Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [68]
We drink our tea while the principal tells me more about the college. A forty-minute drive south of Tashigang, surrounded by the village of Kanglung, the college is Bhutan’s highest institute of education. About five hundred students are enrolled in undergraduate degrees in arts, commerce and science. The English curriculum is set by Delhi University, there’s some poetry, some Shakespeare, a few novels. The library has thirteen thousand books. The other lecturers are mostly from Delhi, they all live on campus, the staff quarters are very nice, and he is sure I will be very happy there....
I don’t know what to say. The college sounds like a dream (thirteen thousand books!) but it is all so sudden, and it’s unclear whether or not I have a choice in this matter. The principal stands. “So, I’ll send a message to the Education Department for your movement order,” he says. “And we’ll send the hi-lux for you next week.”
When they are gone, Leon dangles the plastic bag of pot in front of me. “I can’t wait to see that movement order,” he says. “It’s going to say TRANSFERRED BACK TO TORONTO.”
“Do you think I can refuse to go, Leon?” I ask.
He says I could probably ask to stay in Pema Gatshel, but thinks I should accept the transfer. “I think you’ll get a whole different perspective on Bhutan at the college,” he says. “The students are from all over the country, and from every type of background. It’s a great opportunity. ”
When Leon leaves for Wamrong, I drag my empty hockey bags and suitcases out from under the bed and stare at them, as if this will make the idea of Kanglung more real, and help me decide what to do. I can hear kids pounding up the stairs. I am not ready to see them, but they persist, rattling the door handle and barking, “May! I! Come! In! Miss!” I get up wearily and let them in. They stop in the middle of the room and stare at the bags.
“Miss, where you is going?” Tshewang Tshering asks.
“I’ve just been transferred to Kanglung,” I say. They look at me to see if I am joking, and then they look at each other. There is a long, terrible silence and we all look at the floor. Karma Dorji wipes his runny nose on his sleeve and looks up. “Oh, miss,” he says sadly. “Please don’t go.”
“Just a minute,” I say, and go into the bathroom. I latch the door and turn on the tap full force. When the water is running noisily, I lean my hot forehead against the damp, flaking concrete, and cry.
By Monday, the news has spread. When I open the door to class II C, I am besieged by questions. Miss, you is going? Kanglung collitch going? Miss, you is transfer? When going? Is true, miss?
I tell them yes, it is true. I am transferred, I am going. In maybe a week. I will go to teach at Kanglung College, but I will write to them, I say. I will miss them but I will come back to visit them. And a new teacher will come for class II C. And now we will have spelling dictation because if we do not, I will cry again.
In the staff room, I am congratulated and felicitated. I am so lucky, they tell me. I will have electricity, better quarters, bus service to Tashigang. Kanglung is a much better place; I will be working alongside tiptop lecturers, I will be teaching the cream of the crop. Mr. Iyya tells me I will be at the zenith of my glory. Yes, who wants to teach class II in such a remote and backward place? they ask each other. My throat hurts and I cannot speak.
At lunch time, I sit on the front steps of the school, watching some of my kids playing soccer. I think about that library, reference books open on a long polished table in front of me, I think about preparing lecture notes instead of spelling tests, teaching Macbeth instead of Herbert the Mouse.
I think about my kids, my dear, sweet, smiling, smelly, runny-nosed, barefoot kids. The school is already suffering from a terrible teacher shortage, and it will take weeks and weeks for a replacement to arrive. My kids will fall behind. But since their first-term exam results, I’ve been wondering what good I am doing them anyway. I love them, but I don’t seem to be teaching