Read Buttertea at Sunrise Online
Authors: Britta Das
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When the drums begin to accompany the last day’s
dances, Bikul returns with a relieved smile.
‘Let’s go,’ he says and leads me out of the dzong. He is carrying a bag filled with food and flowers, a package of butter and a silken scarf. Everything has been blessed on this most auspicious of days, and Lam Neten himself chose each item carefully for the dying man. Now Bikul is eager to present Tshering’s family with a little piece of hope.
When we arrive at the hospital, the puja in the ICU room is still underway. Butterlamps flicker around the bed and on a makeshift altar beside it. The scent of incense wafts through the door, and I can hear the murmur of a low voice, accompanied by the ringing of bells. Bikul quietly hands Tshering’s wife the temple offerings and with a small bow towards the altar, retreats. Then we quickly leave for the certainty that right now, a medicus is neither needed nor wanted in the ICU.
A few days later, before the beginning of rounds in the wards, I accidentally bump into a noisy group of doctors arguing loudly.
‘These villagers are so strong, they’ll fight any disease!’
Dr. Pradhan argues.
‘The man was just lucky, I tell you!’ Dr. Shetri counters.
‘Of course he was lucky,’ Dr. Pradhan agrees, ‘but all the luck in the world wouldn’t have saved me if I had been this weak.’
A little unbelieving, I open the door to peep into the ICU room. On the bedside table a butterlamp is flickering peacefully, and a tall vase containing holy water throws a long shadow over a glass with yellow and orange flowers.
Beside it, on a grimy blue sheet, our patient’s pale skin is flushed with the first feeble signs of life. Tshering has awakened. And with a trusting mind and perhaps the help of Buddha, he starts his difficult journey towards recovery.
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Woes in Trashi
Yangtse
There, that’s done!’ With a lopsided grimace, I hand the envelope to the clerk in the post office. Here goes the last letter of 1997, probably the most important one I have ever written.
‘I really hope that my parents won’t have a heart attack.
What do you think they will say?’ Searching for some reassurance, I look at Bikul. In his unruffled way, he smiles at me.
‘I don’t know. I think they’ll understand.’
His answer is not exactly calming me. ‘When do you figure they will get it?’ I ask even though I am fully aware that mail to Canada can take anywhere between two and eight weeks.
‘Maybe just after New Year’s?’ Bikul seems a lot less concerned about the timing of our great announcement than I am. Exasperated, I give him a friendly nudge. This is important! Bikul applied for an extension of his contract 238
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in Bhutan, and we finally wrote a long letter to my parents confiding in them about our romance. To say that I am worried is an understatement. How will they react when they hear that their youngest daughter wants to stay with a man she met only a few months ago? And on top of that, he is Indian and not Canadian. Will they approve? I cannot imagine that they would be particularly pleased.
‘Maybe they will get it while we are in Trashi Yangtse,’ I suggest, hoping that our absence from the telephone will give my parents some time to think and get over the initial shock before they speak to us.
‘Hmmm.’ Now that the letter is on its way, Bikul is obviously no longer worried. Instead he is enquiring with the postmaster about the bus schedule to Trashigang.
Bikul and I decided to celebrate the New Year in Trashi Yangtse, the eastern-most district of Bhutan. Bikul is desperate to finally see the rare black neck cranes, a migratory species of birds that spend the winters in a few remote areas of Bhutan. Our plans seem perfect; the weather is brilliant.
Three days before New Year, at the break of dawn, we leave Mongar in the cab of a big Tata truck going towards Trashigang. From there, we catch a lift to Chorten Kora.
Through narrow valleys and along steep inclines, the road bumps over gravel and stones into the remoteness of Eastern Bhutan.
Trashi Yangtse has not seen much development. The town is small and simple; there are a couple of stores selling the basic necessities and one ‘hotel’ that features five rooms without electricity or water. We visit a friend of Bikul, the Trashi Yangtse District Medical Officer, in his tiny office.
The hospital is under construction and instead the DMO
works out of a little three-room bungalow, rigged up with the most basic necessities. When we arrive, the doctor is 239
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just completing a vasectomy on one of the villagers, under the watchful eyes of the local veterinary assistant.
The DMO extends a warm welcome to us and immediately invites us for dinner.
‘So you and the doctor are walking to Bumdeling to see the black neck cranes,’ he smiles at me. ‘Be careful that Dr.
Bikul doesn’t lead you into the mountains. He seems to have a particular liking for exploring our little country.’
The DMO’s mother packs us a lunch for the coming day, and we are loaded with advice on the best walking route and overnight shelter. Immediately I feel comfortable in this tiny nest of a town just west of the Indian border of Arunachal Pradesh.
In the evening sunshine we walk along the Kulongchhu to Chorten Kora. Smaller chortens and mani walls lead up to the impressive white monument. Chorten Kora is a large Nepali style chorten that was built after the great Bodnath Stupa in Nepal. Surrounded by a low stone wall, Chorten Kora with its four step-like bases under a shimmering white dome and spire is more than 250 years old. For the people of Eastern Bhutan, this site is of great religious importance, and it shows in the many prayer flags fluttering along the riverside.
Through an open gate in the wall, Bikul and I enter the courtyard surrounding the chorten. The ground here is partially covered in rough stone plates between which mosses and weeds struggle to reclaim their territory. Slowly we walk around the chorten. For once not worried about what I should do or say to fit in, I let myself enjoy the soothing evening mood. Looking at the steep cliffs that rise on the other side of the river, I feel small and insignificant, and utterly at peace. My mind flits here and there, and no firm thoughts interrupt my contentment.
When the sun sinks behind the western peaks, Bikul and I leave Chorten Kora and for a while sit on a stone by the 240
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water. Rushing over big boulders, the river splashes us with an icy spray. In the evening shade, the temperature drops quickly and, shivering, we walk back to the guesthouse.
That night, in our one-room hotel without toilet or water, my nightmare begins.
I feel the nausea rising from deep within my insides, pushing,
tormenting, until I vomit. I scramble down steep steps into the cold
night air – where I expel a reeking gush of diarrhoea.
I feel weak; I want to sleep, but vomit and diarrhoea alternate
relentlessly all night.
I see Bikul’s worried face as he touches my feverish forehead. He
holds a cup of water to my lips; he tucks me tighter into the sleeping
bag.
The next day, I feel lousy but stubbornly refuse to ruin our plans
to see the cranes. Although I am weak and fatigued, I convince
Bikul that we should still go. We pass hills of flowering bushes and
rice paddies and, determined, I drag myself along the path. Bikul
carries our bags. We manage to see the birds, and I even snap a few
photos, but then I collapse. Bikul sets out to quickly find us some
accommodation.
A few hours later, it is New Year’s Eve, and instead of celebrating,
we are lying in the only available lodging, an office of the forestry
division. I still feel horribly sick, and Bikul cradles my head on his
lap. Below us, a family is noisily playing dice. Pain shoots through
my head every time I hear the thud of the bowl hitting its thick
leather pad. I pray that they will stop soon. Bikul tries to distract me
with a children’s tale about a little elephant.
At midnight I wake up. My stomach seizes in cramps and I
am drenched in sweat. Bikul examines me carefully, and now,
he cannot control his own worries. The pain becomes worse, and
convinced that I have appendicitis, I start crying. I imagine myself
on the makeshift operating table of the Trashi Yangtse Basic Health
Unit. Bikul tries to reassure me, but cannot find the words. Maybe
it is appendicitis.
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Clinging to Bikul, I spend the night in a mixture of agony and
panic. The next day, when the pain does not subside, it becomes
clear that we need to find proper medication. Somehow we struggle
back to town and catch a ride in a vehicle heading to Mongar. My
stomach cramps and at every pothole pain shoots through me like a
knife. I vomit again.
When we finally reach our home, Bikul prepares my bed. Then
he tries to start an IV, but of course, there is no electricity. By the
light of a flashlight, he stabs at my arm trying to find my veins. His
hands tremble and he too is close to tears. I am dehydrated and my
blood vessels have shrivelled up. Finally Bikul calls a nurse and
together they find a vein.
Later that night, Bikul’s hand lies soothingly on my hot forehead.
He sponges me with cold water, then tries to cook porridge.
Mongar Hospital is out of the necessary medication and, after
conferring with the other doctors, Bikul decides to send me to
Thimphu. Almost delirious with fear, I agree. A couple of days pass
until the VSO vehicle comes to pick me up, and somehow Bikul
manages to get leave to accompany me on the two-day drive to the
capital.
We spend three weeks in Thimphu while the doctors try to come
up with a diagnosis. My vomiting stops but I cannot eat. Friends
take care of me; everyone tells me that I am getting thin. Medically,
they fear it could be TB of the abdomen, or something could be
wrong with my ovaries. Most likely, it is dysentery. At the end of
three weeks, still without a diagnosis, VSO arranges for a flight to
Bangkok for an endoscopy. Bikul’s leave is finished and he returns
to Mongar.
And yet, despite the most modern equipment and a myriad of
tests, Bangkok does not provide a definite answer either.
‘We are not certain what caused your disease, but you need to fly
home, be surrounded by your family,’ the Thai doctor explains.
‘Eat regular food, that is the most important. Your intestines are
extremely inflamed. They need to settle; you need to rest. I do not
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think that returning to Bhutan is a wise idea.’ The doctor shakes
my hand in farewell.
Exhausted from my rapid weight loss, I try to make a rational
decision. I know that the doctor is right. I should fly home to
Canada, of course, but it would mean an end to my life in Bhutan.
I would have to quit my job with VSO; I would have to leave
Bikul. The thought of losing him is unbearable, overshadowing any
sickness or weakness. I think about it long and hard. Then, against
the doctor’s advice, I return to Mongar.
For two months I remain on sick leave and time passes in a
complete blur. I know that somehow I have to put on weight, regain
my strength, but I still cannot eat. All I can think of is how weak I
feel. I am always tired.
‘Can I make you some tea?’ Bikul touches my forehead tenderly. His face is troubled, and he has dark rings under his eyes.
‘What time is it?’ I ask.
‘It’s almost nine o’clock. I have to go to the hospital now.’
Bikul fusses with my pillow and I try to lift my head a little.
Sleep is still dragging me down heavily, I feel drowsy and a little nauseous. I must have dozed off again.
‘Britta?’
I know the voice, it is dear and familiar to me, but for a moment I cannot identify it. With great effort I open my eyes.
‘Oh, what happened to you? You are looking so thin!’
A petite young woman enters the room, frowning with concern. It is Pema.
‘You are back!’ I am so relieved to see her, I sit up too quickly. Dizziness blacks out my view and I sink back onto the pillow.
‘Yes, and we heard you were taken to Thimphu. What happened?’ In her composed and careful manner, Pema sits down on the bed beside me.