hour later, I trudge up to Bikul’s house to ascertain if he was my morning benefactor. A middle-aged Bhutanese woman opens the door. Undoubtedly, she is a villager. Her red-and-blue-checkered kira is wrapped carelessly, and her bare feet are stuck into mere reminders of plastic slippers. She smiles at me, and I smile at her. Though she seems in no way surprised by my appearance, I cannot remember having met her before. She eagerly tells me something of obvious importance in Sharchhopkha, heedless of the fact that I cannot understand a word of her rushed speech. She nods and smiles, and all I can hear is a repeated “doctor” and “jonsho.” Then she retreats inside the house. Feeling at a loss, I remain standing on the doorstep.

  “Ama” I call after the woman awkwardly. At least I am grateful for the Bhutanese way of addressing a person by his or her title without having to know an actual name (any woman who has obviously outgrown her teenage years can be called “Ama”).

  “Dr. Bikul. . .?” I want to ask if he is there, but of course, I cannot think of the necessary Sharchhop words.

  Ama replies something but again the meaning eludes me. Should I leave or enter? Embarrassment gets the better of me, and I turn on the grassy walkway back towards the road. Halfway down the lane, however, I decide to give it one more try, and gathering all my courage, I walk around to the back door at the kitchen. There, I do not find Bikul but the same smiling Ama, expertly chopping onions with a huge, sword-like knife.

  The usually deserted kitchen is filled with evidence of an upcoming feast. A plastic bag of rice is opened and half spilt onto the counter. Mud-caked potatoes fill the sink. A heap of beans lies on the floor and, beside it, looking almost as innocent, a stack of small green chillies. Ama is busy handling the steel, all-purpose war instrument. With precision, the heavy blade thunders down just millimetres beside her fingertips, its curved tip barely clearing the lined up pots and pans. The pressure cooker whistles. It smells of dal and fried spices. Experimentally, I venture into a little Sharchhopkha.

  “Dr. Bikul gila?”

  “Cha,” she answers and wiggles her head from side to side. Yes, he is there.

  The only other thing that comes to my mind is “Nan hang pile?” What will you do?

  Ama cannot interpret my feeble attempt at bridging the language barrier and abandons her cooking to come closer. Again she smiles, showing off her big brownish teeth and creasing her face into many suntanned wrinkles. Rapidly, she utters something.

  I try again: “Dr. Bikul?”

  “Cha, cha.” She nods and points to Bikul’s bedroom. Then, in a sudden flash of genius, she walks to the kitchen door and calls him.

  I can hear Bikul’s answer out of the back of the house. His tone is joking, and it is obvious that he is completely at ease with Ama. He looks around the corner, inspects the contents of the pot, then at last notices me perched on his steps.

  He laughs. “So you have met my Norbu Ama. She is Pema’s mother.” As if that explains everything, he turns to Ama and the two start to discuss something in animated voices, interrupted only by her bouts of giggling laughter. My ears are burning, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that yours truly is the topic of discussion. Impatiently, I ask Bikul to translate.

  With a mischievous grin, he explains that Norbu Ama is suggesting that I cook for him. To confirm, he addresses the smiling woman, who nods enthusiastically, looking at me and then pointing at the kitchen. Exasperated I tell Ama that I cannot cook at all. Bikul translates. Norbu Ama does not agree. She says that she lives too far from here, she cannot cook for Bikul. He needs someone to look after him. She thinks that since I am single, why cannot I cook for both Bikul and me. Norbu Ama flashes me a winning smile, showing off a sparkling silvery cap on one tooth. The topic seems settled for her, and quickly she resumes dedicating her time to the rice and the curry on the stove.

  I can feel my face flushing wildly. To make matters worse, Norbu Ama then insists that I come into the living room and eat with them. “With them” turns out to be only with Bikul, since Norbu Ama disappears into the kitchen, where she noisily cleans up.

  My stomach revolts at the thought of rice and curry for breakfast. Bikul organizes a fork for me and then proceeds to scoop up the dish quickly and expertly by hand, almost finishing his plate before I have had my first taste. Self-conscious, I try my first forkful while Bikul watches me expectantly. Immediately, my throat starts burning and tears sting my eyes.

  Bikul dives into the kitchen and emerges with two glasses of water. “Too much chilli!” he exclaims before downing the contents of his glass in one urgent gulp. Unhappily, I pick at my food. Norbu Ama is still busy in the kitchen, and finally Bikul takes pity on me. Before anyone can notice, he promptly clears my plate.

  When Norbu Ama returns, it takes more than three polite refusals to turn down further heapings of the spicy meal. Norbu Ama shakes her head and tries again, but this time, even Bikul is firm. The only thing that appeases her is the promise that we will visit her home soon. With one last generous smile, Norbu Ama shoulders her heavy bamboo basket and walks off into the rain.

  “Where does she live?” I ask Bikul, curious about this bubbly lady who does not look like Pema at all. Until now, Pema’s childhood home was a picture in my imagination, and she did not talk about it much. And with her recent declaration that she wants to go to Thimphu, I had almost forgotten that her family lives close by.

  “Their farm is in Bargompa, at the top of that mo
untain.” Bikul points somewhere above Mongar into the clouds. I am getting used to the idea of villagers living somewhere “up there” where the sky meets the earth, and so I do not question this answer further.

  “But why didn’t I meet her before?”

  “She cannot come down to Mongar that often in the summer. There is a lot of work to do on the farm. I think she visits Pema every Sunday after the market.”

  “And how come you know her so well?”

  “Ah, that’s because her husband, Norbu, is the pharmacy assistant who used to cook for me. He used to live in one of the Class c staff quarters before he was transferred. Norbu Ama used to come down to visit him. They always invited me for the festivals to Bargompa. Ama’s family are real minakpas!” Bikul smiles.

  “Minakpas?”

  “That is what the villagers call each other. If you talk to a villager and say, ‘Eh, minakpa, o dele?’ they will immediately feel more comfortable with you. Minakpa is a respected term among villagers, like abi or meme.”

  “So Pema’s whole family comes from the village?”

  “Yes, they were all farmers. Just like most Bhutanese villagers. It is the custom here in Eastern Bhutan for the daughters to inherit the house and land—so it is Norbu Ama who owns the farm and runs it. Actually, soon it would be Pema’s turn to take over, but I am not sure what they will do. Pema obviously won’t return to the farm, and her little sister is studying in Thimphu. Her brother is a monk.”

  “And Norbu is working in the hospital to make some money?” I ask.

  “Yes, that’s true. Villagers don’t need much. They grow mostly maize and some vegetables. Only on special occasions they eat meat. At the Sunday market, they sell some of their produce, but most things are grown for their own needs. Norbu’s salary at the hospital was supposed to be additional income and help to cover the medical costs for Pema’s son.” Bikul’s expression turns serious as he starts talking about Norbu. “He is a good man, of course, but you know, he has a bad problem with alcohol.”