Read Buttertea at Sunrise for Free Online Page A

the slope, I pass a few large houses and find myself suddenly standing beside the upturned cone of a white stone chorten, poised at the edge of a rather steep cliff. A soft lapping sound, somewhat like clothes fluttering on a line in the yard, draws my attention and I notice a few scattered flags on the hilltop. Suspended from long wooden poles, the white bands of cotton cloth are flapping idly back and forth. Like their neighbour the chorten, the prayer flags have aged considerably. The material is torn in places, badly beaten by wind and weather. From close up, I can barely identify the print. All that is visible are row upon row of symbols in a foreign script. Throughout the length of the cloth, a 36
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    F I R S T E N C O U N T E R S
    square box with texts and pictures is repeated several times without variation. The same prayer?
    Though bleached and faded through time, the flags charm me into staying. I imagine the wind, how it breathes by my little outlook and picks up a prayer; how the devout petition is carried over the ridge, down into the next valley and up a mountain where more prayer flags join the chorus. It waltzes around every house, over every pass in the country.
    Far and wide, like a faithful servant, the wind collects and strengthens the softly sung lyric, and then carries it up, up, up…
    My dreamy contemplation is interrupted by the figure of a man emerging from the bushes. He throws me an expressionless glance and disappears. Soon after, a young boy surfaces out of the thicket. He, too, stares at me and then walks on without a word. I am intrigued.
    Where did these two come from? Carefully, I retrace the footprints which my two silent visitors have left to a trampled patch of grass, surrounded by thick shrubs. A penetrating smell prevails. I turn on my heels and contemplate the two new vistas: a lovely chorten on the edge of a cliff, and the public toilet.
    My organised, compartmentalised western mind rears at the association of the two contradicting localities. Do the people not bestow honour upon this sacred site through prayer, rituals and, above all, the erection of a chorten?
    Chortens are supposed to be guardians of treasures and relics, as well as memorials of great saints and priests. Is the very act of building a chorten not witness to devout belief, which is pure and clean?
    Murmuring a soft prayer, an old woman approaches. Her figure is stooped. The sinewy muscles of her neck stand out and it appears that the cane she clutches keeps her from toppling over. When she stops and rests, the thumb of her right hand stays in motion, methodically moving the beads 37
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    B U T T E R T E A A T S U N R I S E
    on her rosary. For a brief moment she takes notice of me and lifts her head, squints at me, then smiles and shuffles past. At the chorten, she extends a shaking hand, reaches out to place her fingers on the rough white stones, turns to her left and walks slowly three times around the monument.
    Finally, apparently satisfied, she carefully lowers herself onto the bottom step and rests, her head supported on her cane, her hand still clutching the rosary. As I turn to go, the old woman gets up and shuffles past the thicket of bushes, apparently oblivious of the offending smells.
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    C H A P T E R F O U R
    Where You
    Going, Miss?
    Like a grand theatre enrapturing its audience with magnificent drama, the monsoon continues to
    dominate the sky. Sometimes playful, sometimes
    foreboding, the grey masses of moisture change shape and form in an everlasting masquerade.
    On Sunday afternoon, inspired by the clouds floating through the lowland and climbing the ridges in dreamy white