West of Eden: a tale of Bhutan
Tuesday, August 25, 2009 at 04:26AM
A traveler going along the motor road to Bhutan’s capital city of Thimphu from the town of Paro will pass by Dorji’s old farmhouse. It is situated on slightly elevated land beside some bamboos, looking out to terraced rice fields, beyond which is Thimphu, all nestled in a valley in the foothills of the Himalayas.
Dorji had lived in the old house all her life, only occasionally wandering beyond the valley that cradled the town and the surrounding farms. In 1997, at the age of nineteen, she inherited the house upon the death of her mother. A year later, she married Sonam, and he moved in with her.
The two-storey whitewashed house has a gabled roof of pine shingles held in place by many small stones, and wooden windows painted in bold colours with auspicious designs of wheels, lotus blossoms and the eternal knot. A traditional wooden phallus hangs from a corner of the roof, pierced with a wooden sword, a symbol of fertility and power. Some white prayer flags flutter nearby. When the wind blows, the prayers will be heard. Since Thimphu Valley has electricity from hydro power, a light bulb dangles from the ceiling of every room in the house. The ground level, once reserved for cattle, is used for storage. A notched tree trunk serving as a staircase leads to the second floor which holds a small altar room, a bedroom, and a big kitchen area. The kitchen was where Dorji and Sonam cooked over the bukhari stove, ate their meals, and welcomed guests. It was where Dorji kept her loom. It was also where Dorji and Sonam watched rental movies on a TV set they bought with hard-earned savings.
While still in elementary school, Dorji learned her mother’s craft of weaving, a cottage industry that allowed women to work at home. Sonam, on the other hand, as a teenager, had developed a passion for trekking through the forested slopes of the Himalayan foothills. His fluency in English, which he learned in school, was an added asset. After graduating from secondary school and completing a training program in tourism, he became a full-fledged guide, taking the small number of foreign visitors on cultural tours and trekking expeditions. With a decent income, he was able to provide a comfortable though simple life for Dorji.
For their honeymoon, Sonam took Dorji to Punakha, a winter resort town some 70 kilometres from Thimphu. Punakha Dzong, the formidable yet enchanting seventeenth century fortress-monastery, was where the monks from Thimphu resided for the winter. At a cozy little hotel overlooking the dzong, Sonam made love to Dorji for the first time. Dorji remembered the urgency of his caresses, the pleasure he gave her, until they fell asleep contentedly in each other’s arms.
On their way back to Thimphu, they stopped at Dochu La, a high mountain pass.
“I want to show you something amazing,” said Sonam as he led her up a small slope covered with blue pines to a hill of prayer flags.
Just then the mist cleared, and Dorji saw in the far distance the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas, majestic and forbidden, the mountain gods touching the heavens.
“The one in the middle is Gangkhar Puensum, the tallest in Bhutan,” said Sonam, “and out of bounds to men.”
“It would incense the mountain gods to climb it,” said Dorji, with a faint tremor in her voice.
Sonam took in a deep breath as he gazed on the white peaks. “How I wish I could soar like an eagle to the summit of Gangkhar Puensum, and see the world from that height. Things must look different from up there,” said Sonam. Dorji noticed a flash of fierce yearning in Sonam's eyes, a hungry look that was disconcerting to her.
After marriage, Sonam would be gone for days, sometimes weeks, on treks and tours. Dorji stayed home to weave. She made women’s kiras of silk and cotton, with intricate patterns in vibrant colors. Her compositions gave her a sense of order and harmony. A son, Jigme, was born a year later. Dorji felt fulfilled. The gods were kind to her, and she was grateful. Every morning she prayed in the little altar room where she had hung thangkas of bodhisattvas. She kept a butter lamp burning at the altar all the time. Dorji prayed especially for Sonam. She wanted no harm to come to him. She admired his intelligence which showed in his intent eyes beneath thick dark eyebrows, and his athletic physique which the bulkiness of his gho could not conceal. How she loved him.
One day, when Jigme was about six months old, Dorji walked home from the market with the baby strapped to her back, to find Sonam sitting tense and excited in front of the television set. So concentrated on the screen was he that he did not realize Dorji had walked in. She sat down beside him, to see what could be so captivating. It was not a usual Hindi movie with the singing and dancing that she loved to watch. It was an American film, a lot of guns shooting, bombs exploding, buildings shattering, people dying. Her heart pounded when the villain went on a killing spree. So much violence, so much disharmony, so much unhappiness.
Since that time, Sonam had brought home more American movies from the video rentals in Thimphu. He knew Dorji hated the violence, so he rented some romantic films along with the action thrillers. Dorji’s favourite was Titanic. She cried in Sonam’s arms when the Leonardo di Caprio character died.
“It’s only a movie,” Sonam consoled.
“Promise you’ll be with me when I have more wrinkles than the old woman in the movie,” Dorji said between sobs.
“Your wrinkles will match mine then,” said Sonam, smiling at Dorji. “Of course I’ll be with you. I come back every time I go away on treks, don’t I?”
The summer rains came to the valley, and the rice stalks were burdened with grains. As she put the finishing touches to a silk kira she was weaving, Dorji sang her favourite Dzongkha song about the changes of the seasons, the Buddhist dharma about the unending cycle of life and rebirth.
One evening, Sonam came home unusually high-spirited.
“Someone from the American Geographic Society visited our office this morning. He’s very interested in my work, Dorji. He wants me to meet him at the Druk Hotel tomorrow,” Sonam blurted out, as he took off his gho and changed into his T-shirt and blue jeans.
“What does he want from you?” Dorji asked uneasily.
“We’ll find out tomorrow. He’s invited you to come along for lunch at the hotel.”
The next day, Dorji left Jigme with a neighbor, put on her best kira, and walked to Thimphu with Sonam, a thirty-minute walk on an old mule track. She was quiet the whole way. At the Druk Hotel, Dorji and Sonam were shown to a table in the dining room where a tall middle-aged American by the name of Stan Sheppard greeted them. Sonam’s boss at the tour agency, Karma, was also present.
“We look forward very much to working with your company, to bring more tourists to Bhutan,” Stan Sheppard said. “Sonam, I’ve told Karma that our Society has funding to invite one of your company’s guides to the United States for a two-month study and goodwill tour.” He paused, looking from Sonam to Karma, and back to Sonam. “You’ve been recommended by your company. It’s going to be a great experience. The program will take you from California to Utah, Nevada, Wyoming, Colorado. You’ll be hiking, rock climbing, whitewater rafting, indulging in every outdoor activity you can think of. And you’ll see our cities, of course. All expenses paid.”
Dorji stole a glance at Sonam. She recognized the same look of longing in his eyes as when he took her to see the Himalayas at Dochu La on their honeymoon. She swallowed hard and stared at the food in front of her. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“I’ll send you messages through Karma as often as I can,” Sonam promised Dorji, thankful that his country had launched its first internet provider a year ago.
“I fear once you’ve left Bhutan, you’ll be without the protection of the gods,” Dorji said.
“Don’t be foolish, Dorji. I’ll be fine. I’ll be home before you know it. Remember I’ll still be with you when your face is covered with wrinkles.”
Dorji forced a smile, touching her hand to her cheeks roughened by wind and sun.
On a late June day, Dorji went with Jigme to see Sonam off at Paro’s airport. Sonam kissed his wife and son goodbye.
*****
Sent: Friday, July 20th, 2000
Dear Dorji, I have gained weight since leaving home. I suppose it has to do with the change in my diet. I miss my butter tea, and the curries and chili. However, I have developed a taste for hamburgers and tacos. Lately I have been smoking a few cigarettes a day, but I will stop smoking when I am home and have betel nuts to chew again.
I love all the messages you sent through Karma. I am so grateful for email. Can you imagine me mailing you a letter? I would be home before you get it! I miss you and Jigme very much. I must confess I am also enjoying America. Their forests here remind me of Bhutan’s, but their mountains pale in comparison to ours. The cities, however, are beyond my dreams and imagination. You must see them to believe them. How I wish you were here. I love you, Sonam.
Sent: Sunday, August 12th, 2000
Dear Dorji, after several weeks in different states, I am now back in LA. Soon I will be coming home.
Last weekend, my host family took me to Las Vegas. I cannot even begin to describe to you the luxury of the hotels and casinos there. I thought I had gone to heaven! Naturally, I refrained from gambling, but my friends took me to a live show with bare-breasted women dancers. I was quite embarrassed. I miss you, Dorji.
My time abroad has been an eye-opener for me. Without this great opportunity, I would still be a frog sitting at the bottom of a well looking up. I wish I had more time here, for every day is a new experience. My consolation is I will be seeing you and our son again soon. Love, Sonam.
Eagerly Dorji counted the days to Sonam’s homecoming. Three days before he was due to arrive, Karma brought another message.
Sent: Friday, August 17th, 2000
My dearest Dorji, I have some very exciting news to tell you. I have been offered an assignment in a project on Himalayan culture and traditions in the Smithsonian Institute in Washington DC. Imagine, the nation’s capital! The project is for fifteen months. It pays well in American dollars! We will not have to live in the old farmhouse anymore. When I return, we will build a new house with a flush toilet and extra bedrooms. We will be able to buy a car. We will be able to give Jigme things we would never otherwise afford. This new opportunity is beyond my wildest dream. Dorji, I hope you are as happy about the new turn in our fortune as I am. I trust you to give me your blessing in this new venture. I love you, Sonam.
Dorji bit her lips and looked out to the bamboos and golden terraced rice fields through the open window of her farmhouse. Prayer flags fluttered around a small chorten not far off. A tear trickled from the corner of her eye. Her one true love had soared to the top of the forbidden mountain and dared the gods. Perhaps he would never touch the earth again.
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Reader Comments (1)
A great little short story!