Buttertea at Sunrise (18 page)

‘Why is it necessary to count your prayers?’ I ask.

‘I guess it keeps you on the right track.’ Bikul shrugs his shoulders.

The answer is not wholly satisfactory to me, and I return to examine the altar. A tiny white object catches my attention. It looks like a tooth. ‘What is that?’

Instead of an answer, Norbu Ama enters with a huge pot full of tea. We guiltily stop our nosy examination of the family treasures and return to our prepared seats. Norbu 137

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Ama is in high spirits. Under constant chatter, she pours our cups. The liquid is slightly cloudy, and I imagine bubbles of grease floating on the surface. Carefully I sip the brew. It is greasy! And salty, very salty! What kind of tea is this? Norbu Ama looks at me expectantly and I fake a smile. Secretly I imagine how my tongue and the inside of my mouth contract, and my stomach bars its doors in revolt of the strange infusion.

‘Seudja,’ Bikul explains. ‘Buttertea. Have you had it before?’

I shake my head.

‘It is great, isn’t it?’ he says and I agree half-heartedly.

More like soup, I think to myself, and brave another sip.

‘Here, add this,’ Bikul suggests and heaps a generous handful of zao into my cup. Skeptically, I eye the ensuing potion. It looks no more appetising than the initial serving, with the exception that the grease is now hidden by the floating rice kernels fighting for space. Politely, I take another swallow. To my surprise, the flavour has become rather pleasing. I crunch on the zao and the salty nature of the tea slowly warms my insides. I drink again and find that the more I have, the better it tastes.

Eventually I lose count of how many refills Norbu Ama generously pours into my cup. Just when I am sure that we must have successfully finished the entire pot, Pema appears with Nima and Chimmi, carrying another flask.

‘Auntie!’ Chimmi shouts and bounces excitedly up and down. Then she pulls Nima to sit beside her, facing us, and both children watch us with interest. Or at least Chimmi does. Nima’s eyes are for once focused on us, but still I am not sure that we are the objects of his contemplation.

As always, he is busy rolling his lower lip between his fingers.

‘Auntie!’ This time, Chimmi makes sure that I give her my sole attention by driving a little home-made car, which 138

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consists of two short sticks for the axle and wheels and a flat piece of bark for the body, back and forth over the floor in front of my folded legs.

Pema places a wooden bowl between her eager daughter’s

‘tyre tracks’ on the hardwood. ‘Welcome to my family’s home!’ She offers a warm smile which I now realise is just like Norbu Ama’s. ‘It is a long way, isn’t it? Please, have some
arra
.’

‘Arra?’ I smell the drink gingerly and nausea rises in my throat. The pungent scent stings my nose and makes my eyes water. So this is arra, the famous alcoholic home brew.

‘I think I better not,’ I apologise, and Bikul quickly gives a more flowery version of my excuse to Norbu Ama, who has come to join us. Pema’s mother looks unhappy and again nods at me. ‘
Zhe, zhe!
’ Afraid to offend her hospitality, I point at my stomach and make a grimace. ‘
Pholang
ngamla!
’ I remember the phrase for stomach pain from the hospital. Norbu Ama and Pema laugh heartily. My apology is accepted, and although I am urged a few more times to try the drink, I get away with my tentative sniff.

Pholang ngamla
, I repeat the magic words to myself and notice in astonishment that they seem self-fulfilling. My stomach is indeed feeling quite bloated, and the buttertea has clumped like a stone somewhere above the belt line.

There it sits and sits, and I dare not move for fear of my whole gut dropping out the bottom. With horror, I look at my refilled cup.

When dusk reminds us to bid farewell, Norbu Ama,

Pema, and the old woman (who turns out to be Pema’s grandmother) try to load us with at least two bags filled with
thengma
, dried and beaten corn, and another one with
kharan
g, a coarsely ground version of dried corn. Kharang is the main dish for villagers. The corn kernels are dried 139

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and shredded, and stored for later cooking much like rice.

When we politely insist on accepting only one bag of each, Norbu Ama supplements our gifts with four fresh eggs, carefully hidden amongst the corn for safe transportation.

All three women seem reluctant to say goodbye, and Pema tells me that they were hoping we would spend the night in their house.

‘This is a wonderful home!’ I say while Pema clasps my hands. ‘Wouldn’t you like to live up here all the time?’

Without hesitation, Pema shakes her head. ‘Oh, no!’

‘I mean if Karma would stay with you, of course.’

Again Pema shakes her head. ‘It is too boring up here. I don’t want to live on the farm. I would like best to live in Thimphu.’

Yes, I think, I know that. Still I cannot quite understand why.

‘What will happen to your farm when Ama and Norbu get old? Your sister Rinzin Tshering is studying in Thimphu too, isn’t she? And your brother is a monk. Who will look after your parents?’

‘Ama is thinking about adopting a little girl,’ Pema answers with obvious relief in her voice. ‘Rinzin wants to be a teacher. And when Chimmi grows up, I hope she will be a doctor. But it is not good to live here.’

I think about Pema’s cramped quarters at the hospital

– then I imagine Ama and Abi taking care of Nima in this spacious house, giving Pema a chance to relax and look after herself. But of course, Karma would need to live in town, or he would have to walk the hour and a half each way to the dzong. Pema does not seem to have the same regrets as I, for she continues: ‘After I went to school and learned English, I knew that I would live somewhere else.

I wanted to get a job, to earn money. It is not good to live in the village always.’

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I look from Abi and Ama to Pema and Chimmi. Four

generations of women, with the same lovely smile, the same dark eyes. And yet, two different sets of hopes and aspirations.

We are about to put our shoes back on when Norbu Ama walks over to the altar and triumphantly picks up her prized possession, the little white something that I had inspected earlier. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and begins squawking, all the while pointing to her cheek, making us understand that it is indeed her tooth.

Pema laughs. ‘Ama can put the tooth in and out, but she only wears it if she goes to town. She thinks she looks better if the tooth is in.’

Bikul and I look at each other and smile. Even our village Ama knows a little about vanity.

Abi too seems to have something on her mind and in her bent, shuffling gait rushes over and waves us towards her room. We follow her past the shrine through a set of heavy wooden doors. The chamber is small, dark, and smells of dust and mothballs. It is stuffed with heaps of clothing. On a bed in the corner, several cats are curled up on an assortment of kiras and ghos. Abi shifts a pile of orange-checkered material to the side and uncovers a large wooden box from which she pulls a
bangchung
. The little woven bamboo container is obviously as aged as Abi, but it still hints at a glorious youth with colourful designs. With an endearing smile, Abi presents me with her bangchung.

Thoroughly embarrassed, I thank Abi, still confused about the appropriate response to this family’s generosity.

Bikul, as always, is curious and none too shy. ‘This is wonderful!’ he exclaims and eagerly dives into the box.

Suddenly he resurfaces holding a carefully wrapped silver necklace with many inset pearls. Abi starts chiding the nosy doctor, but to my surprise everyone else is laughing.

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‘What’s this all about?’ I ask, walking back into the room.

Bikul happily holds the jewellery to Abi’s flushed neckline.

‘This is how Abi attracted Meme monk to marry her.’

Norbu Ama and Pema are still giggling, and Abi sends them a reprimanding glance while Bikul amiably lays his arm around the old woman’s frail shoulders. I can see that he is about to launch into one of his favourite stories.

‘When Meme was a young man, he vowed not to marry.

Then one day, he announced that he would stay in the dzong and become a monk. That day, Abi was really sad.

Her family used to live very close by, and every day they took their cows to the same grass field. She had been in love with our Meme for many years. Every day she put on her prettiest dresses, but Meme never noticed her.

‘Abi did not want to give up, and one day, she went to see the local priest who could play tricks to attract a man to marry a woman. For one month, Abi applied all the tricks, but nothing seemed to work. Abi was so sad that she grew thinner and thinner. Then, one day, her parents got very worried and made a plan to help Abi. They invited Meme for dinner. Abi’s mother gave her daughter this beautiful necklace along with her most precious kira.’

By now, both of the younger women have stopped

giggling, and even Abi has resigned herself to listen carefully to Bikul’s story, narrated so lovingly in a language she cannot understand. Still, the power of the gleaming necklace keeps everyone captivated.

‘Even before the meal started, Meme noticed Abi’s

necklace. He was so fascinated by the beautiful appearance of the girl across from him that he forgot to carefully check his drink. Abi’s parents had been counting on that. You see,’ Bikul interrupts himself to secretively walk closer to me, ‘people in Eastern Bhutan believe that a girl’s family 142

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can use black magic to attract a boy. They will put a secret herb into the boy’s drink and make him fall in love with the girl.’ Bikul now turns to the other women and translates his words to them. Immediately, Norbu Ama starts nodding wildly, while Abi loudly protests. She claims not to know about any black magic at all. Bikul shakes his head, also laughing.

‘You know, Britta, Norbu Ama even told me to always spill a little of my drink three times when I go to other villagers’ houses. That is the only way to protect yourself against the magic of the herbs. Norbu Ama did not want any girl to hook me like that.’

‘Do you actually believe in it?’ I ask incredulously.

‘You never know,’ Bikul replies. ‘Anyway, Abi’s parents were quick to distract Meme all evening, and Abi’s mother even invited Meme to come a little closer and have a better look at the pearls. All of a sudden, Meme felt shy. He wanted to seek permission from Abi, but she only smiled at him.

Finally, for the first time, Meme looked into her beautiful dark eyes. He had never before seen the charm and warmth of a young woman. Now he realised how much he wanted to hold her close. For a long time, the two looked at each other, and that night, Meme stayed in Abi’s house. Next day, they were married. So, you see, the magic did work.’

Bikul is obviously pleased with his story and gently puts the necklace back where he found it. Abi, Norbu Ama and Pema all start talking to me at once, and I nod in pretended understanding. I do not know what exactly Pema’s mother and grandmother are saying, but somehow I grasp that each is telling a slightly different version of Meme and Abi’s romance. I cannot help but smile. Perhaps each of these three women does know a little magic.

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C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

Meme Monk

Where did you get this from?’ I ask in a faltering Sharchhopkha, pointing at a small, yellowed

picture of Jesus Christ that is sharing the altar

with the colourful statues of Buddha and several honoured tantric deities. Pema’s grandfather thinks for a minute and then answers, ‘The foreigner’s Buddha.’ From Meme’s words and gestures I gather that a doctor from the mission gave it to him. He lovingly blows away an imaginary speck of dust and lights a butterlamp. From the shrine, he seems to focus on something beyond this world. With devout respect, his gaze shifts into the distance where nirvana is waiting for humanity.

Jesus is the Westerners’ Buddha. It is that easy. To him, what need is there to distinguish between Christianity and Buddhism? He believes in a higher being, no matter what He looks like. If only everyone could find such a peaceful compromise.

Meme Monk has embraced his deep belief and faith,

renouncing his wishes for materialism and is content to spend the eve of his life in peaceful meditation. He is 144

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happy with where he is and what he does, and it shows in the smooth features of his 84-year-old face.

The hut is no more than a one-room shelter but built in the solid Bhutanese style of stone and wood. Meme retreated to this tiny refuge years ago to find repose for meditation, leaving his family in their big farmhouse a few hundred metres farther down the hill. He knows that Norbu Ama is quite capable of running the farm by herself, and his old bones could no longer do the heavy work anyway. Although he loves his wife and family deeply, he now needs the quiet to think and contemplate life and religion alone.