Our First Puja

I had one of the most amazing cultural experiences ever and all I can think about is how great it could’ve been as an NPR story – I’m kicking myself for not bringing a recorder. ‘Oh, perhaps next time,’ I tell myself. Everything here is such an amazing journalistic opportunity, but I cannot focus on that. I’m a teacher. That might have been the first time I’ve written those three words with intention. I’ve written ‘teacher’ on the Occupation blank of various immigration and travel document forms, but I’ve never written it for myself. My head can imagine a thousand different stories, articles, radio pieces, but all my energy must go into teaching.

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Water, ara, powdered milk, and milk fresh from a cow – those are the four things that got poured into my left hand, brought briefly to my lips, and wiped onto the top of my head. Scott and I went to our first puja. I didn’t know what a puja is and barely still do. Tenzin said that Dorji – the vice principal at our school – was having a puja to ward off evil spirits from his house, his life, his family, as well as to wish all the school kids a successful, safe school year. This particular puja lasted for three days – we went on the final day – but Tenzin says thay can last for as long as a month or as short as a day. And they’re done for various reasons – for marriages, births, deaths, a new home.

I was informed of the puja today at school, the first reporting day for teachers. A written notification was passed around to all the teachers explaining the events followed by a list of all our names. If you wanted to attend, you just signed by your name. I didn’t really know what I was signing up for. I just heard “food,” “beer,” “cultural experience,” and “you can invite your husband” (so far, the teachers call Scott either my “husband,” my “friend,” or “sir”). The teachers at my school would go to Dorji’s house as a group and bring a group gift or cookies, crackers, and soda.

Scott and I met Tenzin at the school gate at 4 pm and walked through the college campus to Dorji’s house, which is located in a village below Sherubtse. Along the way, we met up with more of the teachers. Almost all the women who are my co-workers are the wives of Sherubtse lecturers. Once we were all together, we walked passed an angry bull who wouldn’t let us pass him, through terraced fields,

and to Dorji’s traditional village home – the first visit to a local home for Scott and I.

We took off our shoes and entered the house. The first room on the right was quite bare except for the people sitting on the floor against the four walls. We weren’t introduced to them but Tenzin told us later that they were family, close relatives, and neighbors. The teachers filled into two rooms – most of the group in one room where Sarchopkha and Dzongkha were spoken, and Scott, Tenzin, Kazuhiro (the Japanese volunteer at my school), and I in another room where almost only English could be heard. I’m grateful for my principal, Tenzin, for staying with us, for explaining the customs, making conversation, for continuing to be my guide in Kanglung.

At one point I looked behind a curtain – in Bhutan, many doorways, even the ones that have actual doors, are draped with a decorative curtain – and saw a room full of monks chanting prayers, and holding an assortment of traditional instruments. To my surprise, I was gestured to come into the room. I went in and knelt on the floor. Scott followed behind me. It was even okay for me to take pictures. Seven monks lined the wall looking at piles of paper strips containing prayer scripts. As they chanted, they’d turn a page, and every so often, they’d lift their instruments and start to play. There were long horns, a drum, and shorter wind instruments.


Opposite the monks was an altar and a terrific array of pastries, sweets, cookies, bottles of Druk 11,000 (the local beer), money, butter sculptures. Another monk seemed to be arranging the offerings, performing rituals.

An old man who was also sitting and observing coaxed us to enter the room further and sit down. They made room for Scott and I. At times it seemed the monks were watching us as much as we were watching them.

After some time, Scott and I left the room. We could still hear the monks – the rise and fall of their prayers, their pauses. Soon the beer came and while we didn’t know it at the time, that kicked off a lineup of food, blessings, and drink. What came next was a big bowl heaping with local red rice topped with spinach, dried meat, and a piece of fat. We were also given a smaller bowl of cauliflower and meat curry. In the midst of eating, drinking beer, another pot of pumpkin and meat curry was passed around.

Then came the blessings.

First, one monk entered the room with a canister. He poured water into our hands. I knew what to do as we’d been taught it from BCF when we visited other temples during our orientation. You bring the water to your lips, drink some (or pretend to drink some because you’re pretty certain the water hasn’t been boiled for at least five minutes), and then pour the rest over the top of your head. Like I said, I felt ready for that, prepared. What I wasn’t expecting was another monk coming in and pouring another clear liquid into our hands. I assumed it was more water so did the same things as before, but Tenzin said immediately after that it was ara. Then another monk came in with white powder. He poured some in our hands and sprinkled some on each of our heads. The last item that was offered for our hands, mouth, and head was fresh cow milk. For some reason, instead of just pretending to drink some, I actually did. I cannot recall the taste now, but I do know it tasted unlike anything I’ve ever had before. This too was added to the concoction already in my hair. A fifth monk came in and pounded on our backs as we bent forward. The final gift was a heaping plate of the sweets and cookies we had seen in the other room – other items included ground nuts, dried meat, Halls throat drops (these are used like mints here), pieces of fresh cheese and butter, other hard candy, pieces of cooked potatoes, dried fruits. All of this was over a pile of rice. This food had been blessed by a monk and now given to us. Tenzin instructed us to eat what we’d like and to take the rest home. The blessings were for a long life, to live past 100 years. Even though we were massively full for food, beer, and ara cooked with egg, we still picked at our individual plates of sweets. The rest got wrapped in Dorji’s old lesson plans from 2006. The closure of the puja was filled with exclamations of “oh la sol,” proclaimed by the monks each time someone offered money.

By the time Scott, Tenzin, Kazuhiro, and I left Dorji’s house, we were the last guests to depart. We walked in the dark under a crescent moon that peaked out through the night clouds, up the terrace fields, and toward upper market where we all live.