Requiem for a Friend to Have Been

Requiem for a Friend to Have Been

Almost exactly a year ago, I journeyed to the magical kingdom of Bhutan to operate amateur radio from that country. Being a die-hard radio nut, I spent almost the entire time indoors in my hotel room in Thimphu glued to my transceiver talking gibberish to myself (or so it seemed to hotel staff and others), while fellow residents were out of their rooms at the crack of dawn to take in the sights and sounds of Bhutan, returning only late at night.

My presence in the room, and the solo conversations they overheard, caused housekeeping to give my room a wide berth on their morning rounds. Somewhere towards the middle of my ten-day stay, while taking a short break from the radio, I thought I heard the sounds of housekeeping in the next room and stepped out to ask the uniformed staff fluffing pillows in the next room if I could have a new razor. She turned to stone and stared back blankly at me. I repeated my request slowly, accentuating each word. Still the same uncomprehending look.

This was puzzling because my interactions with the hotel staff at the front desk and in the restaurant had been sublimely easy because all of the staff spoke perfect British English. (I learned later that this was due to English being a required subject till high school and there had been teachers from England serving at many schools.)

To break the stalemate, I mimed shaving gestures, and her face lit up immediately. She practically ran over to me with a big smile and several disposable razors in her outstretched hands. I thanked her profusely and returned to my room with the crackling radio. I would have forgotten this incident had not a hotel staff, who I guessed was the housekeeping supervisor, came over to my table during the afternoon tea at the restaurant and asked me if I had had any problems in dealing with housekeeping that morning. Taken aback, I refuted the suggestion and stated that on the contrary it was a pleasant experience. The response was, “I asked only because she is deaf and dumb.”

I was stunned. To clear any doubts I may have had, she added, “Sonam cannot speak or hear.” That explained everything. I was flabbergasted. My thoughts flew to Alan Arkin’s portrayal of the deaf-mute, John Singer in the movie version of Carson McCuller’s novel ‘The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.’

The next day I saw Sonam with two other hotel staff in the restaurant and I requested if I could take a photograph of her. The other two staff translated my request to Sonam through signs, and she smilingly nodded her head. I shall forever cherish this solo picture of Sonam in the best of her health. During the remaining few days at the hotel our paths crossed a few more times and each time I was rewarded with a cheery smile and a shy wave of the hand.

After returning to America, I requested my friend Mr. Yeshey Dorji, who had coordinated my trip, to visit the hotel and ask after Sonam. Later, Yeshey informed me after his visit that Sonam had never been examined by an ENT doctor. He also informed me that Sonam was a Lhotshampa, a person of Nepali ethnicity. After exchanging a few texts between us, Yeshey was able to make arrangements for Sonam to be seen by an ENT specialist at the Jigme Dorji National Referral Hospital. A programmable hearing aid was prescribed. Simultaneously, for a second opinion, I mentioned Sonam’s case to a colleague of mine in India and she connected me with a renowned ENT specialist at a well-known Christian hospital in South India. His opinion was that a powerful digital aid could help Sonam appreciate her surroundings and, with training, slowly recognize speech.

With much hope this was arranged, and the result was astounding. Sonam was overjoyed that she could hear sounds decades after her childhood. And she even attempted to speak a few words to her family. This was exhilarating news for all of us. The only initial hiccup was the pain the hearing aid caused but this was soon remedied by adjusting the gain on the digital device.

A few weeks later I was surprised to see multiple international calls, which I assumed to be spam, from the same overseas number. It was only a few days later that I realized that the country code portion of the number was ‘+975’, the code for Bhutan. I immediately sent a text message using WhatsApp. When the reply came back almost instantaneously, I nearly fell off my chair. It was Sonam!

Although she could neither hear nor speak, Sonam could read and write! I surmised that she may have been able to hear, even faintly, as a child, and that her hearing faculty had been lost, for whatever reason later in life. The brief daily messages from Sonam were a blessing to me. The very first message of each day would invariably begin with “Jaimashi Jmc”. Thanks to Google, I deciphered this to be the standard Christian greeting in Nepali. A shared faith made Sonam’s friendship even more precious.

Whenever a message from Sonam came in, I would put down whatever I was doing and respond almost immediately. It did not help that due to the wide difference in time zones between us, morning in Bhutan was evening on the East Coast and vice versa. But we overcame that obstacle fairly quickly and got the “good morning” and “good evening” portions of our chats correct.

Then, one day there was no message from Sonam. And mine went unanswered. Again, the next day, and the day after that. Finally came a cryptic message, “I am sick.” In a few days, Sonam got better and went back to work at the hotel. But some days later the “I am sick” message recurred, and she did not go to work for many days. After that there was a long gap in messages from Sonam. I worried helplessly.

Then came a WhatsApp message from another unknown Bhutan number. It was Sonam’s brother informing me that she had been sick for almost a month and had not gone to work. Sonam had given her brother my cellphone number from her phone. From then on, her brother and I exchanged messages several times a day.

First came the diagnosis of gastric ulcer. And a week later, the chilling news that it was not an ulcer but cancer. Things moved rapidly downhill after that. Sonam was too weak and ill to receive radiation treatment. Instead, she was brought home for palliative care. After the first few days, things seemed to be looking up. Sonam ate normally and looked better than she had at the hospital. Hopes began to rise for a miraculous recovery. I fervently prayed for meeting Sonam again in a few months’ time on the trip I was planning to Bhutan.

But that was not to be. A few days later Sonam’s brother informed me that Sonam needed oxygen. The hospital loaned a machine against a security deposit. Sonam’s condition appeared to stabilize.

Then, some days later, came the shocking message, “Looks like Sonam is breathing her last breath.” And in less than an hour came the chilling final text: “She is no more. She passed away, brother.”

The dam broke and I wept helplessly. There was nothing else I could do. All that is left for me now is visit Sonam’s gravesite and lay flowers in tribute to an extraordinary human being who enriched my life without ever saying a word.

The words of Rainer Maria Rilke from his ‘Requiem for a Friend’ which he wrote for his friend Paula Modersohn-Becker who died unexpectedly soon after giving birth, came to my mind.

Are you still here? Are you standing in some corner? You knew so much of all this, you were able to do so much; you passed through life so open to all things, like an early morning.

Also, the lyrics of Ronan Keating from his song ‘When You Say Nothing At All.’

It’s amazing how you can speak right to my heart
Without saying a word, you can light up the dark
Try as I may, I can never explain
What I hear when you don’t say a thing

Till we meet again, Sonam!

Abie Alexander  © 2024
Shillong, India
September 19, 2024