Hello All,
On November 5th at 10:30 am Amanda, Asher and I were in a van driving towards Phuentsholing, Bhutan. My mom, 2 aunts (Kay and Janet) and Brenton and Drew (2 of my co-workers in our ECTA Endeavors project) were high overhead on a Druk Air Flight leaving the Kingdom. Our meetings with different government officials and Bhutanese NGO’s went very well, the Queen was delighted with our proposal, we found a great sight for a pilot project in the region of Haa, the weather was dry and cool, the days where cloudless with impeccable views and I gained a good 5 lbs. due to all the yak meat that I ate. Thanks to all these factors the long, winding drive to Phuentsholing was passing quickly blurred by my daydreaming. I dreamed about living in one of the quaint, rustic farmhouses warming up next to a *
bokari* on a snowy day. I dreamed about flying over the mountains in an ultra light aircraft evacuating patients from remote villages and Amanda delivering babies in a hospital that actually appreciated her presence. I dreamed about drier monsoons, riding my bicycle around to different villages on health visits and Asher attending the local school dressed in a *gho*. I dreamed about the better days that could be on the horizon.
Suddenly, the window beside me exploded and I was showered with fragments of broken glass. I looked through the brokenness to see a women staring at me in shock. She was in her 20’s, a Nepali, dressed in rags, faced baked like leather by the sun and holding a sledgehammer. A chip from a rock she had been breaking caused the incident. Soon the driver and the project foreman (an Indian Military Engineer) were arguing.
“This window must be paid for! This is an import vehicle!”
“This women only makes 60 rupees a day, that window will cost 15,000… how can she ever pay?”
Stepping out of the vehicle, I look around. A pregnant woman is breaking rocks. A mother with a 6 month old tied to her back in a sling is shoveling dirt. An exhausted, sweaty lady is breast-feeding her infant, which is covered in road grime. An 8-year-old boy stumbles up to me staring with his mouth agape. A toddler is tied up on the boy’s back. I look at the wallpaper image on my expensive mobile phone, a picture of Asher smiling and wearing a dragon mask. It was taken the previous day on our outing to Tiger’s Nest monastery. I look at the children and mothers on the road again. My daydreaming is completely shattered, so I sweep the fragments of broken glass out of the imported tourist van. Shards of glass cut away my thoughts of the better days, which may or not be coming, and help me to remember something much more important… today, November 5th, the reality of the elusive thing called ‘the present moment’.
November 14th we woke up in Samthar, West Bengal and prepared to hike to Rateygaon. My brother Mark, his wife Nicole and our nephew Lincoln have come to visit and we wanted to take them to the village in which we built a bridge earlier this year.
The day previous we had hiked to the village of Suruk and visited a convent of nuns. The five sisters welcomed us warmly. Their convent was in the midst of a shady bamboo grove. The breeze was cool. They served us warm tea and biscuits and talked about their work. It was International Children’s Day and all 286 of their students were in attendance watching a film in the chapel. There were pigs, rabbits, ducks, chickens, cows, goats, dogs and cats, which the children all helped raise. They grow most of their own food organically on the terraced hillside. Thirty-eight of the children were living in residence at “not a hostel, a home”. We heard stories about the handicapped, severely malnourished and neglected/abused children whom they had adopted. One of the sisters, Miriam, was also a nurse. She told us about attending the village births and immunizing the children of the surrounding villages.
In the afternoon we shared a simple lunch together, ate fresh guavas and bananas from the convent’s trees and headed back towards Samthar. En-route we chatted about the beauty we had just witnessed. Again, I began to daydream. I said to myself, “Oh, if Bhutan doesn’t work out it would be so wonderful to work someplace like that. To be plugged into a body of faith that really gets it, to work with others blessed with passion and to live so simply.
The next morning we began our hike to Rateygaon, but I was still day dreaming of Suruk. En-route we passed by the local Primary Health Care station. It was a dilapidated building with the walls literally rotting off. Inside expired and spoiled medication, used latex gloves and rusty instruments lay randomly scattered. The doctors and nurses were not in
attendance. Only one ‘comforter’ was on duty. I overheard a conversation
as we walked past with our fancy hiking gear on.
“Is *bauju* better yet?”
“No, I heard they can’t do it here.”
“Oh, so you’ll have to take her to Kalimpong?”
I walk over and ask what is happening. We discover that Miriam (the nurse from Suruk) has sent a mother, who is 24 hours into a difficult labor, up for help.
“My wife is a midwife, can we help?”
Amanda examines the mother. The waters are in tact, fetal heart tones are good but the baby is breech and sitting slightly oblique. It is the mother’s first pregnancy. Amanda provides counsel, “Since this is your first baby and due to the position of the fetus, we will have to go for a C-section. It is the only way to ensure safety for the mother and child.”
Soon our trip to Ratey is cancelled and Amanda, Asher and I find ourselves in the back of a pickup truck. Mark, Nicole and Lincoln are graciously flexible and stay back in Samthar. The road was so rough and we all, including the mother, were being thrown around. In our possession was a simple first aid kit with some basic birth supplies just in case the mother started to deliver en-route.
“*Dadju, *what are your names?”
“My name is Laxman and my wife is Rupi*.”
*After 3 1/2 hours of abuse and receiving a solid coating of gravel dust we reached the Kalimpong Sub-Divisional Hospital. At this point we had to part ways for we have no history or relationships at that facility. We had done as much as we could and then had to entrust our new friends into the hands of professionals. I looked forward and saw Amanda stroking Rupi’s face and playing with her hair.
“Laxman *Dadju*, this is my number call me as soon as anything happens, OK?”
“I will.”
“Here is some help to pay for this emergency. You are from the village… I know it is to much for you. It is a blessing from God not from me.”
Several hours later my expensive mobile phone rings.
“Sir, yes… it is Laxman speaking.”
“How is Rupi and the baby?”
“Rupi is fine but the baby is dead.”
“What? Didn’t the doctor do a C-section? The baby was just fine when we reached the hospital.”
“No, he didn’t do a Cesar. He just reached in and pulled the baby, so the baby died.”
Again, the glassy screen between my dreams and reality explodes in my face. Shards of crystalline fantasies scatter and the ultra violet radiation streams in. This time it comes in the form of the senseless death of child. I am a dreamer who tends to dream about God and how I may serve him. But if I become content in only letting Him infiltrate my dreams his power and presence will only be potential. If we dare to let his love invade the present moment, then his reality is actual. So, I pray that all my dreams would be shattered, daily if necessary. Let my eyes stare out through open air and broken fragments to see those suffering on the side of the road without buffers. Let the wind stream in that window and sting my eyes so that I can weep for a mother. Let clouds of dust pour in and choke my breath so that I don’t forget that baby, struggling to take its first breath in vain.
In Leo Tolstoy’s book “The Three Questions” he asks…
What is the best time to do things?
Who is the most important one?
What is the right thing to do?
His answers are respectively… “now”, “the one you are nearest to” and “to do good to the one who is at your side.”
I can honestly say that I don’t know where we will be next week or next month or next year. Maybe Samthar? Maybe Bhutan? Maybe the plains of India? What I can tell you for sure is that it is 11:12 am on November 20th and what ever will be is not nearly as important as what is right now.
In Him,
Ryan, Amanda and Asher
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*www.smoothpath.org*
Let Our Hearts Be Broken... 
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