Read Buttertea at Sunrise Online
Authors: Britta Das
For three nights, the star appeared and shone down from
heaven. For three nights, its light radiated to every part of the
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Himalaya. The little monk watched every evening, and joined
his hands in prayer. On the third night, with bright eyes and
a quivering voice, he turned to his friends. ‘It is a Trulku star!’
he whispered. ‘Somewhere, a great lama has been reborn.’
On a chair by the window sits a young man clad
in red robes. He flips through the pages of a
book, seemingly uninterested, his mind perhaps
preoccupied. When I enter, he looks up with a sweet, innocent smile. He studies me quietly with a mixture of curiosity and welcome.
‘Hello,’ I stammer freezing in my tracks. ‘I just came to, um, to ask Bikul if he has some sugar.’ The sight of the unfamiliar figure throws me completely off balance.
‘Bikul is there,’ says the young man, pointing at the kitchen. His voice is soft and a little husky, as if I had woken him from deep sleep.
I feel the heat rising in my cheeks. Blushing for no reason, I remain standing fixed to my spot on the floor.
Bikul enters to my rescue.
‘Phuntshok,
chai piyange
? He addresses the monk as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
‘Phuntshok is my friend,’ he explains while walking over to where the young monk is sitting. ‘He is a great
Trulku
, a reincarnation of an important Tibetan lama.’
Phuntshok (pronounced as Phuntsho) offers me another shy smile. He says something to Bikul in Hindi, and gathering the various ends of his robe, he slowly rises from the chair.
‘Do you want to come for a walk with us?’ Bikul
translates.
At first I hesitate, but the prospect is too tempting to turn down. I look at Phuntshok who is patiently waiting beside the door. I imagine that his grin is almost as awkward as mine, and I nod sheepishly.
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A young monk with a head of closely cropped black
hair, a bouncy chattering Indian doctor and a blonde blue-eyed girl – we make a funny threesome, strolling along the street. The road is busy with girls and boys in school uniforms, reciting something out of their books. For a while, Bikul and Phuntshok converse fluently in Hindi.
Then, to my greatest embarrassment, Bikul urges us to start a conversation.
‘Phuntshok speaks a little English. Why don’t you two talk about something? Talk about anything,’ he advises and then retreats into silence.
My head seems empty, and I am completely tongue-tied.
The great Trulku seems to have similar dilemmas and we walk on, each studying our feet, until Bikul again pipes up.
‘Why don’t you ask him about his life,’ he says to me and nods encouragingly at both of us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Phuntshok. He does seem rather like a normal young man. I gather all my courage. ‘Are you a
gelong
?’ As soon as it is out, I wish that I could take my words back. The question seems silly, as if I was asking the obvious.
Phuntshok smiles. ‘Yes, but actually still a
getsul
.’
I ponder what to ask next, but before I have managed to formulate an intelligent question, my tongue gets the better of me.
‘What is a getsul?’ Embarrassed I cough and look to the ground.
‘We live in dzong or monastery. We study Buddha’s
words.’
‘Getsuls first have to be fully ordained as monks before they become gelongs,’ Bikul explains. ‘But around here, we call them all gelongs. It’s easier that way.’
Phuntshok grins and seems to agree.
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‘Oh.’ Another lapse of silence, then I ask Phuntshok if he is allowed to marry. He says no.
‘At what age did you become a monk?’ I think of the little red-robed boys in the market, tiny monklets, or ‘little Buddhas’ as Dr. Kalita calls them. How can they decide at such a tender age to dedicate their lives to religion?
‘My mother take me to dzong in Lhuntse when I am six. I always know that I will become gelong. You know because of Trulku.’
Trulku – the word sounds like ‘tikku’ when he pronounces it. I ask again about the meaning of Trulku. The answer, however, is too complicated for Phuntshok’s English, and Bikul has to translate from Hindi.
Buddhists believe in the reincarnation of all beings, Phuntshok explains. No one is born for the first time, but has lived through many, many lives, has died and been reborn since the beginning of time. Trulkus are reincarnations of great masters who are successively reborn in different people. The consciousness of the lama is passed on to a newborn baby, and the child and eventually the grown man embodies this later consciousness. A Trulku still has to learn or relearn many things, but he is able to do so quickly, and has an inborn propensity for the dharma, the ‘right way’.
The concept seems rather confusing to me, but over my past months in Bhutan, I have come to understand that the Bhutanese believe deeply in the rebirth of all beings.
I ask if all Trulkus are monks. Phuntshok shakes his head. Trulkus do not have to take monastic vows, but most feel the need to live in the monastic community and live like the other ordained monks. There they cannot drink or smoke or marry. If, however, a Trulku does not join the monastic community, he can have a family and lead a village life. No matter what his profession, he will always remain a Trulku.
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Phuntshok was born in Kurtoe, a district north of
Mongar, in 1970. At that time, a group of monks from the lower Tsangpo valley in Tibet came searching for the reincarnated lama of Samye Monastery. Samye is a place shrouded in historical legends and stories. It is said that Guru Rinpoche built it in the eighth century AD, signalling the solid entry of tantric Buddhism to the Himalaya. Since that day, Samye has been an important stronghold of the oldest sect of tantric Buddhism.
The monks of this famous monastery knew only that
their lama had been reborn somewhere in Kurtoe, and they searched for several weeks. Guided by time-old rituals and traditions, they visited families with newborn babies. However, none of the children showed signs of reincarnation. The monks employed many techniques to identify the precious child. Besides using landmarks of the baby’s home and characteristics of the family, they checked the infant’s birthmarks and showed him relics of the previous lama. However, none of the children fitted the necessary criteria, and none could differentiate between objects out of the late lama’s personal use (such as his teacups, rosary or handheld drums), and relics belonging to someone else. Finally, the group of monks returned to Tibet without success.
In the distant village of Kupinesa, however, soon after the birth of her baby boy, a mother realised that her son was different. His first words were spoken in a language none of the villagers could understand, and his expression was calm and serene, gazing with dark eyes into the distance.
As soon as he could walk alone, Phuntshok would go to the dzong and pray with the other lamas. He knew how to pray without being taught, yet the language he had spoken soon after birth disappeared. When he was six years old, Phuntshok’s mother took him to the dzong, and he became a monk. Phuntshok was comfortable in this role.
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His training and education progressed rapidly, and soon he surpassed the knowledge of many of the older lamas.
A year later, the Tibetan monks returned and recognised him as the twentieth reincarnation of the great lama Kinley.
His formal education began when he was sent to school in Thimphu, where, among other things, he learned Hindi and some English. During his time in Bhutan’s capital, an important minister took him in. Since then, he has been studying at the monastic school of Ngatshang, 25 km by road east of Mongar.
Phuntshok seems to tell his tale in a matter of fact way, and, if Bikul’s translation is correct, without a trace of conceit or boast. While he has been speaking, our steps have slowed, and now we are standing above Mongar
dzong, looking down at its gleaming pinnacle.
‘Do you remember your previous birth?’ I ask.
‘Oh no!’ Phuntshok smiles.
Thinking about the monastic school in Ngatshang, I ask him how he came here today.
‘Walk,’ he says.
‘You walked all the way?’ In renewed respect, I look at his plastic sandals.
‘We take shortcut over mountain,’ he says, and points to a ridge beside Kori La.
The sun is about to set behind the western peaks and throws long, yellow rays onto the high pass. I imagine a red-robed figure, clambering over the rocks and running through the thick forest. I imagine the reincarnation of a great lama getting blisters on the hot pavement of the road. I look at Phuntshok as he and Bikul walk amiably side by side down to the entrance of the dzong. From behind, only the red robes distinguish the Trulku from the familiar figure of the young doctor.
For nearly a week, Phuntshok comes to see Bikul daily.
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about the possibility of a trip to Aza, a remote monastery three days north of Ngatshang. Bikul knows that he cannot leave now. The monsoon is still heavy and brings with it a multitude of diseases and conditions related to contaminated water and dangerous insects. The hospital is still filled to the brim, and there is a shortage of doctors who can respond to emergency calls.
Phuntshok does not question the timing of their trip.
He spends his days at the dzong and the late afternoons with Bikul and me on campus or walking through town. I learn to see in him a gentle boy who is eager to please and grateful for friendship. His family is poor, and his mother lives alone in a village in Kurtoe, giving what she can to her distinguished young son. With a little regret, I compare Phuntshok to children of royalty who are born into a certain rank and status, thereby losing the option to lead a regular life. This view of mine is unfounded, though. Phuntshok seems happy with his fate, and Trulku or not, he proves to be a modest, caring young man.
After a few days, I feel completely comfortable in his company. He is like a steady pole, a soothing presence in the often-tense hospital environment. It is endearing to observe the bond between Bikul and Phuntshok, their genuine admiration for each other. Each in his own way is more experienced, the doctor in the hard lessons of life’s realities, and the monk in the teachings of the dharma.
On Sunday when Bikul and I return from the subjee
bazaar, Phuntshok is ready with breakfast – a huge pot of rice is served to provide the base for colourful curries (and in my case to neutralise the sharp bite of the spicy dishes). Phuntshok has prepared a feast –
alu dam
(potatoes in a curry sauce),
saag
(spinach) and onions,
ema datsi
(the Bhutanese national dish of chilli peppers cooked in the local fresh cheese) and, at the side,
chapati
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bread). In Bhutanese custom, our grand cook remains in the background until we are finished. Then he takes his bowl and eats his own meal, adding generous portions of fresh chilli peppers. Afterwards, Phuntshok even refuses to let me do the dishes. Firmly insisting, he claims possession of the kitchen and starts cleaning up.
Without any fanfare, Phuntshok’s presence becomes part of our daily outings, and his visit passes all too quickly. I admire his quiet understanding, his unpretentiousness and his humble respect for everyone around him. Unlike some of the hospital staff who raise their eyebrows when they see me with Bikul, Phuntshok never shows any surprise at my appearance.
One day, I am told by the hospital administration that it is not suitable for me to be seen walking in the bazaar with Bikul. ‘You would have to be more discreet… You should be careful about spending time in unsuitable company… It would be better if you go walking with the single nurses…’
The comments hurt me deeply and make me withdraw
further from the hospital.
Luckily, Phuntshok has no such prejudices or objections.
His unspoken approval gives me new strength. Gratefully I tell myself that in matters of the heart, the opinion of a monk should count much more. I only wished that
Phuntshok would stay.
On a clear autumn night, we walk Phuntshok back to the dzong. He will take the bus early the next morning to return to Ngatshang. I wonder when we will see him again.
‘Bye!’ Phuntshok waves to us in his carefree, unruffled way.
Bikul and I return his gesture. Not exactly sure why Phuntshok came to Mongar, and even less certain of what he will do next, my eyes follow the Trulku’s red robes disappearing through the gate of the dzong.
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