Buttertea at Sunrise Page 14

  Nevertheless, the tremendous effort that Choden has to make is exhausting, and a few times a week she misses her treatment because she is feeling feverish or too tired. On one such occasion, I ask Pema to come to the ward and help me with translations. We find Choden sitting on her bed, playing with her daughter, looking happy and relaxed. Confused, I ask why she is not coming to physio. With a shy smile, Choden replies that her urinary infection is under control and she will be going home. I cannot believe my ears. Surely, Pema misunderstood. Choden cannot possibly be giving up. No, she cannot quit; not now, not after making such remarkable progress, not with our goal in graspable reach!

  I look around me but the curious stares from the other beds offer no suggestions. Bewildered I ask Pema to confirm. Again, I get the same answer. They will be leaving here tomorrow. Pema points at the neatly packed bag with Choden’s belongings. Her husband is already on his way to pick them up. Incredulous, I realize that somehow the news of Choden’s upcoming departure bypassed me. On talking to the doctors, I realize my worst fears. Choden has already been discharged.

  Nervously rocking on the chair behind the desk of my treatment room, I debate what could be done to change the course of events. Choden is not ready to go, not yet. Finally, I speak to the DMO and plead to keep Choden for a couple more weeks, at least until she has practised walking outside of the parallel bars. The DMO agrees. With a sigh of relief, I hurry along the yellow corridors to share the good news with Choden, but my joyous message is greeted by a long face. Choden’s mother insists that they have to leave anyway.

  I do not understand. Again, I ask Pema to find out what the hurry is. Certainly, after all this work and effort, Choden will not throw everything out the window just because she no longer wants to stay here. Impatiently I wait for the answer. My confidence reappears as I listen to the quiet discussion in Sharchhopkha. It was all a misunderstanding, and in a minute I will be able to plan the next week of treatment for my determined young patient. However, after what seems like hours of talk, I find out that there is a different reason. It is harvest time, and Choden’s mother cannot afford to look after her daughter at the hospital any longer. She needs to go home and bring in the crops. Choden has to go with her.

  Unbelieving, I weigh the facts. I cannot argue with a family’s livelihood, and it is true; in Mongar, a patient like Choden cannot stay in the hospital without an attendant. Many personal tasks, such as using the bathroom, Choden could never do alone. She needs someone to stay beside her at all times, especially during the night. The nurses do not perform such support roles here. Someone from outside has to look after the patient.

  I feel trapped in the system but refuse to relinquish our goal. So close to success, so close to independence, it seems ridiculous to throw in the towel now. I discuss with Pema the possibility of finding a woman in town who would like to earn some extra money and be Choden’s attendant for a few weeks. The idea seems promising, and I take my new proposal to the hospital’s administration. They agree in principle but interject that there is no budget for such a service. Another obstacle, but this one will not stump me. How much can it cost? The average monthly wage for the wardboys is 700 Ng, less than thirty Canadian dollars. Without much hesitation, I offer to pay whatever is necessary, but although my proposal is accepted, I meet a few raised eyebrows.

  Ignoring the sideways glances of whoever deems it their business to frown at this foreigner throwing around her salary, I lay out my plan to Choden. I am exhilarated at the possibility and eagerly expect an equally excited Choden. Not so. After another lengthy discussion with her mother, Choden informs me that she will go home. Why exactly I will never know. Whether she feels uncomfortable at the thought of a stranger helping her with her personal affairs, or whether she is convinced that we will not find anyone, I refuse to believe that her walking matters so little that she is unwilling to overcome a few minor obstacles.

  Still, in the end, I look at her gentle but set smile, and I know that I have lost her. She promises to come back in one month, after the harvest, but now, she needs to go home. I think about her long journey, about how miserable the ward must look to her after weeks of boredom in an overcrowded room abounding with disease. Still I try my best to convince her. I beseech her and beg her to stay, but at the end of the day, I have to accept her decision.

  With a heavy heart, I wish her a safe journey and wave goodbye the next morning. The empty parallel bars stare at me from the exercise room. Now there is no one to breathe life into them; they no longer give hope or support. Through the whims of farming law, they have been cast off and labelled useless. Deep down I know that Choden will not come back in one month, and probably not thereafter. All I can do is pray that she will continue to improve at home.

  Without Choden’s daily treatments, I now focus my attention with renewed energy on my other problem child, Lhamo. Her right leg is making slow yet steady progress, but I am still racking my brains over the immovable left knee.

  “These villagers are tough, don’t worry about it,” was the advice from the surgeon after he discovered that he himself would not be able to reap any praise for an ingenious operation. “There is nothing that can be done,” was the final most unhelpful diagnosis from the other doctors. I am frustrated by such passive comments. Lhamo is only thirteen; there must be something that can be done.

  At the hospital in Thimphu, North American orthopaedic surgeons volunteer for one-month rotations. I decide to send Lhamo’s x-rays for a consultation. Finally, a glimmer of hope.

  “We can try,” the surgeon says on the other end of the telephone, “but we would have to fuse the knee completely. She will not be able to move it again.”

  I weigh the consequences. Lhamo can always sit with a straight leg, but she cannot stand with it bent.

  “The operation will be difficult. We would have to cut into the knee, and I am worried about the arteries and nerves. They might be damaged in the process. You would have to think about it carefully.”

  I do think about it, and the enormous responsibility of my position weighs heavily. But I believe that even if the worst came to the worst, and they would have to amputate, Lhamo would be better off with an artificial limb than with the crooked knee she has now. I am all for trying—but Lhamo refuses.

  She is scared. Scared to the point that she comes wailing into the physio room one day, repeatedly yelling that no one will cut off her leg. I sit beside her and put my arm around her shoulder. I try to explain that the doctors are not just going to “cut off her leg,” but Lhamo will not listen. Even her mother shakes her head in silent refusal. No operation for Lhamo.

  Afresh every day, I remark on the issue, and every time I run into the same brick wall. Lhamo’s participation in physio dwindles, and more often than not I have to summon her to come and complete her exercises. Then, one morning on rounds, I make the connection.

  In the bed beside Lhamo lays a shrivelled old abi with diabetes. Due to a gangrenous leg that could not be saved, this Abi had to have a below-the-knee amputation. It was the only thing to do, and Abi is lucky to have survived the operation. She comes to me for exercising the stiff knee, and I try to teach her family how to wrap the stump. Lhamo, of course, sees her all day long, and must assume that any leg operation means cutting the leg off, a thought that would terrify anyone.

  Having discovered the source of her fear, I assume that now I will be able to clarify the misunderstanding. I spend hours explaining the operation of a fusion to Lhamo and her mother. The answer is still a vehement NO.

  In a desperate attempt to motivate Lhamo, I introduce her to the parallel bars. At first, my mission ends in disaster, with a crying and sulking Lhamo who complains about everything from foot cramps to sore palms. She seems dead set on sabotaging my efforts.

  One morning, when all the doctors are on rounds and I am sitting at my desk discussing a few cases with Pema, Lhamo rolls her wheelchair to the open window. Her cheeky smirk greets me before she sticks her he
ad through the opening. Reassuring herself that the air is clear of unwanted listeners, she waves her mother over. Like a conspirator, Lhamo’s mother starts whispering with Pema. “If they did the surgery, when would they do it?”

  I explain that we would have to wait until September when the next American surgeon arrives in Thimphu.

  “How long would Lhamo have to stay there?”

  “Maybe a month, maybe two, depending on her recovery.”

  Lhamo’s mother decides to come inside the room for further privacy and, without looking at us, mumbles something to Pema. Somehow I can feel that whatever is being said has the utmost influence on Lhamo’s future. Finally, Pema turns to me and translates.

  “They cannot go Thimphu. There is no money to pay accommodation and food.”

  I sigh in relief. A surmountable hurdle. Pema and I agree that there is no problem. I will find enough money to feed them until they return to Mongar.

  With that promise, the way is cleared. Lhamo’s mother does not doubt my sincerity for a second, and does not bother to ask how much I will give them. I must have proven trustworthy and now they will put their fate into my hands. They will go to Thimphu.

  As if touched by a magic wand, Lhamo’s attitude changes dramatically. She pushes herself without needing a reminder. Pema makes a list of all her exercises and every day adds a few repetitions. Lhamo keeps up. Defying death and disaster, she throws herself between the parallel bars until honest exhaustion forces her to stop. Her strength increases in leaps and bounds, and every day she looks healthier and happier. After a few weeks, we prepare the next vehicle to take her to Thimphu.

  Too soon, shortly after Lhamo’s departure, the day arrives for Pema to say goodbye—and I feel as if my own departure date has been set. My teaching job, which is supposed to be the basis of my work, is essentially cut off. Both Lhamo and Choden are gone. What will be my role over the next few months?

  Above all, I will miss Pema. Her unruffled, calm presence has become my lifeline to communication with the hospital staff. Her smile has cheered us through the rain and fleas of the monsoon, and her resourcefulness has bridged many a day without electricity. No doubt, my real challenge in Mongar is about to begin.

  “Good luck!” I whisper to my friend who is standing with Nima and Karma in front of the post office, waiting for the bus to Samdrup Jongkhar.

  “Don’t worry!” Pema repeats and shifts Nima on her hips. The boy is in the best of spirits, happily drooling on Pema’s kira and spreading his dribble with his mechanical wiping motions around his mouth and evenly over Pema’s toego.

  “Bye, Nima!” I wave. Nima gurgles and looks past me towards the mountains. Suddenly, his little hand extends in my direction but then pulls back to once again spread saliva over himself and his mother.

  “It’s good that you are going,” I can hear myself say aloud. Pema nods. Her smile brightens and affectionately she wipes Nima’s fingers on her handkerchief.

  “Take care of Dr. Bikul.” She grins.

  I make a face at her but silently promise to do just that.

  “Bye bye! My thoughts will be with you!” With a heavy lump in my throat, I wave as the overloaded bus finally pulls out of Mongar bazaar.

  18

  chortens and prayer flags

  A hot day is drawing to an end. The warm air feels sluggish, but a touch of coolness is just beginning to set heavy dew on the ground. In front of me, a group of banana trees in lush green grass watch over a gnarly old pine tree with a long beard of lichens and mosses. A butterfly with orange wings, dotted black and tipped in blue and white, flutters gracefully between a few patches of pink flowers and then surfs the breeze to disappear in the hazy sky. Through a faint hole in the clouds, I get a vision of the mountains beyond. Washed and faded by the humidity, they look steady and solemn, yet fleetingly illusive.

  From the garden, the soft haunting tune of Bikul’s guitar stirs the quiet. After a while, the melody hesitates, and only the wind rustles in the leaves of a rhododendron. Unhurriedly, my feet follow the familiar path to Bikul’s house.

  Sometimes I wonder why, of all the people here, Bikul is the one who makes me feel at home. I have started to count on our daily walks, the philosophical discussions, the shared meals and the comfortable camaraderie. I wonder if we would have gotten so close had life not thrown us together like this. Two strangers in a strange place—so you become friends. Some days I question the sanity of this bond, but perhaps we have more in common than I am allowing for. One thing is for sure, though; whatever may happen, we need to be friends above all else. Mongar is too small to start a squabble with someone. There is no room for lost romances. Can I trust him and myself? There is so much that I want to share—but will we get hurt?

  I find Bikul in his garden gazing at the clouds. His handsome features are soft and dreamy. He does not hear me approach and turns, a little startled, when I call out to him. I ask him what he is doing, and he answers, “I am looking at my sky.”

  My sky. He says it so sincerely; he seems so much in harmony with his surroundings that I feel that this world is truly his. He belongs here. Something about the sight of his lonely figure amid the mountains and the clouds makes me tremble. Deep inside I feel the earnest wish to be part of this moment, whatever it holds.

  “Bikul,” I try timidly, “will you share your sky with me?”

  Bikul looks at me with surprise. I can see that at first he is bewildered by my question, but then he seems pleased. With a tilt of his head, he wipes away all differences of culture and thought. Tenderly, as if cradling the idea in the crease of his palm, he says, “Of course!”

  Together, we wander towards Kori La, through a world full of mystical shadows and fantastic beauty. I wonder what makes Bhutan so special. Is it the mountains that tower all around, or the untamed beauty of the jungle? Perhaps I am enchanted by the radiant smiles of villagers passing by, or maybe my heart feels at home with the peaceful murmur of a prayer.

  Our trail dips into a narrow valley and emerges from the trees on the opposite hilltop. Bikul runs ahead, recklessly jumping over small creeks that have grown to sizeable streams by the plentiful feeding of the monsoon rains. Pausing for a moment to contemplate my safest crossing, I listen to the splashing of the water.

  A little white structure on the opposite bank reminds me that in Bhutan, chortens instead of signposts mark the trail. Ancient Buddhism is the heartbeat of this kingdom. Looking at the old monument and its few neighbouring prayer flags, I ponder the boundless presence of the dharma, the teachings of Buddha. They are the basis of daily life in the Himalaya.

  Everywhere there is evidence of the overwhelming devotion of the Bhutanese to their religion. The rushing water of many a stream or creek turns a large conical prayer wheel, sending mantras to heaven and blessing the fields that are fed by its waters. Chortens are erected on waysides or passes, turning away evil spirits and remembering great lamas. Sometimes white, sometimes colourful, prayer flags flutter on mountaintops and overlook rivers, spreading their prayers through the wind and the water. Village temples and farmhouses are decorated with artistic paintings of lotus flowers and the eight auspicious symbols. Even kiras and ghos have religious patterns artfully woven into their designs. Bhutan without Buddhism seems impossible.

  I watch Bikul as he walks around the chorten three times, careful to turn clockwise, to keep the sacred site to his right. His belief is honest and pure, and his knowledge about Buddhism and Hinduism is vast and detailed. He has introduced me to a world of meditation and rituals, of Hinayana and tantric Buddhism, of philosophies that are still only vague concepts in my mind. What I have managed to grasp is so little, so modest compared to the sacred teachings that are out there, combined with a myriad of local village beliefs. Some of these practices stem from the animistic and shamanistic views of the ancient religion of Bonism, others from histories about demons and deities.

  My eyes wander back to the chorten—a simple white structure. Often ch
ortens are not much taller than I, and yet to me their sight is always precious. Their presence in the hills, among the trees and fields, is humble and unpretentious, though somehow reassuring. Even if you have lost your path and are straying through the jungle, you know that someone was here before you. Someone prayed on this very patch of earth and built a monument in sincere devotion. Its shape symbolizes Buddha’s mind, a place for offering, a sacred spot.

  I walk up to the little pious construction and feel the soft mosses that cover the rough whitewashed stones. The chorten harmonizes with its surroundings in a structural and philosophical way. The angular base that supports the tiny tower looks somewhat like a pedestal, and symbolizes the earth. The dome above it stands for water. The conical spire signifies fire, and a crescent moon cradling the sun represents the air. There are thirteen steps in the spire, which stand for the thirteen steps to Buddhahood or enlightenment. On top of the pinnacle is a spike or flame: ether, the sacred light of Buddha.

  Slowly, I stroll around the chorten, thinking about the hands that once laid these stones in such a symbolic fashion. In my mind, I imagine what might be contained within it. I know that hidden inside all of these consecrated structures is a “tree of life,” a wooden pole inscribed with prayers. In addition, sacred religious relics are placed within the receptacle—sometimes books, sometimes statues or weapons, sometimes even the bodies of great lamas.

  Chortens are built for different reasons, and I wonder what may have been the cause for the initiation of this one. Sometimes they commemorate the visit of a saint; sometimes they are supposed to ward off or subjugate demons and evil spirits from dangerous locations such as crossroads, mountain passes, or bridges. Whatever the reason, to me they symbolize the precious devotion of the Bhutanese, a reminder of spirituality amid the mountains and valleys.

  Bikul is eager to push on, to reach a certain spot before sunset. After a while, the trail drops into a valley surrounded by long, gentle mountain slopes. The wind nurtures lush green rice paddies, and hundreds of dragonflies dance in the breeze. The setting sun floods through the clouds and reflects off their tiny transparent wings as they sway and drift here and there. Like sparks of fire, in glittering gold they illuminate the air, creating a dazzling festival of lights.