EPISODE EIGHT: Karmic Footprint

As samsaric beings, we eat so many things, we sniff so many things, we have sex with different kinds of people, and we never really know down the line what kind of seeds we have planted with all of our actions. Knowingly or not, we are constantly creating legacies, changing worlds, and leaving our mark.

Long ago, in a place called Kurtoed[1], a woman was walking home from visiting a family in mourning. As she crossed a high bamboo bridge, it collapsed beneath her. She fell into the river and was washed away, never to be seen again. Soon after that tragedy, her husband was picking avocados in a tree and tumbled from the branches to his death, leaving five children as orphans. This man who climbed the tree had never sipped a cup of coffee in his life, he had never read Murakami, and his wife had never seen Don Giovanni. Little did they know that they were the creators of a great-great-grandson who enjoys coffee so much, reads Murakami, and has seen Don Giovanni many times. The two were my grandfather’s grandparents.

A lady whose name was Ngawang Drolma took it upon herself to give the orphaned children—one of them my great-grandmother, Sonam Drolma—to the first king of Bhutan. There is this custom in Bhutan of offering orphans to institutions, even today. Many end up at monasteries but this bunch ended up working in the king’s household.

Ngawang Drolma was like a character from a classic English novel, a grande dame, a thromde’s lady[2], very powerful. Someone should really write a novel about Bhutanese family dynamics. Conveniently for her, there was also a tradition in Bhutan that when there were no more adults to care for a home, the land was taken over by another family.

Kurtoed is a rarely-seen part of the Lhuntse district, but back then, it was a political and economic powerbase because of its proximity to the border of Tibet in the far northeast of the country. It was one of the original provinces of Bhutan. Many of our past leaders came from there. On my documents, it says I was born in Kurtoed because not many people knew of my true birthplace, the hidden valley of Artemisia, Khenpajong.

Being from Kurtoed back then was like being from a rich harbor city like Hamburg or a cosmopolitan center like London because of its access to Tibet. But it had its own Kurtoepa[3] language which to my ears—and maybe I’m tainted by my childhood memories—is the most singsong and melodic of languages. Kurtoepa girls were considered beautiful and a good catch, but I have a feeling it had something to do with this language. One thing I remember about the Kurtapas is the classic Bhutanese dishes like ezay[4] and hogay[5]. When prepared by the hands of a Kurtoepa especially middle aged men and women, these dishes are extraordinary. On my occasional visits to Bhutan, I always make an effort to visit my Auntie Dorji Yangki who is such a Kurtoepa good cook.

I didn’t grow up in Kurtoed, but the Kurtoepa who accompanied my family talked endlessly of the glory of Kurtoed, so in that way it was familiar to me. There was always talk of two grand Kurtoepa families: the Roolings and the Thunpes. They lived in naksthang, a kind of Bhutanese chateau or manor, that people spoke about as if they were the grand castles of Europe. There was one house called Dungkar Chhoejey, which was the ancestral home of the current royal family. Each house was staffed with servants who were basically owned by the householders, people like my grandmother. The residue of this servant culture is still alive in Bhutan today, which is so sad because they just can’t seem to shake the habit.

When Ngawang Drolma intervened with the orphans, it was at the height of Kurtoed’s history. My great-grandmother was the eldest of the five orphans, and because she was very clever and could do many things around the palace, she became part of the inner circle of the royal family. And that’s how she ended up pregnant with a royal-blooded baby; we can never quite say which one was the father. That child was my grandfather, Lama Sonam Zangpo.

The Tibetans and Bhutanese are not in the habit of keeping family records. Therefore, most historical dates are based on a lot of hearsay and the facts are blurry. When people were asked when they were born, they would most likely say “the year of the monkey” or some other astrological animal from the lunar calendar, and then the person asking would have to guess their age based on how old this person seems—if this person is fortyish, they assume four monkey years ago. Other people might use seasons or special events to answer the birth date question. They might say, “I was born ten springs ago,” or, “I was born the year before the forest caught on fire.”

Until recently, with the arrival of globalization, we never celebrated birthdays in Bhutan. But now I hear that there are parties where the elites even wear tuxedos and they order cakes from Bangkok. They can’t get enough birthday parties.

I myself only came to know my actual date of birth when I was around 20 and needed to get a passport. Relying on the memories of my aunties and the disciples of my grandfather and other attendants, we figured out it was in June. Until then, I had always thought maybe I was born in July, because of something my mother had said. I even had a whole astrological chart done as if I were a Cancer, and it seemed perfectly accurate. That’s the way it goes with astrology. But I think that was a miscommunication due to using two kinds of calendars with a different number of months.

So when we are told that my grandfather was born in Kurtoed, the year of the water snake, and that his mother, Sonam Drolma, kept him secret for three years, and then at age 8 Talu monastery ordered him to become a monk, or that at age 16 he walked to Tibet, well, you have to take these numbers with a grain of salt.

One might think that Sonam Drolma kept her child hidden for those years because he was a bastard born out of wedlock. But this was not such a big deal in Bhutan. There was a much bigger risk than a damaged reputation. When I was growing up, I was warned again and again, almost every day, not to eat food from certain families or to be close to certain characters. My grandfather’s attendants would whisper and hide when particular people came near. Much later, they told me the reason. There were many cases of poisoning at that time in Bhutan, especially in the east, because people believed that if you poisoned someone to death, you could receive their qualities. So it’s more likely that Sonam Drolma was afraid the boy would be poisoned if the truth of his royal parentage was revealed.

There were, and still are, people who deliberately give poison to higher born people, and especially to helpless babies. These babies have the power but cannot defend themselves. Some of these sorcerers could snatch power with just a glance, and some had a special poisonous touch. Some of those families are still around in east Bhutan suffering social exclusion. The phenomenon of all these witches and sorcerers is fading as the world becomes so materialistic.

Kurtoed also has faded. Most of the Kurtapa elites have now moved to places like Thimphu; few if any lords and ladies of the chateaus remain. I went to Kurtoed in my early 30s to visit my grandfather’s village. I was looking forward to finally seeing the grand naktshang of the Roolings and the Thunpes. For years, I had imagined something comparable to the storied estates in a novel, not unlike the Bingleys’ Netherfield and the Bennets’ Longbourn in Pride and Prejudice.

To my great disappointment, the naktshang turned out to be just two houses, situated right next door to each other. There was no evidence of glory. It makes me wonder about all those conversations I used to hear about Kurtoed.

Just as the Buddha said, what is stacked will fall, what comes together will become fragmented, what is born will die. I would say that Kurtoed reflects these truths. But that doesn’t stop people from clinging to their memories.

 

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[1] Kurtoed, pronounced “ker-toe”, is sometimes spelled Kurtoe and many various other ways on maps.

[2] Spelled Kurtoep in Dzongkha or Kurtoepa Sharchhop.

[3] A thromde is a third-level administrative division in Bhutan.

[4] Ezay is a common chili sauce

[5] Hogay is a cucumber salad with chilies, cheese, and Szechuan pepper