Buttertea at Sunrise (12 page)

small crowd of attendants and patients gathers to enjoy the glorious evening. Women chat quietly, their fingers all the while busily finishing off a piece of weaving, spinning some wool, or picking lice out of someone’s hair. A group of men sits off to one side, absorbed in a game of cards. In a large depression in the ground where the new hospital construction is planned but has not yet begun, children play on a pile of sand. Some are engaged in a game of hide and seek; others are strapped with a saggy piece of elastic which is the instrument of a lively jumping contest. A few boys noisily play football.

Choden’s wheelchair has been pushed up the ramp to allow her to watch some of the activities, and Lhamo’s mother wheels her daughter over to the grass. Timidly, Yeshey and another little girl in a tattered kira begin a game of catch with Lhamo. For the first time, I hear laughter that is loud and free. Unconstrained and relaxed, the afternoon is marked with happy songs and games. Only when the sun sinks behind the mountains and the cook announces the arrival of dinner does the little community slowly move back inside the walls of the hospital.

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C H A P T E R T E N

Compassion

for Little

Things

In the third week of June, blessed with a full day of beautiful sunshine amidst the dark days of the summer monsoon, I move my bed and buckets into my newly

assigned two-room quarters below the hospital. My spirits soar. Within no time, my cheerless classroom abode is forgotten. Although the neighbourhood of construction sites has tripled from there to here since I arrived in Mongar, if I can ignore the noise, the view is superb. Before my doorstep, a steep valley drops out of sight, climbing up the opposite side on the southern slopes of Chali mountain.

My set of rooms is one of four identical apartments in a cement building that skirts the lower hospital campus, and if it were not for the construction noise around me, I could make believe that this is indeed my palace at the end 90

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of the world. My neighbours are friendly even if not overly eager to become acquainted. Only the OT nurse Sister Chandra to my left is happy to exchange a smile and chat.

The inhabitants of the two units above me prefer to share only our vista.

In front of my entrance door, there is a little overhang of the stairs leading to the upper units. I quickly designate it as my own laundry-drying room. On the first Sunday morning after my arrival, my small could-be porch is promptly christened by a chicken, which very unceremoniously blesses my doorstep with a couple of squishy droppings. Apparently satisfied, it then proceeds to stick its head through my door, inspecting my all-purpose living/bedroom. I never find out whether my decorations meet approval because a rooster comes speeding around the corner, and the two take off in a feather-flying cackle.

Then the telephone rings. A real phone, my own

telephone, in my own apartment! It is not any old telephone either. For the last five years, Mongar has been connected to the outside world via satellite, a luxury beyond measure.

I am reminded again that when new technology arrives in Bhutan, it is often accepted only in its most useful and sophisticated form. In eager anticipation, I pick up the receiver, and find that the line is clear and static free. But I cannot recognize the voice at the other end.

‘This is Dr. Bikul,’ the voice repeats.

Yes, of course, the sceptical doctor. Why is he calling me on a Sunday morning?

‘Do you want to play badminton with us? All the doctors are going to play a game at about ten o’clock.’

Me, play badminton? Help! I have not held a racquet since high school. I am not convinced that this is the time to start delving into a game against all of the respected high society of Mongar Hospital.

‘Well, I don’t have a racquet,’ I answer.

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‘That’s OK, you can borrow one from somebody else,’

the doctor insists enthusiastically.

I try to think of another excuse, but my mind is blank.

My reply sounds hollow and lame even in my own ears.

‘Thank you, but maybe not today. I might come up later and watch.’

Dr. Bikul does not seem satisfied with my answer, and hangs up after a disgruntled ‘OK. Bye.’ I feel guilty for turning down his first social invitation. Nonetheless, I am off the hook for today.

By noon, a little stab of loneliness shames me into watching at least one game. Fully expecting the inevitable stares and hushed snickering at my appearance, I climb the path to the main campus and head towards the hospital. To my relief, I meet no one.

On a small cement island amidst the staff quarters, a men’s double is under way. ADM and DMO are facing

Dr. Bikul and Karma, Pema’s husband. The game is fast and cutthroat. No laughter breaks the tension. Though I assume that they are enjoying themselves, the players look as if they are fighting a war. Clenched teeth, eyes pinched into a narrow squint, they attack the bird. A fumble of the shuttlecock is greeted with a loud groan by the teammate and a triumphant cry by the opposition.

I linger for a few minutes, and then continue along the road leading through the hospital campus. The Class A quarters surround a grassy patch with a few trees and an old volleyball court. Dr. Shetri, Dr. Kalita, Dr. Bikul and Dr. Robert each have separate houses with little gardens, and a spectacular view over the valley. The DMO, ADM

and matron have flat bungalow versions of Class A, located in the heart of the campus. Around and to the sides lie Class B and C quarters for nurses, lab technicians and other support staff.

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I know that there is an acute housing shortage. All of the present construction is for new staff quarters. However, the space is limited and old quarters had to be demolished in order to build new ones, leaving many employees without a home. They had to move into the town itself; however, there too, everything is occupied. A place like Mongar does not see a lot of change, and an influx of new bodies simply cannot be accommodated.

On completing one loop of the hospital road, I end up back at the badminton court. The game is over, and the ADM and Karma are dismantling the net. Dr. Bikul saunters over to join me. Immediately, my nagging guilt returns, and I smile.

He seems to have something on his mind, but not the words to say it. Shifting nervously from one leg to the next, he looks at me, then at his racquet, again at me. ‘Do you want to have dinner at the guesthouse tonight?’ he finally asks.

Dinner? I can hardly believe my ears. Yes! Of course! A dinner that has been cooked by someone else. A real dinner, not like my brew last night. I think of my rice, which turned into a pot of porridge-like gunk, and the green beans that were tasteless too, not forgiving the lack of spices or sauces.

For far too many days, I have been living off potatoes and bread. Honey and peanut butter are already coming out of my ears.

Does he know that I am a lousy cook, or is this a social invitation? Well, one way or the other, dinner means a full stomach to sleep on. Trying not to sound too eager, I quietly accept the offer.

The Sunday turns into a hot, muggy day, the kind that leaves you gasping for air, dreaming of fresh lemonade and ice cream. We start our climb from the hospital at five o’clock. The evening is warm and cloudy. Finally, the day’s 93

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heavy humidity has ceased to throttle our energy, and the agonising heat has cooled to a pleasant mild summer’s night.

Dr. Bikul marches slightly ahead with short, purposeful steps, and I do my best to keep up. By some unspoken law, we walk in silence until we reach the bazaar. Then, amongst the hubbub of Indian labourers, villagers and young men drinking and noisily playing carom, a game similar to pool, we slide into a serious conversation. Dr. Bikul is now eager to talk.

‘I like Canada. It is a good country. Canadians do a lot for the environment. They are an international leader in environmental protection.’

‘Hmm.’ I answer with a vague confirmation.

Dr. Bikul continues, ‘I like especially the Hudson’s Bay Company. I have heard that they do a lot to protect the forests in Canada.’

This time I have to interrupt. I am not sure that he really means the same Hudson’s Bay Company that I am thinking of. ‘Did you also know that the Company was originally based on fur trade? That is not an entirely environmentally friendly business,’ I say.

Dr. Bikul seems surprised but not in the least put off. He continues to inform me about the advantages of Canadian attitudes, about our environmental consciousness, and then moves on to issues on a global scale. I do not get another say.

Somehow, the topic shifts to a future world war, although the doctor firmly insists that such a possibility is out of the question. When he finally dives into a lecture about Germans and Hitler, I have had enough.

‘Did you know that I am originally from Germany? I really do not appreciate you generalising about a country you have never been to. That is dangerous! That is how prejudices are formed!’

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I am steaming. Who does he think he is? A bookworm, full of arrogance and theoretical knowledge. I feel like turning around, but instead we continue further and further up the road, leaving Mongar and the guesthouse behind us. As our feet strike the irregular pavement, we gradually steer the conversation back to safer ground, but the friction continues.

Maybe twenty minutes out of town, we reach a bend in the road. I look back. Below us lies Mongar. All around, the mountains stretch in a curvy silhouette, greying in the light of dusk. Dr. Bikul points to the individual peaks and tells me their names, sometimes the local name, sometimes the one he has given to them.

‘Over there, across from Mongar, is Chali. I like the people there. They are really funny. No one can drink as much as a Chalipa!’

Dr. Bikul acts out a drunken little dance and I have to grin.

Then he points to the next mountain. ‘The high peak beside Chali is Takchhu. To the right, the pass at the end of this valley is Kori La.’

I follow his finger to a ridge of mountains where the thin serpentine road disappears into the trees. It is a beautiful view. Farms dot the hillsides of terraced paddies and cornfields. The houses and tiny figures of people blend with their surroundings naturally and effortlessly. Again I marvel how the traditional Bhutanese buildings, often fantastic in their sizes and architecture, harmonise with the awesome splendour of the highlands.

Quietly, Dr. Bikul continues. ‘I call Kori La
Krishna Pahar
, in memory of my father.
Krishna Pahar
is where the sun rises every morning, and where the new day begins.’ Then he turns further south. ‘And these two peaks I have named
Hurja
and
Anonda
. If you stand here before sunrise when everything is still dark, the mountains are only a thin outline.

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And then, all of a sudden, you can distinguish
Hurja
and
Anonda
. Their shapes become clear, more defined. They glow in the first rays of the sun, just before it peaks over Kori La.’

Looking at his mountains, Dr. Bikul’s attitude softens.

The stern arrogance of his face gives way to something dreamy.

‘I love my nature,’ he says quietly. Then he smiles. It is a heart-warming smile that innocently erases the carefully guarded demeanour from his face. His dark eyes glow with passion, and for a second, I am charmed by his smile. Then abruptly Dr. Bikul sobers, and as if to protect his vulnerable confession, marches ahead a few steps.

A dog comes limping down the road, and my fleeting moment of utter content crashes in one sad look. The poor creature is nearly furless, and the red raw patches of skin are covered with pussy sores. Every rib lifts his skin a few centimetres from his hollow skeleton of a body, and several wounds on his legs are quietly bleeding. His eyes are swollen and weepy, and he salivates in long, slimy beads onto his paws and chest. He sniffs the road as if there was hope of any food coming his way, and then drags himself on, resigned to hunger.

He is not the first dog I have seen in Bhutan in pathetic condition, but of all of them he is certainly the one closest to death. In Mongar as well as in Thimphu, the streets are filled with stray dogs; most of them mangled and disfigured by scabies. No one seems to care. I see no one reaching out to these poor creatures; instead they are kicked and yelled at, and children learn from a small age that they are only useful as living targets for flying stones.

I stand there and helplessly watch as the sad little beast forces itself to make a big loop in order to avoid us. Dr.

Bikul turns to me, and I tell him my grief. Not that I expect him to understand, but I cannot keep my frustration inside.