Beyond the Sky and the Earth_ A Journey Into Bhutan - Jamie Zeppa [73]
Students swarm in and out, asking for lemon tea, fried rice, Pala where’s my thukpa, Pala can I put this on my tab, two coffee one cigarette how much? Pala remains unruffled, counting out change from a drawer, calling out orders to the kitchen, knocking a persistent grey kitten off the counter. In spite of the faded gho tied sloppily around his waist and his rubber flip-flops, he has a stately, dignified bearing; Shakuntala says that he was born a Tibetan prince and came to Bhutan when he married Amala.
We order baleys, wheels of soft Tibetan bread, and the national dish of chilies and cheese. It is so hot that my eyes run and I choke. “Today ema datsi very hot,” Amala advises me, clucking sympathetically. “Better you eat more baley.”
On the wall across from me is a collage of pictures cut out from fashion magazines, lollipop models in severe makeup and frizzy pink hair. Someone turns on a cassette player and pop music bubbles out around us. Two young men enter, exhaling ribbons of cigarette smoke. They are wearing jeans and tee shirts emblazoned with “Guitar Heroes” and “Metallica.” I am surprised to see them out of national dress. I feel very far away from Pema Gatshel, from class II C who had never seen a keyboard before and thought Johann Sebastian Bach was my mother. I have a strange feeling that I have left Bhutan.
But when the students see Shakuntala and me, they put their cigarettes behind their backs and bow gracefully. “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
I look up at the same time and notice the picture above the window. Instead of the usual formal portrait of the King of Bhutan, there is a black-and-white photo of His Majesty as a teenager, dressed in a gho, accompanied by a young woman, perhaps his sister, in a white miniskirt and high white boots. A fitting photo for this place, I think, a mix of tradition and fashion, Guitar Heroes and driglam namzha. I am still, most definitely, in Bhutan.
Back at the library, I begin to prepare notes for my first lecture. The information seems to be coming from a small dark room far back in my head, and my notes are sparse. The literature section of the library has two ancient critical texts on Shakespeare, neither of which helps much. The next morning, I sit in the empty staff room, practicing my lecture in my head. My hands are damp, my stomach queasy. I have managed to clean most of the fungus off my shoes but cannot get my kira down past my ankles. Lecturers drift in and out, greeting each other with an exaggerated formality. Good morning, my dear sir, and a very good day to you, and I thank you most kindly, sir. Mr. Bose, the other English lecturer, a small, dapper, grey-haired man from Delhi, is explaining the intricacies of attendance to me, pointing out the registers on their shelf by the door. “You have to be careful,” he says. “The boys bunk from class but get their friends to answer for them during roll call.”
“The boys? But not the girls?” I am confused. Out of the five hundred students, only eighty are female.
He waves a hand impatiently. “No, no. When I say the boys, I mean the girls, too. And you mustn’t forget attendance. It must be taken in every class.”
“Even for the degree students?” I ask.
“But of course!” he answers cheerfully. “Especially for them! They’re the worst rascals.”
The bell rings, and I pick up my chalk and notes. “You forgot the attendance register,” Mr. Bose calls out. “Good luck!”
I open the door of the classroom and walk into a heavy silence. “Good morning,” I say. The class slowly rises, and there is a weak chorus of half-hearted “good-mornings.” I introduce