Karma and Sonam
Karma Yangzom and Sonam Zangmo are best friends. They were about two weeks ago. They weren’t last week. Now, they are again. Ever since I came to Kanglung Primary School, those two have been close. They even introduced themselves to me as best friends. They are both outgoing – Karma more so than Sonam – smart, studious, respectful, and both realize there’s a lot more to this world than nice pencil cases and colorful, plastic, bubbly stickers.
Sonam has chronic bronchitis, which means she’s been left back in school three years, she can’t do social work (i.e. cleaning) because of the dust and the physical strain, and she can fall severely sick at almost any given moment. It also means she’s really smart because she has been kept back so often, she’s been on a plane to Thimphu to go to the hospital, and she’s willing to put herself out there by doing things like singing solo in front of her class because she knows life is short. Sonam’s younger sister is ahead of her in class – her sister is in class 7, whereas Sonam is in class 6 – but that doesn’t seem to faze Sonam at all. She happily walks to primary school carrying a giant plastic basket filled with lunch for herself, her younger brother, her two younger twin sisters, and likely a friend or two that needs some lunch.
Most of the time I love her, but, I must admit, sometimes her weakness irritates me. It sounds horrible to say, I know. Usually, she’ll speak confidently, as confidently as a Bhutanese girl can speak, but lately, because of her sickness, she doesn’t speak at all. She just nods sideways – a Indo-Bhutanese gesture I’ve never liked – and will only say a “yes, ma’am” when I press. I’m not callous. I realize that she’s sick. Maybe I just want her to pretend to be okay.
Every morning, except for Wednesdays, the students take turns giving speeches during morning assembly in Dzongkha and English. The English speeches range from 30 seconds to a couple minutes. Some are so boring and trite – “Teachers are our God… blah, blah, blah…” – but others can be quite enjoyable to listen to, especially when the students smile or make the audience laugh, which happens almost never. When the class 6s were done with their round of morning speeches, I had to award prizes for first, second, third places. I ended up giving away around 10 prizes because there were some ties. One of the first place prizes went to Sonam. I can’t remember what she spoke about now, but I do know that whatever she said, she said it confidently with a huge smile on her face. When a class six student gives a speech that way, it doesn’t matter what that student is saying. This speech was given much earlier in the school year, when Sonam was still relatively healthy and happy. The prizes were given out wrapped in traditional Bhutanese fashion – shiny cellophane. There is something to be said about presentation. Madam Kinzang had helped me get the prizes; if I had gotten them, they definitely wouldn’t have been wrapped. After the morning assembly of prize distribution, Sonam came up to me as we were all walking to our first period classes and said, “Thank you ma’am. That was the first prize I’ve ever gotten.” I couldn’t believe it. Here was this bright, bright student, so pretty and lovable, and she’d never gotten a prize before today.
That was a moment when I was happy to be a teacher. I don’t have many of them, but that was one. If I don’t accomplish another thing this year, that’ll be okay. I got to give Sonam Zangmo her first prize ever – so immensely delayed. I can’t recall what else she said, which saddens me. I wish I had written down every word right after because it meant so much that I had made her happy. She said something about not wanting to open the gift until she went home and showed her parents. I do remember her saying something about her parents’ “noses growing big.” When I think about noses growing big, I think about someone lying. Maybe for the Bhutanese, a nose grows from pride.
Karma, without any life threatening diseases that I know of, is special in her own way, in so many, many ways. She might be one of the hardest working girls in Bhutan. She’ll talk a mile a minute, which is great, although I can usually only understand about 40 percent of what she’s saying. It doesn’t matter; it just matters that she tries.
Recently, Karma got bit my something, a bee maybe or a hornet. She said it was a hornet. She came to school with her whole face swelled up and her eyes squinted almost shut. Again, this is going to sound insensitive – I’m sure it hurt like hell – but it was quite endearing, her swelled up face, her embarrassment, but also her strength. The thing is, is that, this sort of thing happens to Karma. As hard as she works at home and at school, they’ll always be some bad luck lurking around the corner. Unlike some other students in my class, Karma does not lead a charmed life.
She lives near the BHU (Basic Health Unit), a place Scott and I had to frequent quite often in the beginning of our time here. Karma’s father is the caretaker there. So many times, I’ve walked by her house and have seen her working the land beside other family members. Her hair down – not tied up, which is the rule at school – and she smiles and says, “Hi ma’am.” As poor as she is, Karma is somehow plump for her age. But she’s beautiful, a kind of beauty I don’t think she or others realize, especially when she has her hair down.
When sharing about their weekends, Karma’s classmates will talk about playing football or watching TV, but Karma will matter-of-factly talk about washing all the blankets and sheets in her house to keep her family “safe from diseases,” something she’s probably learned in health club. Another time she talked about making dinner for her family. Part of the dinner was making puris – a type of Indian bread – and she sweetly and proudly told the class, “My father said my puris were something special.”
A week after she told that story, the whole school had a rehearsal at the college for the variety show. Karma kept talking about selling puris outside the auditorium. She was so excited. I told her she had to ask principal. She kept talking about it like it was going to happen. I didn’t know for sure what the principal would say, but I must have had an inkling that he’d say no. And he did. He burst poor Karma’s hopes of making some money with her special puris. I happened to be there when Karma was asking and the principal seemed a bit appalled at the whole thing.
Last week, at the local festival – the Yongphula Tshechu – which is attended by a couple thousand people, I saw Karma alone, in the midst of the crowd, sitting on the ground and selling her puris. I asked her today how much she made – 800 ngultrums, less than US$20, which is a whole lot for a girl to be making for her family.
For a brief time – I’m actually not sure for how long – Sonam and Karma were fighting. They just weren’t friends. When I sat with Sonam for lunch one afternoon, she had said that the sort of thing happened three or four times a year, “but this time, I’m not going to go back to being her friend. I’ll talk to her, but I even talk to my enemies.” Sonam had seemed pretty adamant about the whole thing. I didn’t believe a word of it. When I asked Sonam why she was fighting with Karma, she said, “Because she says I won’t listen, and I tell her she won’t listen, and just like that.”
When I initially sat down with Sonan for lunch, she had apologized that Karma wasn’t there. As we were finishing, Karma walked by us, a bit sheepishly, asking me how my lunch was. Sonam would barely look at her. I asked Karma in front of Sonam why they were fighting. Karma said, “Sonam’s parents told her she shouldn’t talk to me anymore and that’s really hurtful.” I take it Sonam’s parents were just trying to side with their daughter.
This past Monday morning, I see Karma and Sonam walking to school together, Karma holding one handle of Sonam’s heavy lunch basket. I knew they’d be friends again. Later at school, Sonam tells me, “Me and Karma are friends again.” I ask, “How’d that happen?” Sonam replies, “I said, ‘Sorry,’ ma’am.” “And she forgave you?” “Yeah, ma’am.”
Sonam missed school on Wednesday. She had to go to the doctor’s office. Sonam’s been having high fevers at night. After school, I went to check on her – Sonam lives two houses away from me. Karma followed behind.
A little bit later, I run into Karma leaving Sonam’s house. Karma says, “I’m going to do her Dzongkha homework for her. That’s what friends do. They help each other.” I agree with her, even though I’m clearly against doing someone else’s homework for them. Then Karma says, “It makes me sad to see her sick.” I agree with her again. “You know, ma’am, she’s my friend, so when she’s so sick, I’m very unhappy.”
Sonam has chronic bronchitis, which means she’s been left back in school three years, she can’t do social work (i.e. cleaning) because of the dust and the physical strain, and she can fall severely sick at almost any given moment. It also means she’s really smart because she has been kept back so often, she’s been on a plane to Thimphu to go to the hospital, and she’s willing to put herself out there by doing things like singing solo in front of her class because she knows life is short. Sonam’s younger sister is ahead of her in class – her sister is in class 7, whereas Sonam is in class 6 – but that doesn’t seem to faze Sonam at all. She happily walks to primary school carrying a giant plastic basket filled with lunch for herself, her younger brother, her two younger twin sisters, and likely a friend or two that needs some lunch.
Most of the time I love her, but, I must admit, sometimes her weakness irritates me. It sounds horrible to say, I know. Usually, she’ll speak confidently, as confidently as a Bhutanese girl can speak, but lately, because of her sickness, she doesn’t speak at all. She just nods sideways – a Indo-Bhutanese gesture I’ve never liked – and will only say a “yes, ma’am” when I press. I’m not callous. I realize that she’s sick. Maybe I just want her to pretend to be okay.
Every morning, except for Wednesdays, the students take turns giving speeches during morning assembly in Dzongkha and English. The English speeches range from 30 seconds to a couple minutes. Some are so boring and trite – “Teachers are our God… blah, blah, blah…” – but others can be quite enjoyable to listen to, especially when the students smile or make the audience laugh, which happens almost never. When the class 6s were done with their round of morning speeches, I had to award prizes for first, second, third places. I ended up giving away around 10 prizes because there were some ties. One of the first place prizes went to Sonam. I can’t remember what she spoke about now, but I do know that whatever she said, she said it confidently with a huge smile on her face. When a class six student gives a speech that way, it doesn’t matter what that student is saying. This speech was given much earlier in the school year, when Sonam was still relatively healthy and happy. The prizes were given out wrapped in traditional Bhutanese fashion – shiny cellophane. There is something to be said about presentation. Madam Kinzang had helped me get the prizes; if I had gotten them, they definitely wouldn’t have been wrapped. After the morning assembly of prize distribution, Sonam came up to me as we were all walking to our first period classes and said, “Thank you ma’am. That was the first prize I’ve ever gotten.” I couldn’t believe it. Here was this bright, bright student, so pretty and lovable, and she’d never gotten a prize before today.
That was a moment when I was happy to be a teacher. I don’t have many of them, but that was one. If I don’t accomplish another thing this year, that’ll be okay. I got to give Sonam Zangmo her first prize ever – so immensely delayed. I can’t recall what else she said, which saddens me. I wish I had written down every word right after because it meant so much that I had made her happy. She said something about not wanting to open the gift until she went home and showed her parents. I do remember her saying something about her parents’ “noses growing big.” When I think about noses growing big, I think about someone lying. Maybe for the Bhutanese, a nose grows from pride.
Karma, without any life threatening diseases that I know of, is special in her own way, in so many, many ways. She might be one of the hardest working girls in Bhutan. She’ll talk a mile a minute, which is great, although I can usually only understand about 40 percent of what she’s saying. It doesn’t matter; it just matters that she tries.
Recently, Karma got bit my something, a bee maybe or a hornet. She said it was a hornet. She came to school with her whole face swelled up and her eyes squinted almost shut. Again, this is going to sound insensitive – I’m sure it hurt like hell – but it was quite endearing, her swelled up face, her embarrassment, but also her strength. The thing is, is that, this sort of thing happens to Karma. As hard as she works at home and at school, they’ll always be some bad luck lurking around the corner. Unlike some other students in my class, Karma does not lead a charmed life.
She lives near the BHU (Basic Health Unit), a place Scott and I had to frequent quite often in the beginning of our time here. Karma’s father is the caretaker there. So many times, I’ve walked by her house and have seen her working the land beside other family members. Her hair down – not tied up, which is the rule at school – and she smiles and says, “Hi ma’am.” As poor as she is, Karma is somehow plump for her age. But she’s beautiful, a kind of beauty I don’t think she or others realize, especially when she has her hair down.
When sharing about their weekends, Karma’s classmates will talk about playing football or watching TV, but Karma will matter-of-factly talk about washing all the blankets and sheets in her house to keep her family “safe from diseases,” something she’s probably learned in health club. Another time she talked about making dinner for her family. Part of the dinner was making puris – a type of Indian bread – and she sweetly and proudly told the class, “My father said my puris were something special.”
A week after she told that story, the whole school had a rehearsal at the college for the variety show. Karma kept talking about selling puris outside the auditorium. She was so excited. I told her she had to ask principal. She kept talking about it like it was going to happen. I didn’t know for sure what the principal would say, but I must have had an inkling that he’d say no. And he did. He burst poor Karma’s hopes of making some money with her special puris. I happened to be there when Karma was asking and the principal seemed a bit appalled at the whole thing.
Last week, at the local festival – the Yongphula Tshechu – which is attended by a couple thousand people, I saw Karma alone, in the midst of the crowd, sitting on the ground and selling her puris. I asked her today how much she made – 800 ngultrums, less than US$20, which is a whole lot for a girl to be making for her family.
For a brief time – I’m actually not sure for how long – Sonam and Karma were fighting. They just weren’t friends. When I sat with Sonam for lunch one afternoon, she had said that the sort of thing happened three or four times a year, “but this time, I’m not going to go back to being her friend. I’ll talk to her, but I even talk to my enemies.” Sonam had seemed pretty adamant about the whole thing. I didn’t believe a word of it. When I asked Sonam why she was fighting with Karma, she said, “Because she says I won’t listen, and I tell her she won’t listen, and just like that.”
When I initially sat down with Sonan for lunch, she had apologized that Karma wasn’t there. As we were finishing, Karma walked by us, a bit sheepishly, asking me how my lunch was. Sonam would barely look at her. I asked Karma in front of Sonam why they were fighting. Karma said, “Sonam’s parents told her she shouldn’t talk to me anymore and that’s really hurtful.” I take it Sonam’s parents were just trying to side with their daughter.
This past Monday morning, I see Karma and Sonam walking to school together, Karma holding one handle of Sonam’s heavy lunch basket. I knew they’d be friends again. Later at school, Sonam tells me, “Me and Karma are friends again.” I ask, “How’d that happen?” Sonam replies, “I said, ‘Sorry,’ ma’am.” “And she forgave you?” “Yeah, ma’am.”
Sonam missed school on Wednesday. She had to go to the doctor’s office. Sonam’s been having high fevers at night. After school, I went to check on her – Sonam lives two houses away from me. Karma followed behind.
A little bit later, I run into Karma leaving Sonam’s house. Karma says, “I’m going to do her Dzongkha homework for her. That’s what friends do. They help each other.” I agree with her, even though I’m clearly against doing someone else’s homework for them. Then Karma says, “It makes me sad to see her sick.” I agree with her again. “You know, ma’am, she’s my friend, so when she’s so sick, I’m very unhappy.”
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