Radio Shangri-La_ What I Learned in Bhutan, the Happiest Kingdom on Earth - Lisa Napoli [97]
Ngawang has in her hands proof of their baby, a snapshot from the ultrasound. A tiny little sprout of new life inside my young friend. Her excitement feels almost childlike, while Mr. Japan has the demeanor of a mature father-to-be, not shocked by the immediacy of the prospect at all. He says, with confidence, that he is very ready to start a family. One day, maybe I’ll get the details on Ngawang’s New York adventures from him—assuming he even knows.
“I hope it’s twins,” Ngawang says hopefully, the way you might say you wished for snow.
“I hope it’s not twins,” I say, remembering the time I was in the delivery room to assist a single friend, almost forty years old, who’d visited the sperm bank. Just seeing two babies delivered at one time gives you a glimpse into what caring for them each day might be like. One baby at a time is all a girl Ngawang’s age should have to handle.
“Well, I hope it’s a boy,” she says.
“As long as the baby’s healthy,” says Mr. Japan, patiently. “That’s what matters.” This guy is all right by me. For a minute, I try to imagine how different my life would have played out had I stayed married. Would we have had children? Would we have lasted these twenty years? The only thing that’s certain is that I would not have had the experiences I’ve had, and most definitely not this connection to Bhutan. In my forties, I understand how each decision has consequences. I also see the preposterousness of thinking you can have it all, much less trying to.
WHEN NGAWANG ASKED if I would be her baby’s godmother, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I understood my being so anointed had nothing to do with my perceived competence to care for this impending child should anything terrible befall her or the baby’s father. After all, between their extended families, there are enough guardians to care for all the students in a small school. And as much time as I’d spent in Bhutan over the last two years, I still technically lived too far away to do much practical good.
Besides the love that propelled this gesture, I knew this honor had been bestowed on me for two other reasons, reasons that were inextricably linked: I was American, and because of that, I offered access in the future to opportunities the baby’s blood relatives could never provide.
Charged with the responsibility of godmotherhood, I could one day invite Ngawang’s child to the United States. I’d feel invested enough to pay, perhaps, for his education. In a modern Bhutan, it was simply better for a new baby and his family to know they had a friend on the other side of the world. Even without the formality, I’d be happy to be there for this child, to help however I could. By the time he was old enough to travel by himself, maybe I’d have more than a blow-up mattress in the living room to offer. But in giving me a title, Ngawang knew she was giving me a responsibility—and she knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t take that responsibility lightly.
As many pregnant friends and new babies as I’d been around, I’d never been offered an official role. (I’d mercifully never even been a bridesmaid.) The closest I’d come was that time I’d witnessed the birth of those twins born to my single friend. But that was more about attending to her than to the babies. I liked the idea of being a godmother. Even if, in Bhutan, virtually any woman who comes into contact with a child is called “auntie.” It filled me with delight to know that across the planet, in this country I loved, there would be a little Bhutanese baby who would grow up learning he could count on me.
IS IT POSSIBLE that the royal astrologers in Bhutan knew, when they had divined November 6 as the most auspicious day for the coronation of the fifth king, how important a week it would be for the rest of the world? Astrologers may not possess crystal balls, but perhaps