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Excerpted from When Loss Is Gain by Pavan
Verma.
We would take the highway to Thimphu and skirt the city to the Dochula pass before descending to Punakha. The overcast morning with traces of the morning sun wove unexpected threads of gold in the green embroidery of the valley. For both of us it was our first visit outside Wangsisina and Thimphu. She was in great spirits, a bit like a schoolkid out on a picnic, remarking on anything new, a school or a chorten or a vegetable market by the road. We hadn’t been half an hour on the road when she announced she was hungry.
‘So it’s the movement that whets your appetite?’ ‘No stupid. It’s the anticipation of what’s ahead, the break from routine, the sense of the new, the feeling you are moving away from the known. That’s the thing about happy journeys. So, can we investigate the basket? Aren’t you feeling hungry too?’ ‘I am. But I wonder if Tashi, our driver, will ask why we didn’t have breakfast at home if we wanted to stop to get to that basket so soon after leaving?’ She spoke to Tashi then. ‘Tashi, do you mind if we stop to have breakfast?’ ‘No, madam, not at all.’ He was a likeable young man, neatly dressed in a shirt and trousers, and very polite. ‘I shall find a good spot straightaway.’ I suggested we eat while we drove to save time, but she would have none of it. ‘The beginning of a journey makes me hungry, but I like to eat when I’m stationary. We should know when to stop and when not to go at all.’ *** Her laughter was like a little girl’s. She was a different person today, as though the severance of her physical moorings had set her afloat. She seemed to have left the dilemmas of her mind in the waiting room of some railway station where the train would never return again. To see her like this was exhilarating for me. I did not want to do or say anything to break the magic of her transformation. I just wanted her to be free of tension, to feel a sense of abandon, to enjoy the moment without reference to her past or mine, or what we believed in, to just laugh without reason. For, when laughter is untethered, not chained to purpose, just welling out like some irrepressible spring from some unknown source, it’s healing. *** Located at the confluence of the Mochu and Pochu rivers, the largest dzong of Bhutan was a remarkably perfect sum of its asymmetrical parts. Massive, tapering white stone walls rose through ochre bands towards the gold-painted pagodas floating above the roof. The edifice looked like a huge ship anchored to the waters of the two rivers, the Mochu more quiet and docile and probably deeper, while the Pochu was frothy and wilful, and seemingly stronger and unforgiving. The stationary mass of mud and stone at the edge of the confluence created the illusion of movement, not of the waters but of the building itself: if you stared long enough it seemed the waters were still and the ship-like dzong was moving through them. Three steep wooden staircases parallel to each other took us to the courtyard within. A huge peepul tree in the centre of the courtyard was strikingly reminiscent of our aangans, although the scale was dramatically different. A series of narrow corridors from the courtyard brought us to the front of the temple. Taking off our shoes, we stepped inside and were immediately captivated by one of the most beautiful statues of the Buddha I had ever seen. The Sakyamuni, not less than forty feet high, was draped in a rich orange robe; one hand held the customary bowl for alms; the other palm extended outwards in a gesture of supreme benediction. But what was really riveting was the face. The sculptor had created a visage of such complete compassion it was impossible not to be deeply moved. All the features—the slightly arched eyebrows, the noble angularity of the nose, the deep, luminous eyes, the half-smile playing on the lips—bespoke unspeakable peace and serenity, and, for me, also infinite joy. Tara and I stood in spontaneous reverence for several minutes… Tara was under the thrall of the temple for quite some time after we left. I left her to her thoughts, although I was dying to tell her what I took away was not the pervasiveness of sorrow but the triumph of joy. *** The unexpected happened as we were finishing our meal. A very large man with Tibetan features and a shock of white hair, sitting on the table next to us, got up to leave but fell face downwards, missing our table by a hair’s breadth, the impact of his falling body making Tara scream.
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‘Anand, is it too
early to attack that basket? I don’t know about you, but journeys make
me hungry. As a child when we used to travel by train I was hungry the
moment the train started to move.’