Buttertea at Sunrise (34 page)

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screaming. I want to concentrate on Lam Neten’s words, but I am too aware of the fifty pairs of eyes watching us closely. Lam Neten continues to speak, and now at regular intervals all of the monks join him for a single word spoken in unison. It sounds like an agreement, as if they are reinforcing the lama’s words.

Then Jigme asks Bikul to get up and walk over to Lam Neten’s seat. I follow close behind. Still speaking softly, Lam Neten lays the ceremonial scarves around our neck and shoulders, as if presenting us with a medal. I am so nervous I can feel my hands shake, but Lam Neten’s warm smile reassures me. I still do not know what is happening, and I am perplexed by the grin in the faces of dozens of monks.

Confused and delirious, we walk back to our seats.

Phuntshok too is grinning. The monks’ chants now rise in volume, and the words seem spoken faster and faster.

There is no music, and then all becomes quiet, only Lam Neten’s voice murmurs deeply. The others join in again, and their words are now accompanied by the ringing of bells, the horns, the low ‘om’ of the conch, and finally the sound of cymbals. Then the instruments hush, and only the horn introduces another thump of the big drums.

Everything feels a little unreal; perhaps a lack of sleep and the smoke of heavy incense have tricked my mind.

Phuntshok whispers to us, and after a slight pause, Bikul turns to me.

‘Lam Neten just gave us his blessings for a long life and many children.’

For a moment, I think my heartbeat stops.

‘You mean…?’

Bikul nods and grins. Then he reaches for my hand and squeezes it gently. Our fingers remain locked.

Desperately, I try to focus my mind, but it seems that all thoughts have begun to bounce around in complete chaos.

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T H E S O U N D O F A C O N C H

I want to picture the moment again. We prostrated, there was a prayer, Lam Neten presented the scarves to us – and all the monks were grinning. Suddenly I feel jubilant and victorious. At last, Mongar has accepted our love! In front of Buddha and some of his faithful disciples, we have just been married.

After the puja, Bikul and I linger for a while in the silent room. Outside the window, the deep call of a conch echoes through the valley. The soothing stillness of the mountains awake in me a sense of peace and contentment. Around me lives history, and yet this is the reality too. Somewhere another bell is ringing for prayer. It reminds me that it is time to let go. I know that I am saying goodbye to Bhutan; it is time to move on.

I look at Bikul and see the tiny reflections of candles in his eyes. I have to smile. My goodbyes are not for Bikul.

The world is a big place. Somehow, somewhere, we will find a spot for both of us.

No, today, I am quietly thanking Bhutan. Over the last year, this tiny Himalayan kingdom has been my home. For one year, I have worked, fought and wept here, and I have dreamed, laughed and loved. I have come to appreciate the kingdom’s struggle for survival and the King’s quest to preserve its unique and ancient culture. There are many things about Bhutan, which to this day, I do not understand.

It is no Shangri-La, and yet it is a special place that casts a spell on most who have entered.

As I listen for the echo of the conch calling through the valley, I know that a small part of me will always long for Bhutan, for the mountains, the trees and the prayer flags.

I am sure that even if far away, I will reach out for the simplicity of this life that measures time in moons and counts the years with animals and elements.

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There are people here who have touched my heart and moved my soul more than I ever thought possible. They are our friends in the villages, the minakpas and the monks, and a few kind spirits in the hospital. I know that I will miss them, their gentleness, their generosity and smiles, and their peaceful religion, which is so much part of this life in the mountains. And with all of my heart, I hope that some day we will meet again.

Yet I wonder what I will find if I return. Will I look back on this past year as my only true glimpse of a secluded Himalayan kingdom and a religion that has carried man through the centuries of change? I worry about the destructive nearness of technology. I am scared that the charm and innocence of the villages will soon be lost. How far will development spread? Is there hope that this ancient kingdom will survive its launch into the modern times? So many questions left – and only a few vivid images to guide my answers.

Perhaps one day, time will spread its lazy haze over my memories. Details will lose their shapes, and fantasy will dress the remaining pictures. Maybe one day, I will question the reality of those special nights, hidden behind the walls of a fortress, in a small country which is bowing to change. And still, I believe that the dream will remain.

It is a dream of ancient times, of harmony and traditions. A dream filled with the hope that the voice of Buddhism will survive, here in the mountains of everlasting snow, where it is carried to heaven by the chanting of a mantra and the song of the prayer flags in the wind.

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Epilogue

From the state of Assam in India, Bhutan is no more than a day’s drive, and from a hill high above the banks of the river Brahmaputra, I can see the Himalayan

foothills shimmering blue in the rising heat.

‘Look! Beyond those mountains lies Mongar! Can you believe that my home is so close to Bhutan?’ Excited, Bikul points towards the north.

‘Yes, but what a long road it was for us,’ I reply, thinking about a journey that spanned two years – from the isolated valley of Mongar to the comforts of my home in Canada, and finally back across the Pacific to the wide floodplains of Assam.

Beside me, in a white dhoti and looking more handsome than ever, Bikul – my courageous friend, my husband and my true love – nods seriously.

‘It seems like a long time ago, doesn’t it?’

I squeeze Bikul’s hand lightly.

Yes, it seems like forever since the day Bikul gave up his job in Mongar and his plans for postgraduate studies in India, to follow me to Canada, where, while my stomach recovered, we fought our battle with bureaucracy for eighteen months. We were ready to start a new life together, but where and how proved to be more difficult than we had expected. Our first hurdle was Canadian immigration 263

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who doubted Bikul’s intentions of staying with me and the sincerity of our love. My poor health did not allow me to return to India, and to avoid a lengthy and uncertain separation, we quickly married in a court of justice near my home town. An Indian wedding ceremony as we both had wished was out of the question for the time being. Still, the immigration officials were not convinced, and after a year without permission to leave and reenter Canada, by default, we began to settle in Toronto.

Unfortunately, Canada also forced Bikul to change his career. Not only would he not be able to continue his postgraduate oncology courses, his Indian medical education and licence were not recognised in Canada, effectively annulling his position as a doctor. Still, my health left us no choice. While Bikul waited for his Canadian residency papers, he continued to study at our home, trying to find an alternative path that would allow him to work in the field of cancer research. Finally, when his papers cleared, he started work on a PhD at the University of Toronto, while working in the pathology laboratory of the Hospital of Sick Children.

I returned to work at a small physiotherapy clinic and while, slowly, my stomach settled and my strength returned, I began writing about my impressions of Bhutan, which would later turn into the pages of this book.

Things had not turned out the way we had expected, but despite all odds, we managed to stay together. During this time of readjustment and healing while Bikul and I started anew, Bhutan withdrew into a bittersweet nostalgia. Letters, though lovingly written, were often lost on their journey across the Pacific, and only Pema, my trusted friend, has managed to keep in touch. Yet her words often saddened and worried me, and one of her letters has remained deeply etched in my mind.

Dearest Britta and Bikul,

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E P I L O G U E

I was very happy to see your letter and photo you had sent, but when the reply was delayed, I thought you both had forgotten me. But I am very happy that my love and remembrance are still in your heart. Chimmi always talks about you two. She took one of your photo. Nima is almost same, he understands us little only. I am worried only for Nima. Day and night, I am thinking only of Nima, my tears fell when I think of more… About here, both the roads are blocked from landslides, no way to escape from Mongar. These days I am not going anywhere, staying only in physio. I feel like crying when I think of the past days with you… Ugyen is in class II but her teacher says that she is very poor in studies. Every time I met her, I am telling her to come for dressing but she never comes…

What about your stomach now? Are you getting better? Do take care of it because you have to be a mom soon. If it is so, please inform me. I am very eager to hear the news for both of you… If you come to India, phone me so that we can meet each other…

Your friend always,

Pema

When we finally planned our Indian wedding in Assam, we invited Pema to join us in the celebration, but sadly, she could not make it. From Dr. Pradhan we heard that Nima is not improving and the trips to Vellore have only resulted in more bad news, more prescription drugs and insurmountable expenses. In some ways, I share Pema’s helplessness; perhaps if Pema and Nima stayed in North America, Nima could receive better rehabilitation, better equipment, and Pema would get more support – but I do not know if it would be worth the cost of tearing them from their familiar environment and family. So all I could do was to send Pema some educational books and videos, but even then, I wonder if the pictures of fancy equipment and descriptions of modern rehabilitation tools would not 265

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add to Pema’s frustration, knowing how such treatments are out of reach for her son.

As to my other little patients, time and distance have severed the already tenuous connection with the villages of Bhutan, and I can only hope that the absence of bad news heralds success.

In the meantime, Bhutan has taken its own huge step towards modernisation, and through the weekly newspaper, the
Kuensel
, I have been following Bhutan’s developments with mixed emotions.

On 1 June 1999, with the help of foreign funding and a brave look towards the new millennium, Bhutan opened its doors to the media by hooking into the Internet and for the first time ever legalising television and satellite dishes. The floodgates to the dangers of a new generation of boredom and dissatisfaction have therewith been unbolted, and Hindi songs and Hollywood action will more easily dilute a precious but fragile heritage.

Friends who drove through Mongar a few weeks ago said that we would be hard pressed to recognise it. The new bypass road has been finished, the bazaar largely shifted, satellite dishes are sprouting like mushrooms even from remote hillsides, and the continuing works on the Kuruchu hydro project keep flooding the little town with Indian labourers, foreign rupees and industriousness.

In many ways, I wish that I could remember Bhutan the way that it used to be, and yet the no longer spoken words in Sharchhopkha are already fading from my memory. As Bhutan is moving towards a new era of cyberlinks and CNN news, and evening gatherings worship the television screen instead of an altar with flickering butterlamps, I guess that I too will move forward, embracing change as a survival technique.

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E P I L O G U E

I am an Indian bride now, adorned with fine jewellery and wearing my red bindhi and sindhoor. In a formal, three-day ceremony, Bikul and I have been married in front of my parents, who travelled with us, Bikul’s family and hundreds of Assamese friends and neighbours, some cheerfully, some sceptically welcoming me into their community. I have changed from a Bhutanese kira into a delicate silk sari, shyness overcoming me as the elegant folds of my dress rustle while I rise to greet my new family.

Quietly I whisper ‘
Namaskar
’ instead of ‘
Kuzuzang po la
’, and the altar with statues of Buddha and Guru Rinpoche has been replaced by a simple book of prayer on a bronzen offering bowl.

And yet – the conch in the Hindu holy man’s hand makes the same sound I first heard in a small Himalayan kingdom:
Om
… it is the sound of a new beginning.