Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [22]
“And the books?” I ask.
“After some time,” he says, smiling. “We ordered them, but ... what to do.”
I certainly don’t know. I have five students who spring to their feet each morning and shout, “Good morning, miss.” I don’t know what to begin teaching, whether to begin teaching or wait until the others come, how to keep them occupied until the others come. I don’t even know their names yet.
This is how it has gone so far. First day: I am given a register and list of names and am told to take attendance. “My name is Jamie,” I tell the members of class II C, three boys and two girls who could be any age between four and eleven. “The first thing I would like to do is learn all of your names, so I’d like you to all stand up one by one and introduce yourselves.” This cheery speech is met by an exchange of bewildered glances but when the faces turn back to me, they are still smiling. “Does everyone understand?” I ask.
“Yes, miss,” they chorus.
“Okay, you first,” I say, pointing to a boy in the first row with standing-up hair. He looks like the oldest of the five.
“Yes, miss,” he says, rising to his feet. I wait. He waits. I smile. He smiles back.
“Yes?” I say gently.
“Yes, miss?” he repeats politely.
“Go ahead,” I say.
“Yes, miss.” He sits back down.
“What is your name! ” I finally exclaim, exasperated. He leaps to his feet again and shouts back, “My name is Song Sing!”
“Song Sing?” I repeat incredulously. He looks doubtful but says, “Yes, miss.” I run through the list of names. There is no Song Sing among them. “Can you come and show me your name?” I ask. “Come and show me where your name is here.”
He points to one. “This my name. My name is Tshewang Tshering.”
“Tsay-wong Tse-ring,” I repeat slowly. He looks relieved.
It takes most of the morning to get through the rest of the names. Phuntsho Wangmo. Sangay Chhoden. Karma Ngawang Dorji. Ugyen Tshering Dorji.
“Are you two brothers?” I ask the last two. “Brothers? Brothers?” They shake their heads shyly, giggling. Later, when I ask the headmaster, he looks equally confused. “Brothers? I don’t think so.”
“They have the same last name,” I say.
“Oh! We don’t have last names here,” he says. “Just two names, which a lama gives. It can be Dorji Wangchuk, Wangchuk Dorji. Karma Dorji, Dorji Wangmo. Only the Royal Family has one last name. And the southern Bhutanese, they are Nepali, they have last names. Sharma, Bhattarai, Thapa.”
“But how do you know who is related without last names?” I ask.
“Just like that only,” he shrugs.
Day Two with Class Two. I practice saying their names, and they practice saying, “Yes, miss.” No matter what I ask them, they smile and say, “Yes, miss.” Do you understand? Yes, miss. Am I saying your name right? Yes, miss. Where are you going? Yes, miss.
Maybe I am talking too fast. “Do you have, any, books?” I ask very slowly, and am elated when they say, “No, miss.” We smile at each other for some time. This gives me courage to try to fill in the complicated form the headmaster gave me this morning—student’s name, father’s name, mother’s name, village, gewog, student’s date of birth. We try it orally first, but I cannot even begin to spell their parents’ names, and what is a gewog? I give them each a piece of paper. “Write down,” I say slowly, “your name. Are you all writing your names?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Good. Is everyone finished? Okay. Now, write down your birthday. Okay? Your birthday? Under your name.”
They are still looking up at me. “Your birthday. Date of birth. When you were born,” I repeat.
There is a prolonged silence, and then a conference begins in Sharchhop with Tshewang Tshering, the tallest, explaining, and Ugyen Tshering Dorji, the smallest, disagreeing. “You go first,” I tell Tshewang. “When is your birthday? ” He picks up his pencil and writes very carefully while the others watch. Over his shoulder I read, “It is rice and pork.”
“Never