Buttertea at Sunrise (28 page)

B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E

of regret, apologising that she has nothing worthy to give.

I, however, munch on the thengma most contentedly and decide that buttertea has never been so tasty.

After tea, Meme takes me to the ancient Kadam temple.

To my surprise, I find a young monk seated in one of the temple’s corners, poring over sacred books. He looks up, and I recognise Tashi, a monk whom I met a few days ago in Bikul’s OPD chamber. I remember that he has come home to Mongar from his studies abroad. Meme leaves to continue his chores, and Tashi proudly shows me around the temple.

Though small, there is nothing simple or cheap about this lhakhang. The walls disclose intricately sketched motifs, while the ceiling and supporting pillars are richly decorated with ornaments and thangkas, canvas paintings surrounded by colourful brocade borders with a wooden stick on the top and the bottom for hanging. For protection and storage, these paintings can also be rolled up. Most thangkas show a main image of a Buddha or deity, or else a mandala, the wheel of life, or some other religious shape.

Time has faded the most glorious of colours and coated everything with the mysterious dusty haze of years gone by. There is much to look at, but even more to discover with the imagination. The moment I enter, I feel the need to simply let my thoughts wander to the world of religion outlined on the walls.

From the main shrine, the golden features of Guru

Rinpoche look down on me, not gently as I expected, but rather questioningly stern. The dimness inside the temple intensifies the white of the Guru’s eyes to a powerful light, drawing my gaze to the golden features. To the right of the main statue, the image of another Buddha is unfamiliar to me. ‘The Buddha of Compassion’ Tashi explains while pointing at the eleven heads and numerous sets of arms of the image. ‘And this one is a protector of the Buddhist 214

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K A D A M G O E M B A

teachings.’ This time he points to the red statue of a terrifyingly wrathful-looking deity.

Quietly I sit down beside Tashi. He is already busy writing into the book spread on his lap. What I had mistaken as a prayer book turns out to be his practice drawings of the face of a Buddha.

‘We have to follow the old instructions precisely,’ Tashi tells me. ‘We are not allowed to change any of the features or even colours of a drawing. We must draw everything just the same.

‘I am not very good,’ he adds, trying to close his book. I appeal for another look. On a blank page, Tashi has drawn geometric shapes and lines and, within these, he is now sketching the features of a head. On the little wooden table in front of him, a printed book serves as his guide.

‘Do you have a teacher who helps you with these

drawings?’ I ask.

‘Yes, madam, at our college we study. I will take many years to draw well. Actually, we are supposed to draw these figures under a tree and not inside a lhakhang,’ Tashi said.

‘If you draw it in daylight, you have a better chance to match proper colour. In India, where I receive my training, we always draw outside. But here in Bhutan, it is cold and filled with clouds.’ He makes a gesture which seems to express his relief that no teacher is watching him drawing the precious Buddha while sitting inside a lhakhang.

Fascinated, I watch the developing artist at work. Without much artistic talent of my own, I find it incredible that one day he will be able to reproduce the precise and colourful paintings of gods and deities that brighten all Bhutanese temples and decorations.

Tashi walks me back to Saidon Abi’s house. Coming

from the temple, I discover decorations on Abi’s home that had escaped my eyes before. Two rusty bicycle frames are propped against the wall, and a large collection of empty 215

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bottles, some old oil drums, a few corrugated iron sheets and a worn out shoe protect the rear of the house. Some distance off to the side, a few children are standing beside a big wooden bowl, stomping long poles onto kernels of something resembling wheat. In perfect rhythm and incredible speed, they alternate their pounding.

‘Making arra,’ Tashi explains with a smile, but I am not sure if he is joking.

Inside Abi’s house, the activities are no less bustling. An old woman with leathery hands is grinding corn in a huge wooden trough. The grain resembles popcorn kernels before popping, and in fascination I watch them disappear under a plate-like millstone. Slowly the old woman turns the wooden handle until fine flour appears in a bowl below the trough.

In the back of the hut, Saidon Abi’s grandson is joined by his elder sister for a game of catch. Everyone breaks out into hearty laughter when the toddler slides his feet into Abi’s slippers and shuffles around the room, half falling, half supporting himself on everything in reach. One stumble sends him within inches of the hot ashes of the fire, and I think of the terrible burns that I have seen in the hospital. Saidon Abi must have similar worries, for she determinedly pulls the little boy back into her lap.

When dusk bids me to return home, Saidon Abi pushes a big plastic bag of thengma and a few walnuts into my hands, all the while apologising that she has nothing to offer. She asks me to come again, and holding her tiny hand in both of mine, I promise another visit soon.

Hesitant to leave, I linger by the chorten in front of Saidon Abi’s house. Below me lies the town of Mongar, so close that I can see the individual rooftops – and yet a world away. A couple of villagers bring in their cows for the night. At the communal water trough, a few women 216

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wash the day’s laundry. In the surrounding huts, fires are lit to cook an evening meal. Birds twitter a goodnight song, accompanied by the echoes of a puja. From the mountain behind me sounds the chanting of prayers.

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C H A P T E R T W E N T Y  F O U R

The Dances of

Light

In a dark corner of the courtyard of Mongar dzong sits a blind man. Every day from morning until night, he turns a large prayer wheel, keeping the huge drum in rotation and sending prayer after prayer into the world. The man is quiet and inconspicuous, and I would hardly know of his presence were it not for the steady sound of a bell, which strikes on each rotation of the wheel.

His world consists of prayer. The wheel and a rosary are his
companions. He is oblivious to the daily comings and goings of men
in starched ghos with long white scarves draped over their shoulders.

The hustle of the administrative officers marks his day only at 9 a.m.

when they stroll into the dzong, and at 5 p.m. when the government
employees return home. The blind man’s work, though, remains
until it is time to sleep, and starts again when the first daylight
illuminates a world, which for him has turned into darkness.

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T H E D A N C E S O F L I G H T

Tobgay Dhendrup shifts his sightless gaze upwards, and a smile
plays around his murmuring lips. Unfaltering, he recites an ancient
Buddhist script, a prayer so pure it makes his heart dance. Not a
hint of disappointment or bitterness reflects in his features. Forty-two years of age, he has attained wisdom, out of reach for many who
could grasp life with all of their senses.

Eight years ago, a viral infection of the optic nerves took Tobgay’s
eyesight. Over the period of one long month, he marked the days
when he would last behold the sight of his lovely wife and three
children. Since then, their features live only in his imagination. His
busy life of a farmer ended when he could no longer find the edge of
his fields, and slowly he turned inwards, to the world of Buddha’s
words. He searched for a meaningful task in his darkened days,
and found it in the honourable role of turning the dzong’s prayer
wheel.

Tobgay feels deep gratitude that the disease attacked only his
eyes. Over the years in the dzong, he has found his hearing to be
his trusted ally, a window that has opened his mind to the sounds
of prayer. From his spot in the courtyard, he listens to the monks
chanting. He follows their recitations and rituals and embraces each
word in his memory.

Now, the blind man nods quietly in rhythm with the drums
that echo through the courtyard. Although he cannot see the monks
practising the intricate steps of ancient dances, he knows each
movement by heart, and in his mind, he sees their bare feet leaping
high through the air. Excited, he turns the prayer wheel a little
faster, matching the tempo of the dance.

While in Canada Christmas is nearing, everywhere in the district of Mongar people are busy with the yearly preparations for
tshechu
, a lively four-day festival in honour of Guru Rinpoche. Tshechu is celebrated in the dzong with dances, performances and prayers, but it is also a popular social gathering, a time to chat, feast and show off the finest clothes.

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Now, two days before the big event, preparations are in full swing. On the clay stoves in village homes, colourful dishes are spiced and seasoned, there are pots of simmering rice and boiling potatoes, and bags are filled with zao and thengma. From the road, you can hear the diligent knocking of looms as young women feverishly try to finish their new festival garments. Even the hospital is caught in the industrious calling of the upcoming celebration. Patients in the ward ask to be discharged, and the outpatient chambers remain empty. No one wants to miss the commemoration of the great master Guru Rinpoche.

From within the dzong’s walls, I can hear the drums of dances. It is the last day for rehearsal of the religious performances of tshechu. Tomorrow the dancers will take a day of rest before the festival begins. Inside the lhakhang, there is much to do. Offerings are made and butterlamps filled for many hours of midnight prayers. Fruit and baked goods line the altar, packages of Dalda and sugar join a huge variety of fresh produce. Villagers offer even the most precious items for merit during this sacred festival of dance and prayer.

Although the rites of tshechu date back to the beginnings of tantric Buddhism, outside the white walls of the fortress, a new kind of fair is prepared. Blue tarps are spread over wooden poles to construct makeshift huts. Pickup trucks bearing tables and chairs sputter up the peaceful roads.

Men carry boxes and crates full of beer and liquor to be placed behind temporary bars. Dice are unpacked and cards stacked on tables. Outside the dzong, a transient casino has been erected.

Tobgay’s son Wangdi leads Bikul and me into the dochey, the inner courtyard of the dzong.

‘Apa,’ Wangdi gently puts his hand on the blind man’s shoulder, ‘I am back.’

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T H E D A N C E S O F L I G H T

Tobgay smiles and stretches a hand out towards his youngest son.

‘Come sit,’ he says, and shuffles aside to make a little room.

‘Dr. Bikul is here, and Madam,’ Wangdi explains.

Tobgay’s smile broadens and, tentatively, he reaches out for us. Bikul takes his hand and holds it between both of his palms.

‘How are you, Tobgay?’

The blind man nods and smiles. Bikul introduces me to Tobgay. Again, the blind man’s face radiates honest joy.

‘Will you come to join tshechu, doctor?’ He points to the courtyard where several men are still prancing in swaggering steps, bowing deep, then twisting their bodies in a slow rolling motion.

‘Yes, of course,’ I answer.

Tobgay nods, and turns towards his son. ‘Which dance are they practising, Wangdi?’

‘They are all villagers, Apa, they must be finishing
Drametsi Ngacham
.’

Tobgay seems satisfied with his son’s prompt answer. He takes pride in teaching his children the real importance of tshechu.

‘Apa,’ Wangdi adds quietly, ‘I think those men had too much arra. Their steps are a little weird.’

‘I know,’ Tobgay replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

‘Some of those villagers cannot dance without the help of arra. I think they are almost finished now?’

‘Yes, Apa,’ Wangdi confirms.

Tobgay addresses us with sorrow in his voice. ‘Doctor, did you see the tarps outside? What do you think about this new generation?’ he asks. Then without waiting for an answer, he continues. ‘This modern youth, they believe only in drinking and gambling, but not in the truth of the sacred dances.’

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The drums have silenced and the villagers have gathered in the far corner of the dzong. Jigme, Bikul’s friend and the monks’ second in charge, firmly leads them out of the courtyard. The monks want to get on with the preparations for tshechu. The dance rehearsals are over.