Read Buttertea at Sunrise Online
Authors: Britta Das
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A T R U L K U S T A R
I slip my fingers into Bikul’s hand.
‘Do you think that I could see a Trulku star if it appeared in the sky?’ Questioningly I look up at the deep firmament.
‘Sure, why not?’
‘Maybe I would need to be more religious, you know, maybe I don’t believe enough in reincarnation and all those things. I mean, I am not a Buddhist.’
Bikul looks at me seriously. ‘I am not a Buddhist either.’
‘But you believe,’ I counter.
‘Hmm,’ Bikul thinks for a while. ‘I believe in many things.’
‘You believe in Buddha, don’t you?’ I press further.
Bikul seems to weigh his words carefully. ‘It depends.
My traditional Bikul believes in Buddha as an incarnation of God, because I am raised in a traditional Assamese Hindu family. And my rational Bikul believes in Buddha as an idea. The very idea that human beings have this potential to experience the mystery of life, the mystery of enlightenment. I think it is a great idea. We exist because we have ideas. And we create gods to serve our ideas.’
The idea of Buddha, the idea of enlightenment – why does Bikul never speak in easily understandable sentences?
His complicated answers irk me.
‘Well, I am sorry, I still don’t understand. Are you a Hindu or a Buddhist then?’
‘Neither! I follow dharma. It is the essence of Hinduism and Buddhism put together. At the core of dharma is the essence of feeling, and experiencing. You know, Britta, in this world, what matters is what you feel. Not what you believe. I cannot feel reincarnation, but Phuntshok does.
So, I respect his feeling. You know what I mean.’
OK, I think. He does not really believe in Trulku stars then. I personally like the idea. It speaks to my romantic side. And I want Bikul to feel the same. Isn’t he a romantic?
I am longing to have him on my side. Our philosophical 175
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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
discussions are all well and good, but I am frustrated that we never see things from the same angle. Is this the eternal East meets West problem? How can I win him over to my side?
‘But you do believe in love?’ I ask hesitantly.
‘Not really. Love is not a religion to believe.’
Pang. His answer hits me in the gut and I can feel a hot gush of panic rising inside me.
‘You mean,’ I lower my voice a bit and dare not look straight at Bikul, ‘you do not believe in love at all?’
Bikul seems unruffled. ‘I do not think love needs to be believed.’ With those words, he turns to look at me. I cannot read the expression in his dark eyes. Is he making fun of me now? In defence, I want to pull my hand away from his, but then, I feel Bikul holding on tighter. He smiles at me, and I imagine a faint blush appearing on his handsome face.
‘You know, I do feel love, the presence of love.’
‘Do you?’ I want to sound sarcastic, but my voice does not cooperate. Instead I stifle a sigh of relief and squeeze his hand lightly. Now, I can feel the heat rising in my own cheeks.
Bikul winks at me and pulls me back towards the hospital.
Then he adds, ‘Let’s look for a Trulku star tonight.’
A little later, we spread a blanket under an old
rhododendron tree in Bikul’s garden. Idly we lean against the twisted trunk and gaze up into the night. A deep calm surrounds us, hushing even the frogs in the damp leaves on the ground. The stillness is complete and uplifting. I could not describe it as a lack of noise, it is not a soundlessness, but rather it feels like a foundation, the beginning that all else is built on. As if the mountains were brooding on the bustling life, soothing it to sleep while the day turns into 176
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A T R U L K U S T A R
night. The peace of the air is almost palpable, reaching for us with a gentle touch, a caress with tender strokes.
In the east, a bright half moon climbs through the silhouette of branches and trees. Bikul points to a few stars.
‘Do you know that constellation?’
‘No,’ I whisper, trying not to disturb the tranquil mood.
‘Over there is Sagittarius.’
I nod quietly and lean my head against his shoulder. I wonder if he feels me right here. A little wind makes me shiver, and I nestle closer to my trusted friend. I look at the moon. He seems to smile, he seems happy with us too.
Drowsily I close my eyes.
A soft hand brushes over my head. I can feel the tender touch of Bikul’s fingertips sliding over my hair, careful, a little questioning. For a moment, I keep my eyes shut in delight, but then peep through half closed lids at the sky again. Perhaps we will see a Trulku star tonight. Perhaps under these wrinkled branches of the rhododendron tree, time will stand still for just a little while.
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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y
To School on
Crutches
The following day shines with a clear morning after a rainfall late in the night. The air is so clear that everything has been outlined like a sharp pencil
drawing, and houses, trees and even the clouds emerge on the mountains as if carefully placed there by an artist’s hand.
It feels odd to wake from this magical land of romance to the sobering reality of the hospital wards. As I open the physiotherapy department at nine o’clock, I withdraw into the safety of sweet memories, stubbornly trying to hang on to the tenderness of the night. Although I know that I need to concentrate on my patients, I am simply not yet ready to let go of that new tingling in my stomach. I want to shut the department and run to Bikul’s chamber, if only to confirm that he is there, that he is real, and that he feels as enchanted as I do. My work loses importance. Time spent 178
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T O S C H O O L O N C R U T C H E S
in the hospital seems wasted on this perfect morning – but then I meet Ugyen, a little girl with spina bifida.
In her tattered kira, supporting her weight fully on little wooden crutches, she immediately appeals to my sense of motherhood. With calloused, disfigured bare feet, she follows her father, a well-known officer with Mongar police, through the hospital. She does not say much, she hardly smiles, and I no matter how hard I try, I cannot not cheer her. Despite her father’s urgent appeal, she refuses to come to the physiotherapy room – but when I take her to Bikul’s chamber to enquire about her history, she unexpectedly relaxes. Bikul laughs.
‘Ugyen and I are good friends. She comes to see me often.’
For a few minutes, Bikul and I discuss the gravity of the little girl’s disability. All the while, however, Ugyen is in a hurry to leave. It is obvious that she loathes the hospital.
‘What can I do for her?’ Feeling helpless in light of Ugyen’s impatience, I look at Bikul.
He discusses something with Ugyen’s father in
Sharchhopkha, and then comes to my rescue.
‘They have invited us for tea to their house. Perhaps you and I could go there.’ Bikul winks at me. ‘Maybe Ugyen will feel more comfortable once she gets to know you.’
I look at Ugyen who seems to be waiting for an answer. I nod and just to make certain add ‘
Dikpe!
’ OK!
And to my greatest surprise, Ugyen smiles.
Although we have walked at least part of the way dozens of times before, today, every sight of Mongar town seems new and unfamiliar. I feel as if my vision has cleared. Walking beside Bikul, I now feel confident, even a little important.
After passing the bazaar, we take a road twisting up the slope towards the dzong, and then follow a gravel path to the courtyard of the police quarters. The whole area is teeming 179
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with life. A long building stretches before us, the twenty-odd doors each leading to a tiny dwelling, two small rooms per family. The sewage gutter dominates a narrow alley which connects many paltry kitchen rooms. Everywhere there are children in dirty clothes, playing, screaming, running.
Older siblings are busy washing laundry or scrubbing the floors. Women look out of the doors of dungy kitchens, the smoke of kitchen fires blurring their curious stares.
We are greeted respectfully, and children clear the path as we make our way to Ugyen’s home. Bikul questions a couple of people, and we are shown to a door towards the end of the alley. A middle-aged woman with short black hair sticks her head around the corner and blushes.
Apologetically she wipes her hands on her kira and quickly ushers us into her home. In the larger one of two rooms, she asks us to be seated on the only bed and pulls a small wooden table closer. Carefully she opens a cupboard that doubles as the house altar and pulls out two plastic cups and a packet of cookies. Then she disappears.
Bikul and I are left alone, sitting side by side on the colourful kira that serves as a bedspread. A little awkward, we both stare in different directions. Nevertheless encouraged by the secure knowledge that no one here speaks any English, I whisper my most pressing concerns.
‘Have you been here before?’
‘Only once,’ Bikul answers. ‘I feel sad to come here.
Everything is so crowded. I have a good friend though…
who lives in a house over there.’ He points behind us and away from the camp.
My mind skips to the thought of my little patient. ‘How can Ugyen possibly keep her pressure sores clean here?’ I have not noticed toilets anywhere, and the lack of privacy is screaming through the overcrowded doors.
‘I think there are outhouses somewhere,’ Bikul answers.
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T O S C H O O L O N C R U T C H E S
I ponder the problem. Though Ugyen can walk around on crutches and seems to have adapted well to her spinal disorder, she truly is handicapped in these surroundings.
Hygiene is not a top priority for most families in Mongar, but here it must be impossible. Bikul had told me that the reason for Ugyen’s frequent visits to the hospital over the last few years has always been an infection of some sort; either a urinary tract infection from a dirty catheter or a bacterial infection in the deep open pressure sores under both of her seat bones.
Ugyen’s mother reappears with two cups of tea, followed by a shy, quiet Ugyen herself. I try to coax the girl into sitting down with us, but she remains standing in the door, leaning on her crutches and watching. Her expression is neither frightened nor unfriendly, but rather sullen. All attempts at making conversation are greeted with a brief yes or no. Disappointed, I realise that it will take much more than just a visit to gain Ugyen’s trust.
Ugyen’s mother asks us to stay for dinner, but Bikul and I both apologise and turn down the offer. Bikul needs to go back to the hospital. He has emergency on-call duty.
Not wanting to offend the family or lose whatever tiny crumb of favour I might have gained in Ugyen’s eyes, I am left hoping that they will assume that I am needed for emergency duty, too. Ugyen does not say anything, but her mother seems to understand and, gratefully, we escape the noisy camp.
Once the cramped police quarters are behind us, big trees and the beautiful sight of the dzong welcome silence and serenity. I try to inhale deeply the fresh mountain air, but the smell of urine and rotten vegetables still occupies my senses. I imagine feeling the stare of a set of eyes in my back and turn around. Ugyen is standing at the edge of camp, leaning on her crutches and waving – but not smiling.
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B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
I swallow hard. Urban life, no matter where, is always more congested, more difficult, but never has it been as evident to me as here in Mongar. The pristine beauty of the mountains, the peaceful chortens and temples, and the miles and miles of forest, are mocked by the ugliness of cement buildings such as the police camp. I guess we all want to believe that somewhere there is a Shangri-La – and yet the piled up garbage in town and the dirty stinking sewage pipes are reminders of how fine that line between paradise and suffering can be.
Ugyen is part of this other reality of Bhutan which I stubbornly try to ignore. As the weeks pass, I grow more and more fond of my little spina bifida patient. Ugyen has never gone to school. Her four-point walk with wooden crutches is awkward, and her incontinence sends her shambling to the toilet at unpredictable times. In the stubborn way of a teenager, Ugyen decided that she does not want a catheter.
It labels her, it is troublesome, and she sees no reason why her urine should run into that see-through bag.
Initially, I cause quite a bit of turmoil in the hospital when I insist that the obviously neglected pussy pressure sores on Ugyen’s buttock must be treated. With the help of Bikul and some of the nurses, we convince Ugyen to come to the hospital daily for a week. Nodding seriously, her family promises to look after the wounds, and we spend several sessions teaching her parents how to keep the ulcers clean.
At the end of the week, Ugyen leaves with a big package of cotton pads and tape, and we even convince her to try a new catheter – but unfortunately the one that is inserted is too big. The hospital has run out of her size.