Buttertea at Sunrise by Britta Das Read Free Book Online Page A

flickering flame at the end of a piece of wood in the embers, Jamtsho reaches for a black tin and produces some tea leaves. ‘Tea coming,’ she announces, and I detect a polite request to return to my assigned seat.
    Finally, I hear dishes rattling and Jamtsho reappears in the door. Without a word, she serves me and vanishes once more. I look at the bowl of tiny roasted rice kernels beside my cup. Tentatively, I taste some. To my surprise, the rice is light and crisp, even a little sweet with the faint aroma of 43
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    butter, and it crunches wonderfully – a superb complement to the milky tea.
    Jamtsho returns with a plate of cookies that look stale and have a rather unsavoury pink filling. Obligingly I eat one but quickly revert to my tea and the rice, which Jamtsho calls zao . My generous host keeps darting out of the room, reappearing only to refill my cup and bowl. Finally when I am finished with thirds of tea and zao, she sits beside me and inspects my rain jacket. As if it had just occurred to her, she tilts her head slightly to the side and asks, ‘You sing a song, ma’am?’
    ‘A song?’ I double-check the request.
    ‘You know any song?’ Jamtsho repeats, adjusting her kira to get comfortable. Obviously, this is my expected contribution to this social get together, which, so far, I have enjoyed alone by stuffing my stomach.
    ‘I don’t sing very well,’ I try to excuse myself.
    ‘You sing, OK?’ Jamtsho is relentless.
    Hesitantly, I launch into the first line of an old German folk song. Somehow, singing in a language which I am sure Jamtsho cannot understand eases the embarrassment.
    No sooner have I started to sing than my audience
    multiplies. Out of nowhere Kesang, Jamtsho’s older sister, and a stooped little grandmother join us. All three listen attentively to my quavering voice. Mercifully no one laughs, and encouraged by eager nods, I venture into the second line.
    Finally finished, I sit in embarrassed silence. Grinning, Kesang and the old lady retreat. Jamtsho claps her hands in what I presume to be applause, and I ask if she would now sing something for me. Jamtsho nods and starts humming.
    With her hands, she draws curvy lines in the air. Then she begins to sing, and her voice is light and soft, but the rhythm of her tune sounds sad, melancholic. Fascinated, I watch as 44
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    W H E R E Y O U G O I N G , M I S S ?
    she lowers her eyelids and slowly starts swaying her body from side to side – in somewhat suggestive movements.
    ‘Was that a Sharchhop song?’ I ask later.
    ‘No, madam, this is Hindi song.’
    ‘Hindi?’
    ‘I learn from watching movie, madam. Hindi movies is so nice.’
    ‘Ah. And do you also know Sharchhop songs?’
    Jamtsho nods. ‘Yes, madam, but they not good. Hindi song much better. Now you sing again.’
    What can I do but agree to her wish? I am the guest after all, and this seems to be the expected behaviour. After two more song requests, though, the dimming light of dusk reminds me that it is time to go. It would be a nightmare to be caught by darkness on the unfamiliar path back to town.
    Apologetically I explain my predicament to Jamtsho, but just when I think that she understands me, the girl gets up and vanishes without a word.
    Unwilling to leave before I have at least thanked my young host, I set out to search for her. I find her beside the barn, washing something over a small bucket. Apparently she is not interested in my gratitude speech.
    ‘I am so sorry. We have nothing to offer,’ she says instead, and then slips two clean brown eggs into my hands. ‘Please come back next week, OK?’
    I am touched and promise to come as soon as I can. Then, carefully balancing my precious gifts in my pocket, I