Read Buttertea at Sunrise Online
Authors: Britta Das
Meme Monk is a
gomchen
, a spiritual villager who has received a certain amount of religious training and is allowed to practise rituals for the common people. Gomchens have a special ranking in Bhutanese society. They have been appointed with distinctive powers through their spiritual devotion, but at the same time they are allowed to marry.
Only a return to the dzong and an achievement of higher states of religious teachings is not possible for them once they have entered family life. Now, at an age when the younger generation runs the farm and can take care of his wife, Meme Monk has decided to again dedicate his life to religion.
In his tiny hut, Meme is surrounded by all that he needs.
A mat on the floor with a goatskin on it makes his bed and an old gho his blanket. He wears a burgundy gho resembling the dress of a monk; his thin white jacket is stained and worn from years of honest use. Other than a couple of aluminium pots for cooking kharang and chillies, a flask to prepare buttertea, and an assortment of stained plastic containers, all the articles neatly placed on shelves and on the floor are of religious significance. Many of them are unfamiliar to me, I only know the handheld prayer wheel, 145
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the rosary, and I recognise a few religious texts, wrapped in colourful pieces of material.
His family altar again proves Meme’s tolerance for the interconnection of all things. Behind the offering bowls, a bright yellow plastic bag bears the label Dalda, the locally available, hardened vegetable oil, which is used to fill the butterlamps. Two empty Coca-Cola bottles hold some fresh green branches to decorate either side of the altar.
Next to the offerings of water are two lunch-pack cartons of ‘Frooti’ mango juice.
Since I have come up here by myself today, the peaceful quiet of the hut allows my mind to focus more sharply on all the new sights to explore. I assume that the set-back shrine above the family altar was born on the day on which the walls of this house were erected. The simple wooden case is framed by paintings of orange and blue flowers. On a shelf, protected against the frenzies of dust and drafts by two glass windows, statues of Lord Buddha and Guru Rinpoche serenely smile onto Meme Monk. They are
surrounded by smaller versions of other manifestations of the two Buddhas, most of whom I do not recognise.
Although I have spent many hours reading my books
about Bhutan’s religion, the colourful pantheon of tantric deities is still a mystery to me. In temples and on paintings, I can merely recognise the three most common figures. First there is the historical Lord Buddha sitting cross-legged on a throne of lotus flowers, with a crown of light instead of fancy headgear, wearing simple, mostly unadorned clothing.
The second, Guru Rinpoche, usually has a little curled moustache and goatee; he is pictured with his trident, and in one hand he holds a
dorje
, a religious instrument which looks like a small dumbbell. Finally, there is Shabdrung Ngawang Ngamgyel who, with his long grey beard and wearing a red pointy hat, is the most ordinary-looking of all the images.
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M E M E M O N K
Before I came to Bhutan, I had only heard of Buddha Shakyamuni, the historical Buddha whom the Bhutanese call Sangay. Lord Buddha founded what we know as
Buddhism today. His original name was Siddhartha
Gautami, and he was born in the fifth century BC to a king and queen in northern India. His father, who had been foretold that Siddhartha would either become a great ruler or a universal teacher, tried to cajole his son into staying within the confines of the palace. Siddhartha enjoyed a charmed childhood protected against the harsh realities of life, until as a young prince, he managed to venture beyond the gates of the palace. To his dismay, there he encountered age, illness and death for the first time. Upon the revelation that all human life is suffering, Siddhartha renounced luxury and materialism and became a wandering ascetic.
Then, after six years of meditation and austerity, he found that starvation did not lead to discovery and formulated the
‘middle path’ of moderation. Under a fig tree in Bodh Gaya, Gautama attained enlightenment. He became the Buddha
– the Awakened – and began to spread his teachings, or the ‘dharma’, thereby initiating what is known today as the Buddhist faith.
In Bhutan, Guru Rinpoche (the precious master), also known as Padmasambhava (the lotus born), is considered the second Buddha. He was a tantric missionary from the Svat valley in today’s Pakistan. In the eighth century AD, Padmasambhava introduced tantric Buddhism to Bhutan by subduing demons and the enemies of Buddhism
and turning them into protective deities. One of Guru Rinpoche’s main weapons against demons was his dorje – a thunderbolt of diamond indestructibility and the purity of the Buddhist teachings.
Shabdrung Ngawang Ngamgyel (literally, ‘at whose
feet one submits’) was a Tibetan Buddhist scholar who appointed himself as the religious ruler of Bhutan in the 147
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seventeenth century AD. Under the Shabdrung, Bhutan resisted numerous Tibetans attacks, and Bhutan’s many valleys and districts were turned into a unified country. For defence as well as monastic intent, the Shabdrung built the country’s first dzongs where he established a dual system of administration and law. He himself was the spiritual leader, while the state monastic body was headed by a supreme abbot, the Je Khenpo. The country’s administration and politics were handled by the temporal ruler, the Desi. In 1656, shortly after the Shabdrung’s death, Bhutan united into its present shape and the dual system of government persisted, albeit with many feuds and conflicts, until a hereditary monarchy was established in 1907.
In Meme’s house, the statues of the revered Buddhist scholars share their wall-temple with a collage of present day holy men. There is a picture of the Dalai Lama, the Je Khenpo (who still holds the position of Bhutan’s chief abbot), and the third king, Jigme Dorji Wangchuk.
Beside them are pictures of the temple of Bodh Gaya in India where Buddha attained enlightenment and the great Bodnath Stupa in Nepal. The bottom of the collage is filled with faded snapshots of Meme Monk as a young lama, and another picture of his wife and daughter.
Though living in seclusion from common family life, Meme Monk’s day is filled with his own sort of activities, and placidly he continues sorting dried chillies into thin blue plastic bags, the new throwaway items that can usually be found discarded in trees and shrubs closer to town. Until only a few years ago, plastic bags did not exist in Eastern Bhutan, but especially now among town folks, they almost exclusively replace the traditional woven bags.
Meme’s hospitality does not lag behind my other
Bhutanese acquaintances. Having cleaned up the odds and ends of his chilli storage, he deftly starts preparations for serving buttertea. Over his cooking fire, he heats a pot of 148
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M E M E M O N K
water to which large black tea leaves are added. Then, out of somewhere unseen, he produces a big wad of butter, and the mixture is churned in a long, wooden, brass-ringed tube. The salt is heaped into the drink in generous pinches, and a rather strange aroma fills the little hut. Meme watches me polish off thengma and buttertea appreciatively. The noise of the jungle accompanies our two-person gathering, and the conversation is limited to a few jovial smiles.
The end of tea and snacks usually signals the time for departure to visitors in Bhutanese households, and with great theatrics, Meme now pulls a hand-carved flute out of the folds of his gho. His big, callused fingers barely fit on the delicate instrument, blotting out the diminutive holes.
Then, from deep within his being, a few grumbles surface like approaching thunder. He noisily clears his throat, and a load of spit sails through the air and lands in a pot on the floor beside the bed.
I bid Meme farewell and he looks at me with a twinkle.
Apparently satisfied, he lifts the flute to his lips, and out of his dainty instrument, a few notes float through the air.
The music is light and joyous, a simple folk tune with a bewitching rhythm. In my mind, I can still hear it from miles away, and I start skipping on the long descent back to the hospital.
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C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N
Different
Expectations
One morning in August, Pema enters our chamber
waving a note in her hand. ‘I got a referral to
Vellore! We will take Nima for assessment.’ In
Pema’s voice I can hear a mixture of relief and worry.
‘That’s great, Pema! When will you go?’ At first, I feel excited for Pema. Finally, after months of waiting and worrying, she will get a diagnosis for Nima’s strange behaviour. Delighted with the good news, I give Pema a hug.
A moment later, though, the full meaning of her absence hits home. The thought of our physio room without Pema’s friendship, her unfailing encouragement, her beaming smile, not to mention her invaluable translations, makes my heart drop.
‘How long will you be gone?’
‘I don’t know,’ Pema replies and turns her hands over in a helpless gesture. ‘It is far to the hospital. Vellore is right at the southern tip of India. The travel alone might take two 150
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weeks. Karma will come with us. Maybe we come back in six weeks?’
I picture myself alone in our physio room, surrounded by patients I cannot understand. My first reaction is panic.
I will never make it! Over the past two months, Pema has become my pillar and my strength when all around me seemed to fall to pieces. Together we have survived many a hot, dark, powerless day at Mongar Hospital. But without her?
‘Don’t worry, OK?’ Pema reassures me. ‘We will telephone you – and you will have Dr. Bikul.’ Her wistful remark does make me smile. My frequent visits to Bikul’s chamber have not escaped her attention; neither, of course, has the official town rumour that Bikul and I are married, since he now seems to take every meal with me AND we are seen walking together.
Pema opens the treatment record and studies the names of our patients that are scheduled for today. Despite her good news, she looks tired. As always, her thick black hair is neatly combed, her kira spotless and perfectly ironed, and her face composed, with the trace of a smile playing in the corners of her lips. Yet something has come undone.
The summer has been all but easy for her.
‘Maybe if we get a diagnosis, we can stay there for treatment also.’ Pema’s thoughtful remark makes me wince.
‘Yes, maybe.’ I want to agree with her, but I have my doubts. If it is cerebral palsy, there will be no cure. The chance that perhaps Nima is suffering from something else, something that is indeed curable, is slim. But I do not want to shake Pema’s hope unnecessarily.
‘May I leave for some time? I have to book train tickets.’
‘Yes, of course.’ I nod and watch Pema quickly gather her things. Her comportment is brisk, her steps confident, but her hands are shaking.
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For a while, I forget about Pema’s looming departure.
With the modern day athletes of Mongar’s volleyball and soccer teams filling the physiotherapy room to capacity, my workday remains busy, and yet what gives me the most satisfaction are my two daily visitors, Choden and Lhamo.
Choden’s progress is phenomenal. Thanks to her
incredible strength and extraordinary will-power, after only a couple of weeks of practice, she manages to walk more or less independently two full lengths of the parallel bars.
During her rest periods, she stands proud and erect. The daily onslaught of spectators, young and old, attendants and visitors, curiously watch her progress. In many ways, they become her cheering fan club. Little children, not able to understand Choden’s disease but aware that they are watching something important, stand and gawk in admiration at her efforts. Her walking becomes a shared goal, every step a miracle to all.
Only occasionally when a ballistic muscle kicks her leg out from underneath her, Choden still needs a firm hand to help control her knees. Standing between the parallel bars, watching herself in the mirror, she works hard, the perspiration dripping off her forehead in the overpowering heat of the summer monsoon. She never complains or winces; her jaw is set in unshakeable determination. When her palms become sweaty and slip off the metal pipes, she stops only long enough to dry them on her shirt. In addition, just when I think that she is tired, that her legs will not walk another step, she asks me to go one more length. Her inner strength carries her through the pain and fatigue of the battle with her misguided nervous system.
I admire her boldness. Day by day, she progresses faster than I ever thought possible. The regular weight-bearing exercise has another beneficial carry-over. Choden tells me that since she started walking her legs are relaxing better, and now she can sleep through most of the night without 152