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

slide and tumble down the muddy path towards Mongar.
    I spend the rest of the day puttering around my ‘house’.
    Somehow, I have to make the most of the little space available, without crowding my rat-combatting chairs, or my all-purpose table. I arrange my bags, furnish my kitchen with the necessary utensils and cooking ware, scrub the toilet, and fasten curtains on the window.
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    Just when I think how amazingly quickly I have adapted to completing all important tasks while the lamps are still on, the power vanishes. Thankfully, the light in the bulb lingers for a few seconds, dimming slowly, and allowing a grace period to scramble for the flashlight. I scold myself for not filling my kerosene lamp.
    Next door, the shrill alarm goes off again, but this time I ignore it. I have concluded that it must be a warning device on the refrigerator for the vaccines, indicating that there is no electricity. I do wonder, though, what happens to all the little vials that say ‘Store at 4–6o C’.
    While I stare at the gentle flicker of my candle, images of the past day lodge themselves in my mind: the market and its circus of impatient customers rushing in a frenzy to bargain for the best buys… the thin Indian woman in her orange sari, breaking stones for a living... Jamtsho, as she crouches beside the glowing embers of the kitchen fire…
    the villagers at the market, barefoot in their grimy worn kiras – I have landed in a peculiar old world.
    What do they think when they see me? I guess, to the Bhutanese, I am as strange as they are to me. They gawk at my clothes as I stare at their poverty. Reluctantly, I picture myself wearing jeans and a T-shirt amongst women dressed in ankle length dresses. Somewhere in that contemplation of me versus them , the seed of a feeling of strangeness is planted inside me.
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    C H A P T E R F I V E
    Don’t Close
    Your Eyes
    With a loud whack, the mosquito-screened door
    slams shut behind me. A cat scurries through the
    hallway and disappears out of sight. Before me
    lies a wide corridor, empty but for a few cushionless iron wheelchairs. A couple of bright yellow doors bear the label
    ‘Operation Theatre DO NOT ENTER’. From somewhere
    beyond a small passageway, I can hear voices. Bewildered, I wait for someone to discover me.
    The smell is what strikes me most. It overwhelms me like a heavy blow in the stomach; a biting reek of urine, unwashed skin, waste and strong disinfectant. It is nauseating. To my left lies a small, rectangular inner courtyard, enclosed by the main hospital building. I walk closer to the dusty, punctured fly screen, and take a breath of fresh air. Across the yard, I can peep into the windows of the duty room.
    The hospital is still quiet. A few nurses shuffle past and stare at me, but no one seems to pay particular attention.
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    It is 9 a.m. and official duty time has just started. I wonder where I will find Pema, my assistant.
    The administrative officer (addressed as ‘ADM’) arrives and shows me to the physiotherapy room. We follow
    the courtyard on our left and reach the last door before the hallway splits at a T-junction. A sign announces the
    ‘Treatment Room’. The ADM opens the door to my
    department; two connected rooms with an adjoining toilet.
    Until recently, the first chamber was used as a dressing room. A table covered with a dirty rubber sheet still tells its stories of blood and bandages.
    The officiating head of the hospital, the District Medical Officer (known as the DMO) joins us. ‘Welcome to
    Mongar.’ The DMO assures me that they