A Visit in a Student's Village

In the morning, after a breakfast of leftover kopa and rice, Pema took me to his grandmother’s house.

“Didn't you tell me that she was ill, Pema?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, perhaps I should leave her to rest. She probably doesn’t want a foreigner to come in and bother her when she is trying to get better.”

“No, sir, this is our custom. When someone is sick in the village, we always pay the person a visit. When we are sick, we do not want to be alone. Everyone knows this. So we all go and spend time with the person and wish her to get better.”

“I see.”

“Besides, I think that Grandmother will be moving on to the next life now. She is truly, very sick. My mother is very sad. Maybe today my grandmother will pass on. We must visit her.”

At Pema’s grandmother’s house another woman wearing traditional dress was waiting at the door. She looked me up and down and spoke to Pema who explained that I was his teacher, visiting for a few days. At this she gave a suggestion of a smile and motioned for me to enter the house.

“When you enter, you give money. It’s our culture, sir. Go to my grandmother and with both hands give her fifty or a hundred Ngultrum. Say, ‘Kuzu zangpo la.’ I will translate that you wish for her to get better.”

Standing at the doorway I could see that there were many women around the grandmother. They stood to receive me. Each one of the women looked hard as nails, calloused by village life, stoic amidst the prospect of Grandmother’s death. Grandmother was sitting and rocking slightly against a young, high school aged girl. The girl lovingly embraced the grandmother and rubbed her back and they both rocked back and forth.

I approached the grandmother slowly. She didn’t realize I was there. She was focusing on something else, something far away. Her eyebrows were furrowed and she whispered to herself, some message that was hers alone.

I bowed and quietly said, “Kuzu zangpo la,” and I held out the hundred Ngultrum note with both of my hands. The younger girl whispered to the grandmother, signaling to her that I was there. The old woman slowly looked up at me with honest eyes, wondering who this foreigner was, why was he here, what was this a sign of? She held out her hands which were both calloused and fragile, trembling hands, and she received the money and then continued to look right at me, curious, frightened perhaps. She continued to whisper, ardently focused on the secret message she whispered to herself again and again. Then she closed her eyes and leaned back against the young girl and the girl continued to rock her back and forth.

I sat down on a small rug, and as I did the others sat as well. I was struck by how much older this house looked on the inside than Pema’s did. The stone walls were black with the varnish of years of smoke and the wood floor was polished from constant traffic, walking and sitting and the shuffling of rugs. The room echoed the tinny pitter-patter of rain hitting the roof. There were double the amount of yak skins filled with cheese as there were in Pema's house and the room was more pungent with the sour odor. The women wore the traditional dress for their area, once vibrant dresses that were worn from washing and age.

His aunt offered me souja and I accepted the tea though I couldn’t fathom more butter and salt in my system. She went to work on an old butter churn, a tube with a stick coming out of the end. I could hear the thick milk sucking from the vacuum as she pushed the stick up and down. I was afraid that my request brought a sound that violated the sanctity of the space considering Grandmother’s condition, but no one seemed to be bothered. Even amidst death, daily life must go on. 

My culture tiptoes around death, believing that maybe we can hide from it if we don’t make too much noise, or if we show enough politeness and tact, or if we pray. The villagers in this house continued about their routines, knowing that death is inevitable. Or maybe it was something else. Pema kept repeating, “She’ll go to the next life very soon.” Perhaps it wasn’t a turn-of-phrase. When one believes truly in reincarnation, there is less to be broken by when faced with death. But still, there was a sadness in that room. Sadness and a reverent waiting. 

I watched the young girl rocking and saw the grandmother’s lips murmuring to herself and the atmosphere was very solemn. Pema’s aunt put the mug of souja in front of me and then placed another one in front of Grandfather who I only then noticed. He wore a red woolen hat, an old, frayed down coat and sweatpants with stains and holes. His eyes were puffy and red and as he sipped at his tea he kept looking over at Grandmother and then he looked back at me. I was certain that Grandmother was going to pass away right there and I was afraid. I have never seen someone die and it wasn’t fair that I should be in the home for such a moment. But should I be there or not was a question of fate and destiny, another part of the routine of daily life that would go on and would not stop for me, nor stop for Grandmother even though it might be her last day. 

Grandfather looked back at me and he smiled, though there was much pain in his eyes.

Grandmother became very quiet. She stopped whispering and she lay very still against the young girl. The women and Grandfather looked on. I also watched and I wondered if it had come. It was a moment where I wanted to no longer be a part of the village, I wanted to be a tourist again and to be outside in the rain wondering what kind of life goes on in these households. I was tense, watching Grandmother motionless. We all were. The tension came from a collectively held breath, a moment of pause between a way-of-life that once was and a drastic change that was soon to come. In the pause, my foreignness and their foreignness and whatever minute dot we formed on a map together disappeared. 

Before death and after death, culture is its most defined. There are rituals and medicines and gods to pray to; there is etiquette for how to hope and deny before death, and then rules for how to grieve and how to console and what to believe after death. But in the moment when one is about to witness death, there is no disparate culture. There is only the silent recognition that all of us, one day, will cease to exist. We will all have a moment where we stop living. Our final moment. 

Grandmother's final moment was yet to come. She opened her eyes again, looking surprised that she was in the room and then she cringed in pain and she began rocking again while the young girl rubbed her back. The room suddenly felt bigger and the women realized there was a guest to offer more tea to. They continued about their lives.

When I finished my tea, Pema signaled to me that we could leave. I stood outside and a light rain fell and I took in the view of the verdant peaks all around us, their vibrant greens like none I have seen before, an emerald kingdom of forest and meadow. The clouds were thick at the peaks, threatening to descend into the valley and engulf us.

Grandfather came out of the house and removed his hat, standing with us in the drizzle.

“Grandfather is showing you great respect,” Pema explained.

I felt abashed and unworthy. Grandfather shook my hand weakly. I held his in my own two. His were hands of a million stories and a million hardships and I felt like today was one of the hardest. After I let go of his hands he rung them uncomfortably and he looked up at me.

“Tell him thank you for letting me into his home,” I told Pema.

Pema translated and the grandfather nodded and said something in his language and then he slipped away again back into the house, to be with Grandmother. 

"Grandfather says to please come again for tea," Pema told me. "He says that you are always welcome here."