Read Buttertea at Sunrise Online
Authors: Britta Das
‘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
minakpa
s!’ 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 129
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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.’
Bikul sighs. Drinking, and in many ways excessive
drinking, is very much part of the Eastern Bhutanese custom, but it is usually limited to alcohol home-brewed out of maize or other grains. Norbu, however, being paid in cash by the hospital, is totally incapable of budgeting for the family and spends his entire salary on buying alcohol.
Pema has never seen a penny of her father’s earnings, and with her younger sister away at school in Thimphu, the family is short of a cash income.
Frustrated, Bikul recounts how he has tried to help Norbu to stop drinking, and how after a few months, his attempts have proven useless. Somehow, Norbu does not fit into this split life, stuck between the old world of the mountains and the new world of the hospital. Two different sets of expectations, two different rhythms of time. For Norbu, who is a soft man yielding to the pressures of the world around him, the temptations of alcohol prove too much to resist. So Ama continues to carry her vegetables over the tiring footpath down the mountain to the market, hoping to make at least enough to support her little daughter in Thimphu.
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M I N A K P A A M A
‘Minakpa life is not easy,’ Bikul says, then adds, ‘But they never cry. For them, life is good. No matter what happens, you laugh.’
I think about Ama’s face, creased with many wrinkles, deep furrows caused by her work outside in the high mountains, but patterned by the fine lines of laughter that look like crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes. What about Pema? Will she look like her mother one day? Somehow I doubt it. Like her father Norbu, Pema has chosen a life away from the stability of her family and the village. Unlike Ama, Pema is learning how to cry.
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C H A P T E R F I F T E E N
Buttertea is
Warm and
Salty
An Autumn Evening
The looming peaks of the rising mountains
Sink into the lingering shadows of the sunset
A crescent moon hangs over an ancient sky
The villagers gather near the campfire,
And centuries-old legends and myths
Transpire an illusive symphony of magic.
Nostalgia of age-old seasons
Reverberates in their confused minds
As they move the rosary beads
And listen to the radio noise.
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Through the burning edges of their hearts
Tradition moves, refreshes and creates a sense:
A sense of living together,
A sense of being cornered.
Remote, forbidden yet excessively romantic
Here in this land of the tranquil dragon
My heart has been shaken by fear;
The fear of losing this perfect harmony.
I wish that I could enjoy the next autumn
I wish that I can enjoy this land in peace.
Annitt 6-10-96
One day when the rain lets up and the mountains
steam in the afternoon heat, we plan to climb the
slippery path to Bargompa. Pema tells me that she
and the children will spend the weekend with her family, and she urges me to visit them. ‘Bring Dr. Bikul too!’ Her wink is undeniably mischievous. ‘He has been there often.
He knows the way – and I think he would like to go with you.’
The trail winds through the bottom of a little river valley and then steeply ascends the eastern slope of the ridge. We cross a creek, waltz through a meadow, and balance on the big boulders penetrating the ground like stony birthmarks.
At one point, an umbrella of big oak branches shelters the trail. The path continues to scale the hill with little relief for my screaming lungs. Bikul seems to have no trouble with the altitude and jumps ahead in his old, worn out running shoes. Every few hundred metres we stop for me to catch my breath.
The views are mesmerising. On the slope across from us, farms of the village Phosrang are spread between densely 133
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wooded jungle. The houses with their adjacent cornfields and rickety barns form a mosaic with patches of burgeoning bushes and fields full of flowers. The colours of blossoms and crops in bloom underline the deep green of the forest, which thickens as you go higher, spreading up the grade with a dense cover of leaves. Interspersed with the human dwellings are little white chortens, gleaming in the first afternoon sun.
We pass an old building whose red painted horizontal band around the upper walls indicates that it is a temple.
From afar, it looks nothing more than a big old farmhouse, but on closer inspection, the structure reveals its religious design. A continuous ribbon of small, hand-powered prayer wheels wraps around the entire circumference, interrupted only by weathered patches where the odd broken wheel has collapsed over time. The gable and the eave are richly decorated with woodcarvings of different animal designs and shapes. There is no sign of people and the sacred building looks abandoned and somewhat forlorn. The red entrance door, painted in faded colours with a big auspicious parasol, is secured with a rusty padlock.
Further on, we meet a few minakpas and are greeted with a friendly ‘
O dele?
’, which literally translates into ‘Where are you going?’ Our answer is always accepted with an even brighter smile and an encouraging cheer, ‘
Lasso la
, doctor!’, which means something like ‘That’s great!’
We must be a good hour’s walk away from Mongar,
and the apparently purposeful comings and goings of the villagers amaze me. In big, efficient strides, they effortlessly climb the hills or run down the steep slopes. Along the way, they yodel or sing, or shout to each other, their voices echoing off the mountains. There is a relaxed merriment in their motions, a cheerful accomplishment of whatever needs to be done. Their ease is contagious.
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The path divides at a little chorten and becomes even steeper in our direction, forcing me to pay attention to my every step. I struggle with the mud and my fatiguing legs. Even Bikul slows and like a gentleman offers to carry my backpack. I look at him with renewed surprise.
Again, the strict doctor has metamorphosed into a relaxed young man with a boyish grin and sparkling eyes. As if we were approaching his own home, he pushes on eagerly, explaining every tree and every familiar sign.
When the roof of a farmhouse appears over the tops of the cornfield, a loud, rather unfriendly barking greets us.
Respectfully, we stop in our tracks. ‘We get many dog bite cases in the hospital,’ Bikul warns. Then he calls a drawn out ‘Oieehhhh’ through the fields, and it echoes off the strutting ridge.
Minutes later, Norbu Ama comes running down the
trail. ‘
Kuzuzang po la! Jonsho! Jonsho!
’ Excited, she waves us towards her. Her welcome is heartfelt and her laughter immediately includes me in her conversation, of which I understand not a word. The dog is locked safely into the barn, and we are led through a gate to a set of steep wooden steps, the only entrance to Ama’s big farmhouse.
Off a little platform halfway up the stairs, a single door opens into a large, black-stained kitchen. A tiny cobwebbed window throws a few rays of light on an earthen fireplace; from its holes, flames lick eagerly at three big sooty pots.
Almost unnoticed, an old woman sits close to the fire, methodically stirring her spoon in a thin wooden tube.
I am eager to explore the secrets of this intriguing place of cooking, but polite guest behaviour requires us to follow Norbu Ama upstairs to the main family room, where
two blankets are quickly converted into the best seats in the house. Ama motions us to sit down. ‘
Jonsho
doctor!’
The room is big and airy. The window shutters are slid wide open, and our view is guided over the valley to the 135
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minuscule nest of Mongar town roosting on a slope in the distance. Immediately below the house, a field of tall maize stalks waves to us through the breeze.
Norbu Ama disappears, leaving Bikul and me alone. I look around for a sign of Pema or her children.
‘Have you seen Pema?’ I finally ask.
Bikul shrugs his shoulders. ‘Maybe she is with her grandfather. He lives not far from here in a tiny meditation hut.’
Feeling a little awkward in the huge empty room with Bikul at my side, I twist my hair around my fingers and wish for Pema and the children to return really soon. Eventually, though, I am distracted by the family altar, an impressive structure right across from our seats. The central offering place is large and well built, with glass cases on either side.
There are five podiums, each encircled by an arched frame in the style of Bhutanese windows. Inside each receptacle sits a colourful statue, wrapped into a silken frock. The two large statues dominating the middle of the altar are bronzed; the others are smaller, and one has blue skin.
As an offering, three butterlamps (candles made out of hardened butter or vegetable oil in a solid dish) burn quietly beside a couple of incense sticks and seven bowls filled with water.
‘The seven bowls symbolise the seven offerings made to Buddha,’ Bikul explains. ‘They represent what we want to share – things like food, drink, or water for washing.’
I look at the little vessels with renewed interest. Water, a plain and simple offering. The people in the Himalaya are not rich, but everyone can afford water. It is a universal offering, something causing no hardships, no greed, and can be given with pure faith.
An extension on either side of the altar houses the family’s holy books, each volume bound in shiny silk cloth. Two photographs of yellow- and orange-clad lamas round off 136
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the colourful altar, and each picture is respectfully draped with a white ceremonial scarf.
The intriguing sights of the altar spark my curiosity, and we leave our drafty corner to take a closer peek. The first thing I notice underneath the bookshelves is a sort of cupboard – a pantry. Its door is covered with a simple fly mesh, and behind it I can see chunks of cheese and banana-leaf-wrapped parcels, which look like the butter packages in the subjee bazaar. Obviously, the food storage lives in harmony with the precious inhabitants of the altar.
I again study the seven bowls. They are delicate silver vessels with intricate designs, symbols that remind me of an old Chinese chest that my father brought back from one of his travels years ago. The water twinkles at me from the polished basins. Standing guard in the middle of all these treasures is a vase for holy water with one large peacock feather, a symbol of the wisdom of Buddha’s love.
Bikul picks up a rosary from between the other decorations and hands it to me.
‘You see here, these bands.’ He points at a few short leather straps with ten metal rings. ‘Each rosary has a hundred and eight beads, and after each completion of one count of the beads, you move this first ring to the other end of the leather strap. Then you continue. When you have completed ten rounds, you move to the second band and start over.’