Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [69]
On the other hand, my replacement could turn out to be another Mr. Iyya. I cannot bear the thought of someone beating them. And perhaps it would be foolish to move now anyway, after I have finally become used to Pema Gatshel, the Lotus of Happiness. I have acclimatized, and it was no small feat. No, I should speak to the headmaster and tell him I don’t want to go, ask him if I can stay.
A wireless message arrives for me after lunch, from the field director in Thimphu. Received notice of your transfer, he writes. Will process if you want to go. However will support you if you decide to stay in P/G.
There, I can stay if I want to.
But I want to go. I am pulled away by the idea of new stories, a different view out over other valleys and ridges, another way of understanding Bhutan. A new posting. I send a message back to say that I will go to Kanglung, and ask if a new WUSC teacher can be sent to Pema Gatshel to replace me.
The kids come to visit in the evening. They stay for dinner, five of them, and afterward sing songs in Dzongkha and Sharchhop and Nepali. Karma Dorji translates for me: a mother cries for her child, the teachings of Buddha bring light, oh Lhamo I told you not to go, the song of the river tells the coming of spring. The session ends with their favorite English songs, “Chili Eating,” sung to the tune of “Clementine,” and the “Momo Song”:
Five fat momos
Sitting in the shop
Round and fat with chili on the top
Along comes a boy with a ngultrum in his hand
Gives it to the shopkeeper and eats one momo up!
It is too late for them to go home after, so they spend the night, sleeping on mats and quilts on the floor, covered with blankets and kiras and towels. The next night there are eight, the next, sixteen. After dinner, they act out skits for me in costumes made of kiras, a badminton racquet, sunglasses, plastic bags and my woolen tights. They do homework and flip through magazines and draw pictures for my new house. They write me goodbye letters and leave them in elaborately decorated envelopes on my bed.
They tell me ghost stories while we cook dinner, all of us crammed into the tiny kitchen chopping onions and chilies in the wildly flickering candlelight, and then they are too scared to leave the kitchen and must go to the bathroom in groups of three and four. They wash the dishes, argue over the walkman and fall asleep on the floor.
I check their homework and admire their pictures, settle disputes and explain magazine pictures as best I can. “Doen,” I say of an ad featuring Freddie Krueger of Nightmare on Elm Street. “A ghost. But not a real one.” I go to the market for extra rice and eggs and butter and salt (I have finally been paid and now have a cartoon sack of money containing four months’ salary—twelve thousand ngultrum—all in fives and tens). I peel massive quantities of tubers for meals, but make no dent in the pile I have accumulated. I never did resolve the money-for-vegetables dilemma with the students, and when I leave for Kanglung, I will take with me a twenty-five kg jute bag of carrots, radishes and potatoes. I fall into a dead sleep around midnight. I know I have to leave at the end of the week, but for now, I am here with my kids, and I am happy.
Finally, I have to tell them to go home. I have not packed a single thing. They leave, but just before dark, Norbu and Karma Dorji return. A man died suddenly in the house next to Norbu’s, they explain, and they are afraid to sleep at home. The people are saying the man was killed by black magic. They sit at the table quietly and refuse all offers of tea, crayons and books. Occasionally, I hear one of them murmuring a mantra. It begins to rain, a sudden, completely familiar rush of sound. “See, miss,” Norbu says sleepily. “That man is died and now rain is coming.”
I go into the bedroom to pack, but I get nothing done. I sit at the window instead, thinking about doen,