Buttertea at Sunrise (16 page)

Inside Choden Karma’s house, the smells of the petrol station are replaced by heavy incense that threatens to make me dizzy. Gratefully I sink onto a small bench. As if our arrival was expected, our host, a short lady wearing a resolute posture, immediately offers a bowl of zao and two cups of tea. She is full of news and gossip and wants to know all about my reasons for being in Mongar.

Between lengthy explanations, I contemplate the dilemma of how to eat the offered rice. Choden Karma instructs me to scoop it into my cup. Thoroughly embarrassed, I show her my dirty hands and refuse politely. Choden Karma gives me a quizzical look and inspects my pale skin, which must appear perfectly clean. Then, with a cheerful ‘Just wait a moment!’ she disappears, only to return moments later with a bowl, a can of water and a bar of soap. While she pours the water generously over the bowl, I awkwardly wash my hands in the middle of her sitting room. Water droplets and soap splash everywhere but that seems of little consequence. My host smiles, well satisfied, and continues to urge me to have more tea.

Dema and Choden Karma launch into an animated

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quietly study the room. Across from our bench, there is a little house altar with offering bowls and a few flowers. A shelf to its left bears a TV and a VCR. Television programs are not allowed in Bhutan, a ban which is strictly regulated and reinforced. However, Hindi films and western movies found their way into the kingdom a few years ago, and have obviously spread to a few select houses as far as Mongar.

Choden Karma follows my eyes and then proudly nods at her TV. ‘Watching movie is the only thing you can do in Mongar. It is so boring here.’

She tells me that her husband has been transferred here from Paro, a larger town on the other end of the kingdom, and that she dislikes the move a lot. ‘You must be very boring here, doctor. Mongar feels not good, isn’t it?’

I look at her red lipstick that seems so out of place in this modest town and shake my head. I try to explain that I like the silence and the serenity of the mountains, but I get the distinct impression that we are on different wavelengths.

Both women only stare at me in obvious confusion. Then they repeatedly tell me how boring Mongar is and that there is
NOTHING
to do here. They inform me about the advantages of living in Thimphu or Phuntsholing, two large towns in Bhutan. Although we chat amiably, our conversations run in different directions, and we fail to meet at any crossroad. Trying not to seem too much an outsider, I keep my opinions about city life to myself.

When I finally take my leave, I have to promise to return soon. The ladies are still worried that I will be too boring by myself.

There is no electricity that evening and by the flickering light of a candle, I pour my heart out to my diary. A knock interrupts my thoughts. Startled, I check my watch and only tentatively open the door. I am greeted by a big cardboard box from the bakery and an apologetic Bikul peeping over 122

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A R E Y O U F E E L I N G B O R I N G ?

its edge. He thrusts the box into my hands. ‘I brought these for you.’

I open the lid and find myself ogling several lovely pastries. A peace offering for last night’s misunderstanding?

Or perhaps…? To answer my unspoken query, Bikul

apologises for the missed dinner. Then he looks sheepishly at his feet.

‘Do you want to come in?’ Self-conscious and acutely aware of the impropriety of the situation, I hesitantly open the door all the way. Spud jumps up from beside the bed and with a loud, annoyed bark, disappears into the darkness.

My guest settles onto a chair beside the door.

‘Have you had dinner?’ I ask.

‘Not really,’ Bikul mumbles.

I suggest eating some of the cakes now, but Bikul refuses immediately, insisting that he has brought them only for me. Despite his protest, I fetch a knife from the kitchen and divide each pastry into half. Having successfully manoeuvred around the Bhutanese social formalities of turning down offered food at least twice before accepting, we devour most of the cakes in a few scrumptious bites.

Then Bikul reaches for my little photo album, and together we study the pictures. I imagine a new closeness between us. Bikul seems to be delighted with my photography. He admires each scene at length and then comments on it. To my dismay, however, he quickly reverts to his know-it-all attitude. I try not to let it get to me and remember the look on his face earlier when he arrived with his box of apologies.

We talk about this and that and the evening rushes by.

At times I wonder if he is stalling his departure, if he is looking for a reason to stay, but at a little past ten o’clock, Bikul lets himself out through my front door.

My ‘Goodnight!’ is partly relieved, partly disappointed.

Spud sets off into another barking concert, and embarrassed, 123

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I look around to see if anyone noticed my late evening guest. In the quarters around me, all the doors are closed and the curtains drawn – but still, I get the uneasy feeling that the walls have ears.

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C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

Minakpa Ama

The first sound that penetrates my comfortable cocoon of peaceful slumber is the proud, piercing morning call of the neighbour’s rooster. The second is a

loud knock on the door. Drowsily shaking off the insistent memory of my unfinished dream, I stagger to the door.

Dorji, a cheerful wardboy dressed in blue hospital uniform and grinning from ear to ear, heaves a bucket into the room.

‘Your water, madam.’

Perplexed, I stare at him. He continues grinning.

‘Why are you bringing me water?’ I enquire. Still

fighting off sleep, I try to understand the meaning of this hallucination, doubtfully gaping at the pouring rain outside my doorstep.

‘Pipe broken, madam. No water,’ he explains, and then adds, ‘Doctor said to bring you.’

Too bewildered to ask which doctor, I stutter an

embarrassed thank you and carry the bucket to my kitchen.

Unbelieving, I confirm the state of affairs and, indeed, the faucet spews out only a few gurgles, then croaks and hisses accusingly until I turn it off again. Interesting. The 125

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outside world is drowning in downpours, and we have dried up. I am discovering another one of the monsoon’s little idiosyncrasies.

An hour later, I trudge up to Bikul’s house to ascertain if he was my morning benefactor. A middle-aged Bhutanese woman opens the door. Undoubtedly, she is a villager. Her red-and-blue-checkered kira is wrapped carelessly, and her bare feet are stuck into mere reminders of plastic slippers.

She smiles at me, and I smile at her. Though she seems in no way surprised by my appearance, I cannot remember having met her before. She eagerly tells me something of obvious importance in Sharchhopkha, heedless of the fact that I cannot understand a word of her rushed speech. She nods and smiles, and all I can hear is a repeated ‘doctor’

and ‘
jonsho
’
.
Then she retreats inside the house. Feeling at a loss, I remain standing on the doorstep.

‘Ama,’ I call after the woman awkwardly. At least I am grateful for the Bhutanese way of addressing a person by his or her title without having to know an actual name (any woman who has obviously outgrown her teenage years can be called Ama).

‘Dr. Bikul…?’ I want to ask if he is there, but of course, I cannot think of the necessary Sharchhop words.

Ama replies something but again the meaning eludes me.

Should I leave or enter? Embarrassment gets the better of me, and I turn on the grassy walkway back towards the road. Halfway down the lane, however, I decide to give it one more try, and gathering all my courage, I walk around to the back door at the kitchen. There, I do not find Bikul but the same smiling Ama, expertly chopping onions with a huge, sword-like knife.

The usually deserted kitchen is filled with evidence of an upcoming feast. A plastic bag of rice is opened and half spilt onto the counter. Mud-caked potatoes fill the sink.

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A heap of beans lies on the floor and, beside it, looking almost as innocent, a stack of small, green chillies. Ama is busy handling the steel, all-purpose war instrument. With precision, the heavy blade thunders down just millimetres beside her fingertips, its curved tip barely clearing the lined up pots and pans. The pressure cooker whistles. It smells of dal and fried spices. Experimentally, I venture into a little Sharchhopkha.

‘Dr. Bikul
gila
?’

‘
Cha,
’ she answers and wiggles her head from side to side.

Yes, he is there.

The only other thing that comes to my mind is ‘
Nan hang
pile?
’ What will you do?

Ama cannot interpret my feeble attempt at bridging the language barrier and abandons her cooking to come closer.

Again she smiles, showing off her big brownish teeth and creasing her face into many suntanned wrinkles. Rapidly she utters something.

I try again: ‘Dr. Bikul?’

‘
Cha, cha,
’ she nods and points to Bikul’s bedroom. Then in a sudden flash of genius, she walks to the kitchen door and calls him.

I can hear Bikul’s answer out of the back of the house.

His tone is joking, and it is obvious that he is completely at ease with Ama. He looks around the corner, inspects the contents of the pot, then at last notices me perched on his steps.

He laughs. ‘So you have met my Norbu Ama. She is

Pema’s mother.’ As if that explains everything, he turns to Ama and the two start to discuss something in animated voices, interrupted only by her bouts of giggling laughter.

My ears are burning, and I get the uncomfortable feeling that yours truly is the topic of discussion. Impatiently I ask Bikul to translate.

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With a mischievous grin, he explains that Norbu Ama is suggesting that I cook for him. To confirm, he addresses the smiling woman who nods enthusiastically, looking at me and then pointing at the kitchen. Exasperated I tell Ama that I cannot cook at all. Bikul translates. Norbu Ama does not agree. She says that she lives too far from here, she cannot cook for Bikul. He needs someone to look after him. She thinks that since I am single, why cannot I cook for both Bikul and me. Norbu Ama flashes me a winning smile, showing off a sparkling silvery cap on one tooth.

The topic seems settled for her, and quickly she resumes dedicating her time to the rice and the curry on the stove.

I can feel my face flushing wildly. To make matters worse, Norbu Ama then insists that I come into the living room and eat with them. ‘With them’ turns out to be only Bikul, since Norbu Ama disappears in the kitchen, where she noisily cleans up.

My stomach revolts at the thought of rice and curry for breakfast. Bikul organises a fork for me and then proceeds to scoop up the dish quickly and expertly by hand, almost finishing his plate before I have had my first taste. Self-conscious, I try my first forkful while Bikul watches me expectantly. Immediately, my throat starts burning and tears sting my eyes.

Bikul dives into the kitchen and emerges with two glasses of water. ‘Too much chilli!’ he exclaims before downing the contents of his glass in one urgent gulp. Unhappily, I pick at my food. Norbu Ama is still busy in the kitchen, and finally Bikul takes pity on me. Before anyone can notice, he promptly clears my plate.

When Norbu Ama returns, it takes more than three polite refusals to turn down further heapings of the spicy meal.

Norbu Ama shakes her head and tries again, but this time, even Bikul is firm. The only thing that appeases her is the promise that we will visit her home soon. With one last 128

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generous smile, Norbu Ama shoulders her heavy bamboo basket and walks off into the rain.

‘Where does she live?’ I ask Bikul, curious about this bubbly lady who does not look like Pema at all. Until now, Pema’s childhood home was a picture in my imagination, and she did not talk about it much. And with her recent declaration that she wants to go to Thimphu, I had almost forgotten that her family lives close by.

‘Their farm is in Bargompa, at the top of that mountain.’

Bikul points somewhere above Mongar into the clouds. I am getting used to the idea of villagers living somewhere

‘up there’ where the sky meets the earth, and so I do not question this answer further.

‘But why didn’t I meet her before?’

‘She cannot come down to Mongar that often in the

summer. There is a lot of work to do on the farm. I think she visits Pema every Sunday after the market.’