How to Serve the Lord
Yeshey Pelzom / UK
The children run after you like they did after the Pied Piper of Hamelin. Of course, you are from Phoenix and there is no Koppelberg Hill in Bhutan. The children skip along, leaving behind a trail of dust. “Philingpa, Philingpa,” they clap as they chant the word over and over. You beam. You love it. You have had no attention for a long time.
In four years of college, you have changed your major four times. You have not included the ones that you mentally changed, with every research paper that you wrote the night before the due date. With each cup of coffee churning in your empty stomach, you thought of a better major. If you can finish a 10-12 pages paper in 5-6 hours, you can qualify for any job. You see an advertisement, “Positions as a missionary: Teaching English as Second Language.” That is easy. You speak English. They don’t. Sign up for two-week TESOL and you are ready to fly. Bhutan. The visa says. Hold on to your certificate. Remember, you are a certified Teacher of English to Speakers of Other Language. At least for one year.
You are in Thimphu. A niche on the walls of the Himalayas. You have to impress the Director of Education. He assigns you the school. The Director of Education – he will not stop talking about London where he got his Master’s Degree in Agriculture. His eyes threaten to bulge out above his glasses as his rolls them, as if searching for his euphoric past. He then, takes a deep breath, runs his hand over his declining hairline. He continues. He points at a framed picture. It is New Year’s Eve of 1986. He stands in front of the Big Ben, his eyes glued to the arms that row the tideless time. You are not sure whether he misses London or his youth. You agree that there is no better place than London. You have only seen the Grand Canyon besides the city of Phoenix.
“Philingpa, Philingpa.” The word can wait but you need to find the school. The headmaster was supposed to receive you at the bus stop. You look at your address book. The page reads, “Rangjung Primary School”. You point to the words. You have written it in the most handsome style; the alphabets stand out like your boyfriend’s heavily gelled spikes. “I see,” a boy says in English. He wears a pair of rain boots. You cannot tell the color because it is covered in dust. The beginning of March can be very dry in Bhutan. You will wonder why he wears rain boots, but you will soon find out. The others wear none. He speaks English and wears boots. He will be your guide. The others giggle, some showing their toothless gums, and some making an effort to cover with their wind chapped hands. You have never thought about that; all children lose their milk teeth. “I see, you are looking for Headmaster Sir. Come. Follow me,” the boy in boots leads me to the school.
School begins. The headmaster calls a staff meeting on the first day. He begins his speech in English. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen,” he looks around and pauses. You look away. “Welcome to the family.” Your family consists of seven men and two women, including you. And don’t forget your children. By the end of the day, you have a new name: “Philingpa Miss”.
You clearly remember the day you started this odyssey. “We are being called upon by the Lord, now, more than ever,” roar the voice over the microphone. “There is enough evidence in the recent years that God finds a need to make his callings volatile so that people around the globe can have the opportunity to understand that He is the Savior.” You stretch your neck. You are desperate. You need to see the source of these words. “May you have the courage to serve the Lord. God bless you!” Everyone applauds but you still stretch your neck. You stand on your toes. Now you hear name being called. You don’t remember when you decided to serve the Lord. You walk to the stage and take your certificate. You are TESOLified.
You will learn that you are the new English teacher of Ranjung Primary School. The last one was an Indian and he did not come back after the session ended in December. You teach from grade one to six. Three months pass but you still do not know all your students. You have a ten-year old in every grade – the one in grade one has started late, the one in grade two has missed school for a year, ten in grade three and four is normal, the one in five has had a double promotion and the one in six is the headmaster’s daughter.
It is monsoon. You will think that this is one of the Lord’s calling. Rangjung is cut off from the rest of the world. A whole hill has slided down to the valley below. There is no trace of the road. You go to bed by seven o’ clock. You have lanterns but no kerosene. When was the last time you saw a candle? You will not worry about food. The women from the village will bring you everything. Firewood, rice, potatoes, cucumbers, milk, eggs, spinach, fish. You now know a few Sharchokpa, their dialect. You say, “Ah…ma khey la…” While you take the things into your kitchen, you are telling them, in a sing-song tone, that there is no need for the things. Like them, you are polite.
“Philingpa Ama, Oi, Ama.” You know it is one of the mothers. You go out. Your response is instinctive. You have got used to your names: “Philingpa Miss” by your students and “Philingpa Ama” by the parents. You are the foreigner teacher and the foreigner lady. She holds a pair of rain boots. She points to the boots and talks rapidly. The silver necklace with dotted turquoise and the matching earrings swing to the rhythm of her breathless talking. You understand enough to make sense. She has brought you her husband’s rain boots. The monsoon has kept her husband out of the village. Your leather shoes are of no use in the mud. You are a “philingpa ama” and you should not walk barefoot. You look down. Her boots are cakes of mud. She laughs. She pinches your foot to tell how delicate yours are. You take the boots. You know they will fit you fine. These people have smaller body frame. Tears well up in your eyes. You understand her say, “Love Thy Guest.” You have no words in return.
You are at the Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport. You can already hear you mom cry, “Liz” before you even claim your luggage. She is in tears. “You look awful, baby.” You know. “Look at your shoes.” You know. “We are going to mall tomorrow, I’ve see some good ones at Anne Klein.” You almost ask who Anne Klein is. You feel like a “philingpa” in your own land. You are glad that you had met the Director of Education last week. “See you in March. I am sorry. You have to go all the way to America to get your contract extended.”
Your dad drives through downtown. The Christmas lights follow you. You can almost hear them say, “philingpa, philingpa…” as the red, green, blue and yellow bulbs wink in turns. You hate it. You remain quiet for a long time.
Dear Ms. Pelzom,
When I saw you remain quiet for a long time, I thought I would atleast jot this down to applaud for I like your story.
Your writing style is fascinating indeed! I agree with your smart reason why a ten year old is in every grade.
Expecting to see you again in the blog.
Thanks
Yam.
Hi, Mrs.Pelzom, this is awesome story. i enjoyed reading it. we need writters like you to keep our bhutaneseliterature alive. Hope to get other interesting stories from you and other great writters.