by Bruce Kirkby
When the dinner horns sounded, our family was left alone in silence on the dusty rooftop, as crimson peaks faded to black.
And still the mustard yarn’s service was not done.
The next morning I found Bodi and Taj using the dregs as a diving cord, sending their Lego mini-figures deep into the crystalline waters of the rusty barrel outside the hobbit door.
19 THE SHATTERING
Without fanfare, the lamas began departing Karsha Gompa, setting off in groups to perform home pujas in satellite villages. It was an annual ritual from which they wouldn’t return for weeks. We would never see most again.
Lama Dorjey Tundup, the jolly monk we called the Manchurian, stopped by our room at sunrise to bid us farewell. I’d grown fond of Lama Tundup, for he treated the novices with compassion and extended the same genuine interest to our own boys. Unable to speak a word of English, he placed khatas around each of our necks, then handed Christine a traditional Zanskari women’s hat of orange carded wool, with seven turquoise beads sewn to the brim. We stood together for some time, all three of us holding hands and the boys between us, saying, Jullay, jullay, jullay, jullay. Finally Lama Tundup pulled himself away and disappeared down the earthen hallway. Christine’s eyes were damp as she slumped onto her pallet.
Raising everyone’s spirits, Taj grabbed the hat and popped it on his head, holding up a hand in salute. “Reporting for duty, sir!”
By noon, the only adults at the monastery—besides Christine and me—were the cooks, Wang Chuk and a geshe who taught Tibetan debate (and bore an uncanny resemblance to Telly Savalas). Even the Nepalis had gone. The assembly hall was padlocked, so the next morning the geshe led an informal puja in the classroom, craggy face obscured by shadows, body bowed forward, eyes closed. The monk boys, sitting in two rows, began a game of out-chanting the other side, and the resulting uproar was deafening, but the geshe only smiled and swayed.
Afterward, we gathered on a rooftop. Butter tea arrived from the kitchen. Copper urns of tsampa were passed around. The boys joked and laughed.
Abruptly Wang Chuk asked, “When you leave?”
The boys fell silent. Sadness swept over me. I wanted to declare, Never. We are not going. We are going to stay here with you, eating tsampa and drinking tea, watching choughs dive and soar as clouds tumble across the blue sky.
“Friday,” I admitted. It was just five days away.
“Yippee!” Bodi exclaimed, and the monk boys turned to look.
“You’ll miss Karsha Gompa once we go,” Christine suggested gently.
“No he won’t,” Taj explained. “Because Lama Wangyal bought us a pressure cooker, and that will help us remember.”
* * *
Christine and I carefully prepared a series of lessons for our final week of class, but that afternoon, as we stood before the novice boys we’d grown to love so deeply, I was overcome by a sense that the most valuable gift we could leave behind would be encouraging them to continue speaking English. Their progress since our arrival had been phenomenal, but if they stopped now, their comfort with the strange tongue would dissipate.
“Mr. Bruce, Angmo, Norbu and Tashi are leaving Karsha Gompa,” I began, and they all stared at me with eyes as deep and still as a mountain lake at dawn. “But you can keep practicing English together.”
“Not possible.” Norphal shook his head, and the finality of his words winded me.
“What about tourists?” I asked. “Do you ever talk to tourists?”
The entire class laughed and shook their heads. No. Never.
“If you want to learn English, the most important thing you can do is keep talking. So from now on, you should talk to every tourist you see.”
They looked confused, and knowing none of the novices would approach a foreigner without guidance, I scribbled a list of ice-breaking questions on the blackboard. They dutifully copied these queries into their notebooks: What is your name? What country do you come from? How long are you staying in Zanskar? Did you go to puja? Do you like butter tea?
The last question amused the class greatly. No tourist liked butter tea, they declared. It amused Wang Chuk too, who had arrived early and was listening from the back corner as he brewed tea.
Christine slipped out and raced down to Lama Wangyal’s, returning with the box of cream-filled pastries I’d bought in Padum. The monk boys scuttled to their places on the carpet in anticipation. Bodi distributed the treats one by one, and then we ate in silence, the only sound that of slurping tea and dipping pastries.
Christine had purchased farewell gifts for all the novices, which she now presented: a pair of plastic sandals and a T-shirt (in their favorite color, bearing their favorite cartoon character) for each boy. The novices were ecstatic and compared wares.
“I couldn’t help myself,” Christine whispered as she plopped down beside me. “They have so little. Not even a mother to take care of them.”
When the pastries were done, Norphal asked, “Mr. Bruce, Angmo, when will you come back?”
“I don’t know,” I stammered, my uncertainty feeling like a betrayal.
I stumbled out of the classroom forlornly, but the air was dizzyingly clear, and before me spread the great valley, ice-capped summits and blazing blue sky, and I paused, trying to imprint the scene upon my mind—for I knew I’d need its sustenance in seasons ahead.
* * *
Christine and I were sitting in our room, preparing for the final class farewell party, when I became aware that someone was standing over us. Glancing up, I realized it was little Jigmet—not the almond-eyed Jigmet who lived upstairs, but rather a shy twelve-year-old who generally kept to himself.
“Jullay, Jigmet! How are you?”
No reply.
Looking up again, I noticed his face was pale. A strip of maroon cloth—torn from robes and cinched around his head like Rambo—was drenched in blood. Jigmet collapsed into my arms.
Christine leapt up, and together we laid the boy on a pallet. Beneath the bloody rag, I discovered a deep gash in his forehead, running from eyebrow to hairline. I delicately probed the wound, and it opened so wide I could see the boy’s skull.
A crowd of monk boys appeared in our doorway, looking uncomfortable.
“What happened?” I asked. “Did he fall?”
No one answered.
“Big rock,” Norphal finally said, and the group shuffled. I suspected someone had kicked a boulder down on Jigmet from above.
Christine retrieved our trauma kit. I yanked out gauze, anaesthetic, antibiotic cream and sutures. Keeping my hands busy gave me a chance to think. Jigmet needed stitches, but getting him to Padum might take hours. And how well equipped was the clinic? Perhaps we should try sewing the gash up ourselves? I’d never actually placed a stitch in a wound, although I once watched seventy-nine go into the smashed face of a fallen Sherpa at Everest base camp, and somewhere in the recesses of my mind remained a vague memory of the double twisting knot used to cinch the thread.
Jigmet moaned. Christine struggled to staunch the bleeding. Better to do it right here and now, I decided.
We rinsed Jigmet’s forehead with alcohol, and the young boy writhed, fluttering on the edge of consciousness. After packing antibiotic cream and topical freezing into the wound, there was nothing left to do but get on with it.
I unwrapped a suture, and the monk boys at the doorway gasped. I would have preferred not to have an audience, as I was not confident in what I was about to attempt, but I ignored the whispers and focused on Jigmet.
Christine aligned the edges of the gash. “You can do this, Bruce.”
The suture needle was the size and shape of a torn fingernail. Gripping it with a pair of surgical tweezers, I placed the tip on the edge of the wound and pushed. I expected it to slip in easily, like a hypodermic needle, but the skin resisted. I pushed harder, until I was misshaping Jigmet’s forehead like a tarpaulin filled with water. Still nothing. Harder. Blood seeped from the wound. Jigmet cried out. I felt sick
.
Taking a deep breath, I tried again.
This time, with a mighty shove, the needle punctured the skin, and I guided it through the wound and up the other side. My attempt at a double-wrap knot failed, so I secured it with a clumsy granny. But the stitch held, and the edges of the wound were aligned. I breathed in relief.
Then I tried to put in a second stitch, but no matter how hard I pushed, the needle refused to penetrate the skin.
“Let’s take him to the clinic,” Christine finally whispered.
I was frustrated, for I’d wanted to fix Jigmet myself, but I knew she was right.
Norphal raced off to find Wang Chuk, and the monk soon came barrelling into our room. He bellowed at Jigmet, unconvinced the poor boy needed medical attention, but I insisted. So Wang Chuk went in search of a car in the village below. After a sip of juice, Jigmet and I followed, limping down the pathway with his arm draped over my shoulder, finding Wang Chuk waiting beside a tiny blue Suzuki.
Forty-five minutes later, the driver dropped us at a steel Quonset hut on the outskirts of Padum, with an immense white and red cross painted on the roof. Two elderly women sat in the shade of a willow, spinning wool. After collecting a two-rupee (three-cent) outpatient fee, they summoned a rake-thin Indian doctor, wearing shorts and T-shirt. He led us past rooms labelled THEATRE, DISPENSARY and WC, to a ceramic-tiled alcove, holding a small bed and steel sink heaped with dirty implements.
Yanking Jigmet’s dressing off, the young doctor broke into laughter as he inspected my stitch. He continued to laugh as he scrubbed his hands, doused Jigmet’s forehead with water and injected an enormous quantity of local anaesthetic. Finally, when the quivering boy could no longer feel a needle scratching against the surface of his skin, the still-snorting doctor sewed up the wound.
It was a surprisingly crude process. Using a needle suitable for moose hide, he pushed and tugged with the vigour needed to sew a pair of moccasins. Jigmet, I surmised, possessed one seriously tough forehead. When it was done, a strip of gauze was wrapped around Jigmet’s head, again and again, until he looked like a war victim—or mummy.
Back in Karsha, village children surrounded our car, besieging Jigmet with questions. He smiled but said nothing. Together we climbed back up to the monastery.
Later I saw Jigmet bounding down a pathway with a pack of other novices. A knit beanie of maroon wool—exactly the same shade as Buddhist robes—covered his bandages.
* * *
Shale clouds drifted across a lavender sky. The icy summits rising above Padum flamed orange, like torches. It was our final day at the monastery, and I sat outside the hobbit door, cradling the moment, knowing it would never come again.
For three months, I’d watched as the great rivers sweeping across Zanskar’s central plains—the Stod and the Tsarap—shifted colors: tortoise-shell green, slate grey, turquoise, mocha. Now they ran silver, wending eastward.
Running parallel to their banks was a dirt track, twisting and whirling across the undulating gravel flats like a piece of yarn that has been pulled taut and then released. This was the route we would follow tomorrow, toward another world.
* * *
A group of novices rushed into our room, inviting us to join them in the classroom at ten o’clock—a final goodbye.
We arrived to find the classroom empty, and I momentarily wondered if they had forgotten about the invitation. Then Wang Chuk waltzed in, carrying an armful of shiny biscuit packages. Slowly novices trickled in behind him, one by one.
While we waited, I wrote our “real” names on the blackboard; Bruce, Bodi, Taj and Christine Kirkby. I also wrote our mailing address and my email, promising if any of the novices ever needed our help in the future, we would do whatever we could. It may have been in vain. None of the boys had ever posted a letter before. And no one knew what email was.
But the monk boys were ecstatic, and insisted we write the contact information ourselves, in each of their notebooks, just to ensure there was no mistake. The process reminded me of signing high school yearbooks—a fleeting memento of a departing friendship that felt so significant in the moment, yet was destined to be forgotten.
When Jigmet arrived, he plopped down on my lap, dark eyes dancing. Peeking under his dressings, I found the wound healing well. I pressed a tube of antibiotic cream into his palm and urged him to use it in the days ahead.
When the debate-teaching geshe shuffled in, everyone settled on cushions. The geshe said a few words in Zanskari (translated to English by Wang Chuk): “We thank you for coming and teaching at Karsha school. We are embarrassed, for our students and our equipment are very far behind what you know in Canada, and we appreciate every sacrifice you have made. Please, we ask that you will always remember us. And know that anytime in the future, you or your partners will be welcome here, with us, at Karsha Gompa.”
Wang Chuk presented us each with school satchels, embroidered with a crest. Mine was addressed to “Mr. Brush.” Then he placed khata scarves around our necks. Christine and I pressed our hands together and bowed. Bodi and Taj followed suit.
I assumed the ceremony was over, but from the corner of my eye, I caught sight of monk boys yanking khatas from satchels. Little Nima approached first, reaching way up to put a scarf around my neck. Next he hung one on Christine, Bodi and finally Taj. Then came big Jigmet. And little Jigmet. Then Thurchin. Sonam. Purbu. It was an avalanche. White scarves filled the air, landing on our necks so quickly I couldn’t keep up.
“Jullay! Jullay! Jullay! Jullay!”
And these were no ordinary khatas. Rather, the boys had given us brilliantly embroidered silk scarves, probably received on special occasions in their own pasts. Taj disappeared beneath a mountain of silk. Amid all those scarves, I glimpsed Christine, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Finally we lined up—students, faculty, family—and took a class photograph— the only one that exists from those three months.
As we walked from the classroom for the last time, little Nima ran after us, tugging at my shirt, asking hopefully, “See you tomorrow, Mr. Bruce?” But even as the words came out, he looked unsure.
“Maybe next year,” I croaked.
Purbu’s singsong voice followed us down the sunny path. “See you soon.”
And Norgay the tulku: “See you tomorrow!”
* * *
Sonam Dawa had returned to Zanskar to lead our trek out, and was scheduled to pick our family up at noon, so we spent the rest of the morning packing duffels, once again jettisoning anything we could do without.
When shy Tsephal dropped by to say one more final goodbye, I handed him a water bottle, the cheap plastic type similar to those given away at cycling races. His joy was such that you’d think I’d given him the keys to a new car. When I showed him how the nozzle popped up, he clapped.
Christine admitted that she’d given her designer wristwatch to Skarma that morning. “I just couldn’t help myself.”
Next we cleaned the room, plucking crumbs from the carpets, scrubbing walls, wiping the table and windows. And as we worked, I thought of Tashi Topden, Paljor and Jigmet, taking care of themselves in this ramshackle house, perhaps until the end of winter. I felt guilty for tearing their teacher away. Would it make their lives easier or harder? I suspected a bit of both. Undoubtedly they’d move into this room the moment we left—it would not look the same when Lama Wangyal returned.
“Put some effort into it,” Christine chided the boys as they tidied, and Taj turned to stare at her in astonishment.
“Put the F-word into it?”
Eventually Christine shooed us all outside, for it seemed we were creating more mess than we were cleaning.
The three of us loitered in the shade of the rose bushes, waiting for Sonam. Noon came and went. One o’clock passed. Then two. There was still no sign of his pickup. My mind remained on the monk boys, sitting in the quiet classroom somewhere far above, studying English with Wang Chuk. I wondered if their hearts ached too.
At four o’clock, Christine allowed us back into Lama Wangyal’s house and we lazed on the pallets.
At five o’clock, Bodi and I retrieved our journals and sketched the grand valley, sitting side by side on a boulder.
When six o’clock arrived, we climbed back up toward the courtyard for dinner. I was reluctant to relive the painful goodbyes, but we had no other choice. There was no food in Lama Wangyal’s house.
The monk boys were eating alone, without an adult in sight, and screams of Jullay! greeted us as we emerged from the stone passageway. Skarma dragged us by hand into the dark kitchen, where Chagar heaped our bowls with broth from a blackened cauldron. As we sipped on soup, the monk boys sprinted in circles, shrieking, leaping from walls, smashing into peers.
“I can’t imagine this not ending in tears,” Christine observed.
Nawang tied his robes around his neck like a superhero. Tsephal proudly carried his new water bottle, and soon a game of catch evolved, as it was thrown back and forth like a football above a throng of thrashing young monks. Christine hoisted Norgay the tulku atop her shoulders, and he laughed hysterically as they charged through the fray.
Then silence.
Norphal stood at the courtyard door. “Sonam Dawa here,” he announced flatly.
As quickly as the game started, it was over. The monk boys followed us down the pathway, little feet slapping behind us. Together we carried the heavy duffels to the waiting pickup. After more goodbyes, more hugs, more high-fives, we climbed into Sonam’s truck.
Seven-year-old Nawang, the tough little boy who I’d watched shake off being pelted by a boiled egg, asked one last time, “See you at puja tomorrow?”