Buttertea at Sunrise (21 page)

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.

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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 amidst 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 161

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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 162

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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 chortens are not much taller than I, and yet to me their sight is always precious. Their presence in the hills, amongst 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 symbolises Buddha’s mind, a place for offering, a sacred spot.

I walk up to the little pious construction and feel the soft mosses, which cover the rough whitewashed stones. The chorten harmonises with its surroundings in a structural and philosophical way. The angular base that supports the tiny tower looks somewhat like a pedestal, and symbolises 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.

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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 cross roads, mountain passes or bridges. Whatever the reason, to me they symbolise the precious devotion of the Bhutanese, a reminder of spirituality amidst 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.

After we climb through a thick wood, we emerge onto a tree-lined field. Here, an old mani wall, a stone wall with inlaid carved or painted prayer stones, links two chortens.

Time has made this sanctuary one with the mountains. Tall grasses and mosses have covered the flat roof in patches of green, and the once whitewashed stones have returned to their original yellow and brown. In some places, chunks of rock have broken out of the wall, and the paint is faded on many of the stone slates. Still the edgings of a mantra remain clearly visible. As I pass the wall to my right, I listen for the sound of a murmur. Then, tentatively, my lips form the sounds of six precious syllables:
Om mani padme hum
.

Beyond the mani wall, where the jungle again encroaches on the path, we meet an old villager with bowed legs and bare feet. He smiles at us and interrupts his prayer for a greeting, never ceasing to turn the little wheel in his hand.

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and the villager nods in approval. He has watched us walk around the chorten, and he is happy that we respect his religion. With a regretful shrug of his shoulders, he remarks that the young people today try to forget the old ways. He points to his prayer wheel.

‘There is a lot of wisdom in a mantra.’

Bikul asks if I may turn it a few times. With a delighted grin, the old man hands me the wheel and I hold it in astonishment. It is heavier than I thought, yet it spins effortlessly, each rotation creating a sweet humming sound.

The old man encourages me with another smile.

‘
Om mani padme hum,
’ he murmurs for me.

I try to recall the meaning of what he is saying, hoping that if I understand the message, I will feel less self-conscious about pronouncing it myself. Quietly I ask Bikul to explain again.

‘Padme is the lotus, and mani the jewel,’ he says. ‘Mani can refer to the intention to become enlightened. Or it can mean Guru Rinpoche or Buddha, referred to as the precious jewel, resting in the lotus heart of the devout.’ As with so many religious meanings in Bhutan, there seem to be several explanations.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Bikul then adds. ‘Just feel it.’

I try. Still self-conscious about Bikul and the old man beside me, I listen to the wheel spinning around, and then the need for an explanation vanishes. The more I turn, the more even the wheel’s motion becomes. The old man continues murmuring his mantra for me.

After a while I gratefully return the prayer wheel to its owner, who bows with another lovely smile.

‘
Lasso la,
’ he acknowledges my thanks and waves in farewell. Still enrapt by the calmness of the moment, I too raise my hand in farewell. Then I turn to Bikul who watches me with a tender smile. While the old man retraces our 165

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steps back to the chorten, Bikul holds out his hand, and with a little jump of my heart, I put my hand in his.

Soon, the heavy air makes our walk just a little more difficult, giving our breath a dense, cloaked tinge. Gently we are reminded to slow down, there is no hurry.

Moments later, the sun disappears. Twilight guards the mountain’s secrets in a pale blanket of mist and just a few rays of light pierce the approaching nightfall. Only the serenade of a lovesick frog and a cricket choir accompany the peaceful quiet. Around us, the clouds hang so low that a short walk up the mountain, we find ourselves within them, embraced and cushioned. Later yet, we feel the air part, feel a welcome breeze, a coolness, and we look on a sea of cottony white fluff.

Wordlessly, we watch the mist in the valley as it shifts, lifts and settles in an endless game of weight and flight, of floating and drifting. I turn my gaze upwards, and in the muted harmony of the evening, I feel close to heaven.

The boundaries between here and there seem no longer visible. In my mind, reality becomes a dream and illusion the presence.

Is this where we feel God? Is it His presence I feel? I do not know – but if God is peace and goodness, soothing and comforting, then surely the silence can be nothing else but God’s words to us. Time slows down and no longer matters. I feel that words are not needed, neither are thoughts nor firm ideas, all that counts is this feeling of complete silence.

Gradually the darkness melts all shadows and forms, and the distant mountains sink into the horizon. With the last glimmer of fading light, the birds hush their songs, and the activities of the day move inside. Side by side, Bikul and I continue our path, wandering a road into the vast expanse of the imagination.

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A Trulku Star

Amidst a twinkling night firmament, a single bright star
shone on the western sky. Its light was clear and splendid,
cutting through the night like the beam of a lantern. Sparkling
and glittering, it reached down, bridging the gap between earth
and heaven.

A little boy in red robes looked up into the night. In awe,
he stared at the brilliant celestial body, his mouth opening in
silent words of admiration. Unconsciously he raised his hands,
and with his palms joined in prayer, he bowed deeply.

A few villagers gathered, and together they gazed at the
dazzling appearance. In hushed voices, they whispered, and
the solemn weight of an auspicious night settled on the land.

The mountains rose and fell in deep sleep, and the wind
stirred the dozy leaves of a cypress. All was quiet, yet in a
village in the high mountainous country, the hearts of a people
were awake with wonder.